Читаем Voices of the dead полностью

Harry had contacted Wilhelm Martz, a good friend of his parents and uncle. He had gotten his address and arranged to stop by. Martz lived on Kreuzstrasse, a couple blocks away. He found the house, a Bavarian Tudor, and rang the bell. The door opened, and a good-looking woman with dark curly hair and glasses eyed him with caution.

“I’m Harry Levin.”

Now she smiled. “Harry, how are you? I’m Lisa. Do you remember me?”

Remember her? She was the cutest girl in the class, in the whole Jewish school. He’d had a crush on her, felt like a bumbling fool in her presence. He used to sit in class and look at her, thinking she was perfect except for her nose. It had a sexy hook, one little imperfection that made her all the more attractive. “I think so,” Harry said.

“You think so? Harry, I have to tell you I was crazy about you.”

“Really?” He grinned and walked in and she closed the door.

“Really.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Girls weren’t supposed to make the first move, Harry.”

She escorted him into a room with dark wood trim and plaster walls, old-world craftsmanship. It was stuffy like the windows hadn’t been opened in years. Martz was sitting in a heavy overstuffed chair, an alert old guy with a permanent grin. He stood up, fixed his rheumy gaze on Harry. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with long silver hair combed back and dark eyebrows.

Lisa said, “Nice seeing you, Harry,” and walked out of the room.

“You look just like your father,” Martz said staring at him.

Everyone told him that.

“Your parents used to have parties. You would come down the stairs and ask us to turn down the music.”

“I remember everyone dancing, having a good time.”

Martz directed him to a green velvet couch that was next to the chair he’d been sitting in. “I think about your parents every day,” Martz said. “Your father was well liked by everyone. Jews in the neighborhood would come to him for advice instead of the rabbi. I used to call him Sol, short for Solomon.” He paused, taking his time. “It is amazing how much you are like him, same voice, same mannerisms. Your father used to pick his fingernails like that.”

Harry looked at his hands, not even aware he was doing it, and stopped.

Martz pushed his hair back with his right hand. “Your mother was a great beauty. She had her pick of the men. But when she met your father that was it.”

Harry took the photo out of his shirt pocket and showed it to him.

“Both of your parents had exquisite taste. Always well dressed.” Martz glanced across the room. “It is too bad.”

“I remember seeing Hitler in the neighborhood,” Harry said.

“He lived not far from us. He would drive around with his Nazis, honking the horn at people on the street, saluting. In the early years he was a curiosity. We made fun of him. Didn’t think he would last. How could he? That was in 1928. Five years later he became chancellor,” Martz said. “Do you remember the food rationing and the curfew for Jews?”

Harry nodded.

“By 1940 we couldn’t buy shoes or clothes. Then we couldn’t have cameras. Then we couldn’t buy coffee, chicken, fish, or vegetables. We couldn’t buy coal to heat the house. In September ’41 all Jews over the age of six had to wear a yellow star.”

“I remember,” Harry said.

“I was taken to Dachau about six months before you. I was in the yard the day the SS put you and your father on the truck. There was no logic to the selection. The important thing, Harry, you survived.”

The silver Zeppelin was gone when Harry came out of Martz’ house an hour later and walked back to his hotel. He crossed the lobby, stopped at the front desk and asked the clerk if there were any messages for Harry Levin.

“Herr Berman is in the lounge waiting for you.”

Harry saw him sitting at a table, a stocky, ruddy-faced man wearing a tweed sport coat, reading the newspaper. Stark said Fedor Berman had spent three years at Auschwitz. He was the only person in the bar, and looked up as Harry approached. “Herr Berman, Harry Levin.”

The man stood up and they shook hands. He pulled a chair out for Harry. “Bitte.”

They sat at opposite sides of the table. “Will you join me in a drink?”

Harry ordered a beer. “Bob Stark tells me you’re a skier.”

“I spend the morning hiking, walking up the hills I will be skiing down in a couple months. Must get the legs ready.”

Berman poured schnapps in his coffee and sipped it. Opened a briefcase on the chair next to him, took out a manila envelope and handed it to Harry. He opened the envelope and slid out the contents, a dozen photographs of a country estate shot from different angles, and several pictures of Hess’ airship factory. “Where does he live?”

“Schleissheim,” Berman said. “His main residence. Thirteen kilometers north of here. He has a sophisticated security system and a security team watching the estate.”

“Who’s the big guy that’s always with Hess?”

“Arno Rausch. His bodyguard. He’s worked for him since the end of the war.” Berman paused. “Hess also has an apartment in the city.”

Перейти на страницу:

Похожие книги

Адвокат. Судья. Вор
Адвокат. Судья. Вор

Адвокат. СудьяСудьба надолго разлучила Сергея Челищева со школьными друзьями – Олегом и Катей. Они не могли и предположить, какие обстоятельства снова сведут их вместе. Теперь Олег – главарь преступной группировки, Катерина – его жена и помощница, Сергей – адвокат. Но, встретившись с друзьями детства, Челищев начинает подозревать, что они причастны к недавнему убийству его родителей… Челищев собирает досье на группировку Олега и передает его журналисту Обнорскому…ВорСтав журналистом, Андрей Обнорский от умирающего в тюремной больнице человека получает информацию о том, что одна из картин в Эрмитаже некогда была заменена им на копию. Никто не знает об этой подмене, и никому не известно, где находится оригинал. Андрей Обнорский предпринимает собственное, смертельно опасное расследование…

Андрей Константинов

Криминальный детектив