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 Gaststatte. 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.
“Heil Hitler,” the Master of Ceremonies said, raising his arm in the Nazi salute.
The room erupted, Blackshirts screaming, “Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler,” standing, arms raised, ax handles banging on the wood floor like thunder.”
“Who is he?” Harry whispered.
“I don’t know.” Colette whispered back. She raised her camera and took a couple shots.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm.” The MC paused, waiting for the noise to die down. “It is now my pleasure to introduce our distinguished guests. These men are the true heroes of the Reich, men of conviction, men of character. And now, without further ado, let me present Otto Reder, Unterscharfuhrer at Sobibor.”
Reder, the first man at the table on the MC’s right, stood and took a bow. He was tall, distinguished-looking. The Blackshirts cheered, banged their beer mugs on the table, their ax handles on the floor.
“Wilhelm Hoffman, Sturmbannfuhrer at Buchenwald.”
He was on the left, stood and gave the Heil Hitler salute and the skinheads went crazy.
“Gerhard Ulmer from Gusen, Emil Drescher from Treblinka, Kurt Kretschmer from Mauthausen and Ernst Rohm from Auschwitz.
The Blackshirts were standing, shouting: “Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil.”
The six Nazis on the dais sat. The cheering stopped, and then it was quiet.
“There’s someone else on the right side of the dais,” Harry said. “You see him?”
“There, in the corner,” Colette said.
“Like he wants to see what’s going on but doesn’t want to be seen. Get him, will you?”
“I’ll try but I’m not promising much. I need a longer lens.” Colette aimed her camera, took a couple shots.
“In their day,” the MC said, “these men did their job and did it well. And now we have to do ours. We are the new rat catchers. The new exterminators. The new patriots. We have to take back the Fatherland.”
The cheering started again.
“Bitte, bitte,” the MC said. He waited till the room was quiet.
“I am going to be counting on each one of you to do your duty for the New Reich.” More cheers, a standing ovation. “Now I want to show you something.”
On cue two Blackshirts appeared from behind the dais, escorting a man in a striped concentration-camp uniform, hands tied behind his back, black hood over his head.
The MC said, “Do you know what this is?”
The Blackshirts yelled, “Jew, Jew, Jew.”
“Better hold onto your wallet.”
The hall erupted in laughter.
“That’s right. He wants your money. He wants your car. He wants your house. He wants everything you own. Are you going to let him take it?”
“Nooo,” said the Blackshirts, on their feet again.
Colette balanced her camera on top of the railing and pressed the button on the speed winder, taking more shots.
“Who do you think the prisoner is?”
“An actor. Harry, this is drama. They’re doing it for effect.”
Then the Blackshirts were on their feet, singing:
The street free for the brown battalions,
The street free for the stormtroopers,
Millions full of hope look up at the swastika;
The day breaks for freedom and for bread.
“What’s that?” Harry said.
“The ‘Horst Wessel Song,’” Colette said. “It’s the Nazi theme song.”
“It’s catchy.”
“Harry, we have to go. They always sing it at the end.”
They went back downstairs through the kitchen, Blackshirts banging their ax handles and cheering. The smoker had returned, standing just outside the door. They crouched behind a stainless-steel counter. Harry could hear the MC wrapping it up. “I want to thank you for joining us tonight…”
Colette looked worried. “Harry, we have to do something. They’ll be coming out any minute.”
He glanced around the kitchen, got an idea. Moved to the industrial range against the wall, picked up a heavy cast-iron skillet. Harry moved to the door, went out and hit the Blackshirt on top of the head. He dropped to the ground. Harry tossed the skillet in the dumpster. They dragged the Blackshirt into the parking lot and left him next to an Opel. First impression, he was drunk. It might buy them a little time. Then he heard voices, turned and saw Blackshirts coming out of the hall.
They crouched and ran to Colette’s car and got back to her apartment at 10:38. She had a darkroom and was anxious to develop some of the film. Harry made himself a drink, sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper.
Half an hour later Colette came out of the darkroom with four still-wet eight-by-ten photos. She put them on the table, each showing part of a face.
“I had to enlarge them four hundred per cent to get anything, that’s why there’s so much grain.” Colette took out scissors, trimmed off the excess and fit the quadrants together on the kitchen table. “Recognize him?”
“Ernst Hess,” Harry said.
“Why would he be at a Blackshirt rally?”
“My guess, he’s sympathetic to their cause, but with his Christian Social Union affiliation he can’t take the chance being seen endorsing them.”
“How do you know about the CSU?”
“It’s in the paper. Right here.” He turned the article around to show her. “They’re having a board meeting tomorrow at nine a.m.”
She glanced at him and smiled.
“I’ve seen that look before. You have something in mind, don’t you?”