“You’re obviously German,” Harry said. “But your name isn’t and you speak English with a British accent.”
“My father, Joe Rizik, was Lebanese. My mother was German. His family emigrated from Beirut in the early twenties and settled in Berlin. My grandfather imported Persian rugs. His clientele were wealthy Germans, mostly Jews.”
“How’d your parents meet?”
“My father was in the hospital, with appendicitis. My mother was his nurse. They got on, fell in love. Got married right before he enlisted. He was in the Heer, the regular army, not the SS.”
She took a photograph out of her purse, a cracked, faded shot of a good-looking dark-haired guy posing in a coat and tie.
“I never met him. He was a sergeant in the infantry, killed in action on the Eastern Front, 1944. Served with great distinction. One of only twenty-seven men to receive the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds. My mother said he was a good man, ashamed of what the Nazis were doing.”
She was proud of him, that was obvious, the war hero father she never knew.
“What about your mother?” He cut a piece of sauerbraten and pushed it through the gravy, took a bite, the smell and taste taking him back thirty years.
“She’s retired, living outside Bergheim, a village just north of Salzburg.” She paused, watching him eat. “You‘re hungry, yes? Enjoying the sauerbraten, Harry?” she said, smiling, being herself, no pretensions.
She told him about getting a degree in journalism from the University of Berlin, the same school Albert Einstein and Otto von Bismarck had attended. She told him about the building of the Berlin Wall in 1961, the autumn of her senior year, forty-three kilometers long, dividing West and East Berlin.
“Why was it built? I can’t remember,” Harry said.
“The communists wanted to keep East German professionals from emigrating to the west. They were losing too many doctors, lawyers, and engineers. The manpower losses had been estimated at twenty-five billion marks. I did a story on it when I was hired by the Berliner Zeitung after graduating.”
“Where’d you get the Brit accent?”
“I lived in London, worked for the Daily Telegraph for several years.” She paused, sipped her beer. “Harry, I have done all the talking. Tell me about yourself, please. Where do you live?”
“Detroit,” Harry said.
“Sure, yes, where the automobiles are made. Is it nice there?”
“The garden spot of the Midwest.” Harry grinned to show her he was kidding.
“What is your occupation?”
“Now I’m really going to impress you,” Harry said. “I’m a scrap-metal dealer.” He explained the basics of the business and she gave him a blank look, chewing a bite of sauerbraten. “Not very interesting, is it?”
“Are you married, Harry?”
“No.”
“Were you ever?”
“A long time ago.”
“And you don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“What brings you to Munich?”
“I read an article in a car magazine about a road trip from Munich to Salzburg. It sounded like fun.”
They finished their meal and Harry paid the bill and they walked outside, stood in front of the Augustinerkeller. It was 8:30, a clear warm night.
“I can drive you back to your hotel, Harry, but it is early. Let’s go to a club. I’ll show you where I live.”
“Why not,” Harry said.
She hooked her arm around his and they walked to her Volkswagen and drove to Schwabing. It looked different thirty years later. Reminded him of Greenwich Village, same feel, streets lined with cafes, avant-garde shops, clubs and bars, but the look, the architecture was considerably different. She found a space on the street and parked a block from Leopoldstrasse.
“I live right over there, Harry. Two blocks away on Wagnerstrasse 12.”
They went to a small dark bar, a Miles Davis track playing in the background, smoke from dozens of cigarettes filling the room. The clientele were young, the men had long hair and beards and dressed in black, the women wore long cotton dresses, or dark tee-shirts and jeans.
They sat next to each other in a booth, facing the room. A waitress in a black miniskirt took their order. She had a tattoo on the side of her calf but it was too dark to tell what it was. Harry ordered bourbon on the rocks. He was full from the beer. Colette ordered schnapps. The waitress walked away from the table.
“Harry, when are you going to the Alps?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, I’m trying to understand you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I don’t know, Harry. Something isn’t right. You come to Munich to go on this vague trip but you don’t have a schedule or an itinerary.”
“How do you know?” Harry said.
The waitress brought their drinks. He sipped his bourbon, felt the burn in his throat.
“You were attacked in a restaurant by a group of neo-Nazis,” Colette said. “They don’t target foreign tourists. That is not how they operate.”
“Maybe they were after Cordell Sims, the guy with me. Blackshirts sees a black dude in a claret-colored leisure suit, it sets them off.”
“Harry, they ransacked your hotel room and painted a swastika on the wall.”
“Maybe it was a coincidence.”
“Two times in one night,” Colette said. “I think there is something you are not telling me.” She sipped the schnapps, eyes on him.
“I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
She looked surprised, and now eased away from him.
“Who do you work for?”
“I told you, Harry, Der Spiegel.”
“I phoned the main office in Berlin, nobody seemed to know you.”
“I’m a freelance writer,” she said, sounding defensive. “I will give you the name and phone number of my editor.” She looked angry now, drained her schnapps. “This is crazy. Who do you think I work for?” Calling him out.
Harry sipped his bourbon, studying her face. He was going to say Ernst Hess, get a reaction, but didn’t.
“Come on, you can’t make such an accusation without explaining yourself.”
Now she slid out of the booth, moved across the room toward the door. Harry got up, pulled a five-mark note out of his pocket and put it on the table under Colette’s schnapps glass. He walked out of the club and looked down the crowded sidewalk. It took a few seconds to spot her among the nighttime revelers, crossing the street.
She passed her VW and kept going. He followed, hanging back in the shadows, watched her walk up to the brightly lighted front of a modern three-storey building, take a key ring out of her purse and open the door. He waited, saw lights on the second floor. Moved to the door, scanned the directory, saw “C Rizik” and rang the bell.
“Who is it?” she said in German.
“Harry.”
“What do you want?” Hard edge to her voice.
“Can we talk?” Harry said.
“About what? You do not trust me, so we have nothing more to talk about.”
Harry stepped away from the door, started down the street and heard the buzzer, stepped back, turned the handle and opened the door.
He walked up a flight of stairs and there she was, door open, standing on the threshold, light behind her, blazer off, top two buttons of her blouse undone.
“I want to apologize,” Harry said.
She ran her tongue over her front teeth and tucked her hair back behind her ears.
“Then you are welcome to come in.”
Colette moved left out of the doorway. Harry moved past her and she closed the door, turned and faced him, waiting for an explanation.
“I’ve been a little paranoid since last night. Get attacked by six lunatics with ax handles and it might color your point of view.”
“Maybe I am with them. Maybe I have
been acting, playing a role. Maybe I still am.”
She was angry, wasn’t finished, wasn’t going to let it go just yet. She grinned, came toward him, put her palms on his shoulders. With her heels on they were almost eye level, Harry a little taller. He let her take charge. She kissed him with her red lacquered lips and stuck her tongue in his mouth, blue eyes closed for a few seconds then opening, staring at him.
“You still in character?” Harry said.
“Come with me and find out,” Colette said, taking his hand, guiding him through the apartment to her room. They moved to the bed and stood next to it, quietly taking each other’s clothes off in the darkness and sliding into bed, doing everything by feel.
He opened his eyes, saw morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, Colette sleeping next to him on her side, back to him, sheet tucked under her left shoulder, blonde hair spread across the pillow. She’d surprised him, taking him to bed. It was the last thing he expected to happen given his suspicions and her attitude.
He looked at his watch. It was 6:22 a.m. He slid out of bed, picked up his clothes, took everything into the main room, got dressed and looked around. He hadn’t noticed much the night before, and hadn’t come out of the bedroom until now.
The furniture was simple modern, black leather chairs and couch, chrome and glass tables. There was a framed Toulouse-Lautrec print over the mantel. A man wearing a black hat and black coat, with a red scarf tied around his neck, hanging over his shoulder. The caption said:
AMBASSADEURS aristide BRUANT dans son cabaret.
There was a framed sepia-tone photograph on one of the end tables, a good-looking woman in a nurse’s uniform.
“My mother when she was about my age,” Colette said, coming in the room, tying the sash on her robe, yawning. She ran her fingers through her hair.
“You look like her,” Harry said.
“It was taken in 1945 just before the war ended.”
He placed the frame back on the table.
“Harry, I am not exactly sure what happened last night,” she said, pulling the top of the robe closed as if she was embarrassed, being modest all of a sudden.
“I am,” Harry said, moving toward her. He put his arms around her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “I’ll call you later, check in.”
He got back to his hotel room at 7:15. The light on the phone was flashing. He had two messages. Surprised the first one was from Colette. “Harry, I have an idea, call me.”
The second one was from Lisa. “Harry, Joyce, the survivor from Palm Beach, wants to talk to you.”
Another Dachau Jew who had dug out of the grave that night. He was anxious to talk to her too. Harry ordered room service and took a shower. The food arrived while he was getting dressed. He ate bacon and eggs, and drank his coffee, scanned the Herald Tribune checking baseball scores. The Tigers had beaten Cleveland six to five and were still leading their division going down the stretch, two and a half games ahead of the Yankees.
He finished and phoned Lisa. No answer. Tried Colette.
“Harry, I’m going undercover.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“A contact I made, this Blackshirt, invited me to meet him at a bar where they hang out. I think he likes me, Harry. Are you jealous?”
“No, I’m worried about you. What are you trying to find out?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not going to get a story unless I take some risks.”
“What’s his name?”
“Werner. And believe me, he’s harmless. He has joined them because he has nothing else to do. If you’re so worried, you can drive me.”
Colette studied her face in the mirror. She applied mascara around her eyes until she looked like a raccoon. Dabbed her cheeks with rouge. Traced her mouth with deep red lipstick.
She dressed in a tight black tee-shirt, breasts on display, tight black jeans and black boots. Slipped rings on her fingers. Let her hair down, combed her bangs until they hung to her eyebrows. Stuffed a pack of cigarettes in the left sleeve of her tee-shirt and practiced making faces in the mirror, psyching herself up. Colette liked her new look, thought she could pass for a neo-Nazi. Her final accessory was a distressed leather jacket. Now she was ready.
Harry drove to Colette’s apartment, parked on the street and waited for her to come down. He watched an Audi back into a space in front of him, thinking it was going to slam into him. Just then, his passenger door opened, a girl he’d never seen before got in next to him, cigarette hanging from her mouth. She took it out and grinned.
“Harry, what do you think?”
“Do I know you?”
Colette smiled.
Harry said, “I see what you mean. You look like a neo-Nazi hooker.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Colette grinned again, rolled down the window and tossed out the cigarette.
“Where to?” Harry said.
They drove to a rundown area on the outskirts of Munich that reminded him of parts of Detroit after the ’67 riot.
“It’s right there, Harry.” Colette pointed. “Across the street.”
He slowed down and pulled over. A sign above the door said Gaststätte. It was a small pub in the center of a block of vacant storefronts, wind blowing a piece of newspaper along the sidewalk, a couple Blackshirts out front, smoking.
“You still think this is a good idea, huh?”
“No, Harry. That is why I have gone to all this trouble.”
“How long is this going to take?”
“If I am not out in one hour call the police.”
He didn’t like the sound of it.
She read his expression and said, “Take it easy. I am kidding you.”
Harry watched neo-Nazis come and go. At the hour mark he was starting to worry in spite of Colette’s casual attitude. When she still hadn’t appeared twenty minutes later, he got out of the car, crossed the street and went in the bar. When the door opened every skinhead in the place turned and looked at him. The bar was packed shoulder to shoulder with drinkers. Every table occupied. He’d never felt more out of place. He scanned the room, saw Colette subtly shake her head, and felt like a fool, but didn’t have time to dwell on it. A tall skinhead with an ax handle came over from the bar.
“What are you doing here? Are you lost?”
“I thought this was a bar. I was going to have a beer.”
The skinhead stared at him as if he were an idiot, poked him in the chest with the tapered end of the ax handle. Harry could feel the weight of the .38 in his jacket pocket. Wanted to draw it, put it in the guy’s face, but it would be the last dumb thing he ever did.
“I think you’ve made a mistake. I think you are going to turn around and walk out. Never come back here again.”
Harry moved to the door, opened it and went out.
Colette finally came out half an hour later. She glanced in his direction and started down the sidewalk. Harry made a U-turn and picked her up at the end of the block. She got in, looked at him and said, “Are you out of your mind? Harry, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I was reacting. Worried about you. You were in there almost two hours.”
“Well‚ you caused quite a stir.”
“Who were you sitting with?”
“Gustav, one of my new friends.”
“Where was Werner?”
“Drunk. He introduced me to a few of the guys. Two of them propositioned me in front of him, said they wanted to take me in the toilet and fuck me.”
“How romantic,” Harry said. “Nice group of guys. What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Playing hard to get, huh?”
Colette smiled. “I looked at them like they were losers.”
“That’s a stretch. But in a way you can’t blame them,” Harry said. “I doubt they see girls like you come in there very often. What was going on in there?”
“The usual. Blackshirts smoking, getting drunk,
calling each other out. But I did find out something, Harry. They’re having a rally tonight. They were all talking about it. It’s at a beer hall not far from here. Rumor has it some high-ranking Third Reich Nazis are going to be there.”
“And you’re thinking of going?”
“I have to. No outsider has ever photographed one of their rallies.”
“And lived to tell about it.”
“Harry, you surprise me,” Colette said. “If this was your story you wouldn’t hesitate. I know you.”
It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t let her go alone.
“What time are you going to pick me up?”
Colette pulled up in front of the hotel at 9:00. He got in, she leaned over, kissed him and smiled.
“You look nice, Harry.”
“It’s my neo-Nazi rally outfit.” He was wearing Levis and a dark-blue jacket. The Colt was in his right side pocket. ”I don’t have to tell you how dangerous this is, so if you want to change your mind.”
She shifted into first, and then second, picking up speed, merging with traffic. They drove to the industrial area they’d been to earlier. Colette went past a beer hall the size of an airplane hangar, and parked down the street. She turned in her seat, facing him.
“If they catch me, Harry, I want you to run.”
“They’re not going to catch you,” Harry said. “We’re not going to take any chances, do anything stupid. Okay?”
“Okay.”
They got out of the car and walked back through the beer hall parking lot, crouching between cars, getting close to the building. He saw a Blackshirt standing just outside the rear door, smoking a cigarette, three dumpsters lined up against the wall behind him. Harry could hear the muted sounds of cheers, applause inside the hall. The Blackshirt took a final drag, threw his cigarette and went back in.
They hid behind the dumpsters, waited, moved to the door, opened it and went in the kitchen. Harry could hear the amplified voice of someone shouting: “Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.” And then the chorus joining in. “Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.”
Colette led him through the kitchen, up a stairway to the balcony at the back of the hall. They got on their knees, peeking over a solid wood railing. What he saw reminded Harry of photos of Nazi rallies he’d seen, banners with swastikas festooned on the walls, the big room filled with Blackshirts sitting at long tables, drinking beer. At the far end was a dais, a man at the podium in a black suit, three Nazis in uniform on each side of him, sitting at a table, facing the crowd. They were all in their mid-fifties and sixties.
Voices of the Dead Page 11