Voices of the dead

Monday afternoon, Colette was on the phone with her editor, Gunter, in Berlin, discussing the risks of running her story about Hess. “You’ll get the photos and the article on Wednesday. Incriminating stuff. This should put a wrench in Hess’ political future.”

“I’m more concerned about your future as a journalist. Hess is popular, well liked. There will be a backlash. You could be a target. I’m not even sure Max will agree to publish it.”

“Can you hang on?” Colette said. “Someone is ringing the bell.” She put the phone down, crossed the living room and looked out the window, saw him and went back to the phone. “Gunter, just a minute, the postman is delivering a package.” She buzzed him in and opened the door. Heard him coming up the stairs. “Thank you so much,” Colette said as he approached, face partially hidden under the brim of the cap. He was carrying a small rectangular package, his shoes making a snapping sound on the tile floor.

She was wondering who it was from, glanced at the label on the box. “Der Spiegel.”

He looked at her and said, “The magazine?”

“I am a journalist.”

“You have to sign.” He patted his shirt pocket and the front of his uniform jacket. “Forgive me, I have misplaced my pen.”

She noticed his manicured nails and shoes, hand-made black leather like Max wore, her editor-in-chief in Berlin, the shoes contrasting the plainness of the uniform. “I’ll be right back.” She walked quickly through the apartment, glanced at the phone on the table, Gunter still on the line, went into her bedroom, closed the door and locked it. Knew she had only a minute or two before Hess came after her. The photos from the rally were in an envelope on her desk, Colette regretting now she hadn’t sent them earlier. She tucked the envelope in her purse, grabbed her passport.

There was a sliding door that opened onto a small balcony. All the apartments had them. She slid the door open and went out. She had two chairs and a table and would sit there in the evenings and watch the sun set over the city. Colette slid a chair over to the edge of the railing, stood on it and jumped half a meter over onto the Steigerwalds’ balcony. She knew they weren’t home, tried their door, it was locked. She jumped to the Dauschers, looked back and saw Hess on her balcony. She tried the door. It opened and she went in and ran through the apartment. Opened the door, looked down the empty hall, and ran for the stairs.

Hess was wondering what she saw, what tipped her off. He didn’t go after her. She was too young, too fast. He walked into the kitchen, noticed the phone off the hook and hung it up. A light was blinking on the answering machine next to it. He pressed the message button and listened:

“Colette, where are you? Call your mother.”

“It’s Gunter. How are you coming on the article? Call me.”

“It’s Harry. Meet me at Odeonsplatz at six.” This one was dated the day before.

Now the phone was ringing. He let it ring and listened to the message: “Colette, Gunter, I was cut off. Get back to me.”

Hess ejected the tape and put it in his pocket. He walked through the kitchen. Like the rest of the apartment, it was clean, spotless, nothing out of place. He admired the discipline required to maintain an orderly life. There was an address book on the counter. He put it in his pocket.

Off the kitchen where he expected a pantry was a windowless room with photographic developing equipment on a long counter: enlarger, safelight, timer, a plastic tub of processing chemicals and next to it a tub of water. Half a dozen black-and-white photographs were clipped to a drying rack with clothespins.

The photographs had been taken the night of the rally, high angles from the rear of the hall, capturing the frenzy and energy of the Blackshirts. His face peeking around the banner was featured in three of the pictures. They were extreme long shots, difficult if not impossible to identify him. There was a binder on the counter that had plastic sheets of 35 mm negatives organized in rows. There were individual photographs of the mementos locked in the drawer in his apartment, Jewvenirs, as he thought of them, items he’d taken from the Jews he’d killed. Hess was shocked they’d broken into his apartment. He took everything. But the important question-had she made a duplicate set, and sent them to her publisher?