Back from the Dead (3 page)

An envelope from Deutsche Bank listed the recent checks Hess had written, and showed a current balance of DM75,349. Again, no substantial cash withdrawals or money transfers. He found Hess’ brokerage account statements in a file drawer in the desk, stocks whose current value was DM32,000. Another file held his real estate holdings. In addition to the airship company, Hess owned an office building.

In the credenza behind the desk he found a drawerful of items that, at first, made no sense: gloves, eyeglasses, bracelets, Stars of David, diamond rings, an oval locket that opened to a sepia-tone photo of a dark-haired woman, and that’s when it hit him. These were probably Hess’ war souvenirs. Almost thirty years had passed and still he hung on to them.

He knew Hess had been a Nazi party member, an SS officer on special assignment, touring concentration camps, picking up ideas, successful practices that could be used throughout the system. Hess had helped Adolf Eichmann organize the Wallersee Conference outside Berlin. Reinhard Heydrich had outlined the Reich’s plans for the final solution to the Nazi top brass. Heydrich had to have their buy-in to succeed.

Hess had also done a brief tour with Einsatzgruppen B, a killing squad in Poland, but it had not been widely publicized. After the war, Hess had started a construction company to help rebuild the cities destroyed by Allied bombs. He was a hero, a man putting the Fatherland first. According to Gerhard Braun, Hess was not getting the country back on its feet because of some altruistic feeling, it was a way to get rich. He sold the construction business in 1964 for seven million Deutschmarks, and bought the airship company.

Zeller arrived at Hess’ estate in Schleissheim, thirteen kilometers north of Munich, the next morning at eleven. A butler met him at the front door and escorted him to the salon where Frau Hess, formerly Elfriede Dinker, was seated on a couch. The butler introduced him. He shook Frau Hess’ hand and she invited him to sit in a big comfortable chair across from her. He had phoned ahead, made an appointment, telling her he had been hired by a group of concerned CSU party members to find Herr Hess.

“I have not seen or talked to Ernst for almost a month. I was visiting my mother in Ansbach. When I returned, he was gone,” she said, sounding relieved.

Frau Hess had ruddy cheeks and blonde hair pulled back in a braided ponytail. She was quiet and formal, and nearly expressionless except for an occasional twitch that made her look like she was grinning. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers intertwined. Zeller could now understand why Ernst had taken a mistress. There was nothing even remotely sexy about her. “Do you know where your husband is?”

She shook her head.

“Did Herr Hess talk about his war experiences?”

“Never.”

“But you are aware he was a member of the Nazi party?”

“I have seen photographs of Ernst in uniform, so of course I knew he was in the military. I do not believe, as the article in
Der Spiegel
stated, he murdered innocent people. Jews. To tell the truth, it seems out of character for a man given to philanthropic causes. Ernst pays for the health care of everyone working at the airship company. He is proud that he helped rebuild the country. Ernst loves Germany.” She paused. “Ernst and I have been estranged for some time. We are married in name only. I am the last person he would confide in. So you see, you have come all this way for nothing.”

“Is Katya at home? May I speak to her?”

“I do not want her involved in any of this. The reporters have been hounding us. Even friends have turned against her.”

“Does your husband correspond with anyone in South America? Can you recall receiving mail from any South American countries?”

“What do you mean?”

“Many Nazis escaped to South America after the war.” Eichmann had fled to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death, had gone to Argentina before settling in Hohenhau, Paraguay.

“Why would Ernst associate with murderers? He is a respected member of the Christian Social Union.” Frau Hess paused. “Is there anything else?”

Zeller noticed a hook on the bare wall behind Frau Hess, and dusty lines where a picture had hung. “I’m just curious, what did you have hanging on the wall?”

“A painting. It was Ernst’s. He must have taken it with him.”

“Do you know the name of the painting or who the artist is?”

“It was a Van Gogh.”

“Can you describe it?”

“I never liked it and it’s just as well that it’s gone.”

“Harry, there’s a guy named Zeller here to see you,” Phyllis said. “Where’s he from?”

“Didn’t say. The way he talks I thought you knew him.”

“He’s a salesman,” Harry said. “That’s what they do. They make it sound like they’re your friend. Probably wants to sell us a new baling press or guillotine shear. Tell him I’m busy, I’ve been out of town, I have to catch up.” That was all true. It was his second day back after two weeks in Florida, laying on the beach and laying on top of Colette. He was tan and relaxed, trying to ease back into the work world. The scrap business and everything about it seemed absurd in his current state of mind, thinking it was time to sell the company, move on, do something else. He had a pile of transaction reports to review, trying to find the motivation to do it. Wasn’t in the mood to talk to a salesman, listen to his pitch.

“I told him, Harry. He said he’d wait in the lobby.”

Harry heard a dog bark.

“I had to bring Lily with me today,” Phyllis said. “Her has a tuminache. She’ll be good though, won’t you?” The dog growled. “Yes, her will.”

Whoever the guy was he’d get tired of sitting there. Phyllis had referred to it as the lobby, but in fact it was a claustrophobic six-by-eight-foot space with off-white cinderblock walls, one featuring a framed watercolor of a ship docked at sunset an old girlfriend had bought for him at an art fair in Traverse City. There were also two uncomfortable, chrome-framed teal Naugahyde chairs, circa ’63, that had been in Harry’s basement.

He was trying to concentrate on the reports when the phone rang twenty minutes later. “Harry, he’s still here.”

“Close your window, ignore him.” There was a sill with a double glass window on the wall next to Phyllis’ desk. One side slid open so Phyllis could talk to whoever came in. Harry was going to say, you want to get rid of the guy, take Lily out there, have her piss on his leg, but Phyllis the dog-lover would’ve taken offense.

An hour later Phyllis buzzed him on the intercom. “All clear, Harry. He left.” It was 4:15. “I’m going to leave a few minutes early, you don’t mind. I want to take Lily to the vet on the way home.”

At 4:30 Harry decided to call it a day, too. He was going to the bank in the morning right from his house, withdraw twenty-five grand to buy scrap, keep the business going. He took the .357 Colt out of the Mosler safe that was bolted to the floor behind his desk. Held the gun, pushed the latch forward and the cylinder popped open. There were three spent shell casings. Two had gone through the French door of the Frankels’ master bedroom in Palm Beach, through the Italian armoire, the stucco inner wall and brick outer wall, and were probably somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. The third round had blown Hess off his feet and ended his life.

He tapped the shells out, grasped the cylinder with his right hand and fed three Remington 125-grain .357 cartridges into the empty chambers. Swung the cylinder closed with his left hand and heard it click.

When he got outside Harry threw the spent shell casings onto the mountain of scrap metal behind the building, and watched the last semi rumble out of the yard. His crew, through for the day, were putting equipment back in the warehouse.

Phyllis had hired a Vietnam vet named Archie Damman to work the scale after Jerry was killed. It wasn’t a done deal, but Harry liked what he saw. This guy Damman put in the hours and seemed to know what he was doing.

He thought about Colette as he cruised through Hamtramck on his way to the freeway, couldn’t wait to see her. She had driven back from Florida with him, and made the trip fun. He enjoyed spending time with her, had gotten used to having her around, and missed her when he went back to work. This was new for Harry. He’d thought about it, analyzed it and decided he’d had trouble with previous relationships because everyone he’d been close to had been killed. He’d dated a lot of girls in the eighteen years since Anna had died, but most of the relationships had lasted less than a month.

Harry didn’t know what was going to happen with Colette. Her career was in Germany and he’d been kicked out of the country, and they had only been together for a couple weeks, but he sure liked her. She was going back to Munich in a few days and that would be their first real test.

On the way home Harry stopped at the cemetery and stood in front of Sara’s gravestone. He hadn’t been here since she’d been buried almost seven weeks ago. He still couldn’t believe it, but there was her name etched in black marble.

Sara A. Levin 1953-1971

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Sara should’ve been standing here looking at Harry’s grave. He picked up some twigs and leaves on the ground and put them in his coat pocket. “How’re you doing, honey? You doing all right?” He paused, feeling self-conscious. Was this crazy, talking to Sara like this? No, Harry said to himself. It’s okay. “I met somebody, a girl named Colette. I think you’d like her.” He paused. “I miss you.”

Colette was on the couch in Harry’s den, having her lunch, chicken salad on lettuce and tomato, watching a soap opera called
General Hospital,
when she heard the doorbell, stood up still watching the television, looked out the front window and saw a white van parked in the driveway. It said
Acme Carpet Cleaning
on the side in brown letters. The doorbell rang again. Harry didn’t mention anything about having his carpets cleaned. Maybe they had the wrong address.

From the back hall Colette could see a man in a red cap through the glass panes in the door. He saw her and waved but she sensed that something was wrong. Colette moved into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed Harry’s office number. She heard the side door open, and the sound of footsteps. Heard Harry’s secretary say, “S&H Scrap Metal Recyclers, how may I direct your call?” The phone was taken from her and replaced in the cradle. There were two of them. They picked her up, carried her into the living room and rolled her up in one of Harry’s antique rugs, legs pressed together, arms pinned to her sides. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe, started to panic.

They never said a word, picked her up and carried her outside. She could feel a cool breeze blow through the open ends of the rug and it calmed her a little. They slid her in the back of the van and closed the doors. Colette heard them get in the front, heard the engine start and felt the van move, backing down the driveway. All she could think – it had to be retaliation for the article she had written about Hess. But how would anyone know she was staying with Harry? She didn’t tell her editor, didn’t even tell her mother.

Colette was on her side. She could smell dye on the fabric and taste the dust. She sneezed a couple times. Her nose itched. She bent her head forward and rubbed it against the coarse fabric. She smelled cigarette smoke, and felt the sway of the truck and felt herself sliding. Heard the twangy chords of country music on the radio, and the sounds of traffic outside the van. They were moving at a steady speed now.

She tried to take her mind off what was happening, pictured herself skiing with her mother in Courmayeur, the Italian side of Mont Blanc, going down the mountain, skis buried in deep powder, leaning back, her mother slaloming down the mountain in front of her like a teenager.

Colette heard cars passing the van going in the opposite direction and then the whining sound of tires on asphalt. The van slowed and made a left turn and a right and came to a stop. The rear doors opened and she was lifted out and carried, felt the rug tilt up as they went up a couple steps, entered a room and put her down. Then she was spinning as they unrolled the rug. Colette, dizzy, trying to focus, seeing white walls and a brick fireplace. She was on the dusty wood floor, in a house, shades covering the windows. The two men were dark shapes in the dark room, the sour smell of sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to them.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

“No, we don’t
sprechen sie
no
Deutsch,”
the one wearing a red cap said. He spoke with a southern accent.

“What do you want?”

The one in the cap moved behind her, holding her biceps. The second one picked up her legs. “We’ll let you know,” he said.

“Ain’t suppose to talk at her,” the one in the cap said.

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Just pick her up.”

The one behind her had his wrists under her armpits now, hands holding her breasts.

“Well lookit her, will you? Don’t like nobody touching her sweater pups,” the one in the cap said.

“Pup’s ass, Squirrel, them’s full grown.”

Colette started to twist and kick.

“We got us a little cougar, ain’t we?” the man behind her said. “Full of piss and vinegar. I’m going to drop you on your head you don’t stop squirming.”

Colette went slack and they carried her along a hallway, through a door, down a narrow staircase into the cellar, tied her tight to a chair, arms behind her back, her legs bound to the chair legs. When her eyes adjusted she saw the furnace and hot-water tank on the other side of the empty room that had unpainted block walls and high windows on both sides covered with newsprint.

“Don’t y’all go nowhere,” the one wearing the cap said. The gamey smell of him made her sick. He touched her breasts, hands hard and rough. “I be back for some of your sweet, sweet cooze.”

Colette watched them walk up the stairs, already uncomfortable, arms and shoulders aching.

She must’ve dozed off. The sun had moved over the house and the light was brighter coming through the papered windows on the west side of the room. She heard footsteps on the stairs and saw the one in the cap appear and move toward her, grinning. Colette could smell him before he reached her, an odor so foul she had to breathe through her mouth. He walked around behind the chair, placed his hands on her shoulders and started to massage her.

“All them German girls stacked like you?”

He reached over and pulled the top of her blouse open. Two buttons popped off and hit the floor. Colette felt her pulse race. He dug down and pulled her breasts out of the cups of her bra, squeezing them with callused hands.

Colette screamed, hoping the other man would hear her and come down.

He put his greasy hand over her mouth, pawing her with hard thick fingers. She tried to bite him and he slapped her across the face with an open hand.

“What the hell you doin’ down there, Squirrel?” the other man said from the top of the stairs. Colette heard him come halfway down.

“Nothin’.”

“Get up here.”

Squirrel leaned in with his face close to hers. His breath had a bacterial reek that made her gag.

“I’ll be back,” he said and walked up the stairs.

Colette had fallen asleep and woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The light in the windows was fading. She felt herself start to wind up again, thinking Squirrel was coming back for her. But it wasn’t him. A tall man in a black leather jacket appeared with a folded lawn chair. He opened it and sat a few feet from her.

“You are from Munich, I understand.”

Colette stared at him.

“Would you like to come upstairs, have something to eat and drink, use the toilet? You have been down here a long time. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know.” He paused for a beat and said, “Where is Ernst Hess?”

Harry pulled in the driveway, parked and went in the side door. He expected to see Colette in the kitchen, starting dinner. She was going to make sauerbraten, potato dumplings and red cabbage, an authentic German meal. He’d been thinking about it all day and he was hungry. Colette was a terrific cook, and that was another benefit of living with her. He threw his keys on the counter, hit the message button on the answering machine. Another one from Galina.

“Harry, you going to call me one of these days?”

No, he said to himself. Walked into the foyer, glanced in the den and moved into the living room. Someone was sitting in his leather chair, legs crossed on the ottoman. The man had dark shoulder-length hair and wore black jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket.

“I don’t think you’re a burglar,” Harry said, “or you’d be looking for the silver, so tell me what you’re doing in my house?”

“I stopped by your office. We could have handled it there, but you were too busy to see me,” he said with an accent that sounded like he was from Berlin.

“You buying or selling?”

“I am trading.”

“For what?” Although Harry had a pretty good idea. “Where is Ernst Hess?”

“I’d try his estate in Schleissheim or his apartment in Munich. Maybe start by talking to his family and business associates?

“I know he came here to see you.”

“Where’s Colette?”

“Safe for now. Tell me about Herr Hess.”

Harry pulled the Colt from under his shirt and aimed it at him. “I’ll tell you what. You want to trade, I’ll trade Colette for you. We can start there, see how it goes.”

“Put the gun away. You are not going to shoot me or you will never find her.”

The guy got up and came toward him. He was tall, six two, six three, and looked like he was in shape. Harry pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “First one’s going to blow out your knee cap. You better hope there isn’t a second one.”