Voices of the dead

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.