Voices of the dead

Harry came out of the woods, sweating and filthy, clothes covered with dirt. He stood on the side of the highway, looking down the empty road in both directions. Cordell was gone, of course he was. Probably saw the Zeppelin and took off. Harry didn’t blame him. This wasn’t his fight, but there was another possibility. He’d been kidnapped. The Zeppelin had radioed their position, and Hess dispatched a gang of Blackshirts. That seemed more likely.

He checked his watch. 4:30. He was supposed to be at Martz’ house in an hour for the phone call with Joyce. He wasn’t going to make it. Looked at his options, realized he didn’t have any. Walked on the side of the road, ducking back in the trees when he heard a car. Made it to Dachau in thirty-two minutes, looking around, nervous, studying everyone he passed. He stopped at the Hofgarten, needed time to think, compose himself, and he was dying of thirst. He stood at the dark bar, ordered a beer, and drank it fast, men lined up on both sides of him, holding the handles of their mugs, talking and drinking.

He had to go to the police station, tell them what happened. They were going to think he was crazy. He recited the lines in his head. “I was in the forest looking for a mass grave of Jews killed by Ernst Hess and his SS guards on April 2, 1942. His bodyguard came in a Zeppelin to kill me with a machine gun. Oh, and my friend and rental car disappeared.” He told them that, they’d put him in a padded cell. And yet, it was all true.

Harry walked in the police station that was as quaint and Bavarian as the town, and talked to a cop sitting behind a heavy desk. He had dark hair, a dark mustache, and wore a blue uniform with matching tie and epaulets, the word Polizei over the left pocket in white letters. Harry spoke German, told him he’d been with his friend, Cordell Sims, in a rented BMW. He stopped to take a leak in the woods, and when he came out the car and Mr. Sims were gone. Harry took out his wallet and showed him his driver’s license.

As it turned out, Herr Sims-who had no identification-was in a jail cell. The police thought he had stolen the vehicle and were holding him until an investigation could be completed. Another bizarre turn of events. The BMW was in the police-station parking lot. Harry told him to check the rental agreement in the glove box and that should clear things up.

It did, but an hour passed before Cordell was released. He didn’t say anything till they got in the car and were pulling out of the station parking lot.

“Didn’t mean to leave you there, Harry. But didn’t have a choice in the matter.” He opened his cigarette case, took one out and lit up. “Question is, how’d you know where I was at?”

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “When I came out and the car was gone, I figured you’d been kidnapped. There was no place else to go.”

“It was a mind fuck, Harry.”

“I hear you. Had one of my own.” He told him what happened, Cordell’s eyes on him, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth against the windshield, holding the cigarette with his thumb and index finger like a comrade from Minsk.

“You like livin’, Harry? ’Cause you want to continue, I suggest you get the fuck out of here.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t, huh? Why’s that?”

“Something I have to take care of.”

21

The uniform was tight through the shoulders but fit good enough. The cap hid his face and he had shaven off the mustache and goatee to further disguise himself for the occasion. His daughter Katya had said, “Papa, you look so different, so much younger.” Hess carried a square box filled with newspapers to give it weight, plus a couple items he would need, the box wrapped in brown paper, an ordinary parcel delivered by an ordinary postman. Nothing to call attention to himself, or arouse suspicion in this quiet neighborhood.

The package was addressed to Wilhelm Martz, Kreuzstrasse 47. Hess rang the doorbell and waited. The door opened a few inches. A woman with dark hair and round glasses stood back in the shadows of the interior, eyeing him with suspicion, as if postmen were not to be trusted.

“Special delivery for Herr Martz.” He smiled like a friendly jovial uncle. “It looks important. Maybe filled with money, you never know.” He smiled again.

“Will you leave it there on the stoop, please?”

“Herr Martz himself must sign for the package. New postal regulations. Is he at home?”

“Please, wait there, I will tell him.” She closed the door, but not all the way.

Hess waited a few seconds, gave her time to move into the house, pushed the door open, slipped into the dark foyer. There were rooms on both sides. Straight ahead, down a short hallway was a staircase that led to the second floor. He didn’t see or hear anyone. Rausch had been watching the house and was sure only Herr Martz and his daughter were there.