Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

The maid, Josefina, had given Harry directions to the beauty parlor. He went there and waited in the lounge till a petite woman, five two, with reddish-brown hair walked through the beaded curtains. He had never seen Joyce Cantor in his life but he knew it was her. “Joyce!”

She turned and looked at him. “Harry?” Moved toward him, put her arms around him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Now two hours later they were at the estate owned by a rich guy from New York named Frankel. Harry was checking on Cordell in the pool-house living room. He brought him a turkey sandwich, cottage cheese, chips and a Coke. Cordell was stretched out on a couch, watching TV, a nineteen-inch console.

Harry said, “You don’t have to stay out here like the hired help.”

“Think this is slummin’, Harry, never been to a slum. Check it out.”

He already had, asking himself how many two-bedroom pool houses with a cathedral ceiling and a big living room he’d seen? Appointed like the main house. Sixty-foot Italian marble pool right outside.

“Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m watchin’ Soul Train .”

“You hear anything, see any Nazis, give me a call.” Harry handed him a piece of paper that had the phone number to the main house on it.

Joyce was standing at the island counter in the kitchen, opening a bottle of Morgon, two stemmed glasses on the black granite top.

Harry said, “I remember seeing someone running into the woods as I climbed out of the pit.”

“That was me. I don’t remember you though.” Joyce cleared her throat. “But I knew your mother. She was on the last truck, forty-seven of us from the women’s camp. It was late afternoon. They told us we were being transferred to a sub-camp at Halfing. I believed them because I wanted to.”

“We all did,” Harry said. “Thinking anything was better than where we were.”

“When we got to the woods I could see SS guards standing at the edge of a clearing, talking and smoking cigarettes. I didn’t know what was happening until I saw the mound of dirt behind them. We were marched to the edge of the pit and I saw the bodies. Words can’t describe… I have never in my life seen anything like that.” She caught her breath. “Harry, where were you?”

“I had jumped off the back of the truck,” Harry said. “I was hiding behind a tree and saw everything.”

“I can still see Hess with the pistol in his hand. He told us to jump in the pit. No one moved, so he shot a woman in the face. There was a little hole in her forehead, blood coming out of it. She fell to the ground, and all at once we jumped onto the stacks of bodies. Many were still alive, the pile was moving, and then the guards started shooting at us like it was a game. I crawled between two bodies and the next thing I remember it was dark. The pit had been covered over with dirt. I couldn’t breathe. I started pushing my way through corpses until I felt the cool air. It was night. I ran to a farm and hid in the barn. The farmer found me the next morning. He and his wife kept me till the war ended.” She took a breath. “Harry, I can’t believe you’re here. How can I ever repay you?”

“Help me take down Hess.”

“Of course.” She poured two glasses of wine and handed one to him. “To us, Harry. Mazel tov.”

He clinked her glass and tasted the wine. It was dry and slightly bitter.

“Josefina, the housekeeper, got it for me. The man at the wine store said it was good. I usually don’t drink red wine, it gives me a headache.”

“Hungry?” Harry said. “I can make us omelets if that’s okay.”

“Good-looking and you cook too.”

Harry went to the refrigerator, took out six eggs and a wedge of English cheddar.

“Tell me where you lived in Munich,” Joyce said, handing him a bowl.

“Sendlinger Strasse.” He cracked the eggs, found a whisk and mixed them.

“We were near Gartnerplatz on Klenzestrasse. Remember Isaac Jacob’s store?”

“The milk dealer, right? I used to go there with my mother.”

“We were right down the street.” She sipped her wine. “What butcher did you go to?”

“Joseph Bamberger. He was a friend of my father’s.”

“I can picture the storefront.” She looked across the kitchen. “My family preferred Julius Lindauer.”

Harry said, “Where did you go to school?”

“Jewish Elementary and then the gymnasium.”

“I did too. I’m surprised we never met.”

“Harry, why did we survive?” She paused. “I’ve been asking myself that for thirty years. Why not my brother? He was better than me, smart as a whip.”

“You sound like you’re apologizing, like you did something wrong.”

“I didn’t deserve it.”

“You deserved it as much as anyone.”

“I was the rebel of the family.”

“That’s why you’re here. You’re tough.”

“I don’t feel tough,” Joyce said. “I feel guilty.”

“It’s not your fault,” Harry said. “Stop blaming yourself. Think about what they did to you. Doesn’t it make you mad?”

“I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“Do it, you’ll feel better.”

“Is that what you did, Harry?”

“You’re damn right.” He drank some wine. “Remember Dachau? All we thought about was surviving.”

“Get through the day,” Joyce said. “And don’t think about tomorrow.”

“Well‚ here we are.”

Lenore opened the door and saw Mr. Landau from Atlanta, hesitated, feeling the effects of the two drinks she’d had at Ta-boo. He had followed her, but why? He was smiling, a big Southern teddy bear. “All right, you. What’s going on?” He looked different without the cap, pale skin that could use some color, dark hair flecked with gray.

“I hate to dine alone. You are the only person I know in Palm Beach. Will you join me?”

She invited him in, wondering if it was a mistake, then thinking about the commission she’d make on an oceanfront estate. She escorted him into the kitchen, opened cabinet doors showing where she kept her glasses and liquor. “Help yourself. I’ll be right back.”

“I have to ask you something.”

He reached behind his back and brought out a gun with a long black barrel, pointing it at her. She could feel her heart race, scared to death, knowing now he was the Nazi.

“Where is Joyce?” he said, German accent, not pretending any more.

“I don’t know.”

He came toward her, aiming the gun. Lenore wanted to run but couldn’t move. She was frozen. He put the barrel against her cheek, pressing it into her face.

“Let’s try again. Where is she?”

At the commercial, Harry went out to check on Cordell. It was a beautiful night, clear sky, sixty degrees. He looked up at the stars for a couple minutes, spotted the Big and Little Dipper and the North Star. Then he crossed the yard and went to the pool house. Cordell was asleep in a double bed in one of the bedrooms. Harry turned off the lamp on the bedside table. Walked through the living room, turned off all the lights, locked the door and went out.

At 10:00 when McCloud was over he escorted Joyce up the stairs that wound through a turret to the second floor, dark oak planks with a Persian runner. Josefina had gone home. According to Joyce, the security company came by every few hours, checked the doors and windows, and patrolled the grounds.

Harry lifted his shirt, showed her the Colt stuck in his belt. “Hess comes—”

“Harry, you have a gun? What kind of a Jew are you?” She smiled, put her arms around him. “A tough one. What can I say? You’re a mensch. I should be so lucky.”

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Joyce opened the door and went in. Harry followed her, impressed by the room that had to be sixty by forty feet, with a sitting area in front of the fireplace, four-post antique bed with a canopy, two TVs. He looked out the windows at the front yard and circular drive, the view extending all the way to the ocean, flat and dark, blending with the sky.