Voices of the dead

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.

17

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.”