“I can understand. Listen, I better get the manager up here. I don’t want them to think I joined the Nazis,” Harry said, looking at the swastika on the wall.
“Call, they come back,” Cordell said. “Pension Jedermann. Check on you tomorrow.”
He walked out, closed the door.
Harry called the front desk at 1:15, said there’d been a break-in. A man from hotel security knocked on the door a couple minutes later. He wore a blue blazer and carried a walkie-talkie and was the size of a defensive tackle. He came in, looked around and asked Harry a few questions.
Did he know who did it?
No.
Was he in the room at the time?
Dumb question.
Was anything missing?
Just his photos of Hess. Of course, he said no.
Did he want to speak to the police?
Harry shook his head.
The security man told him they were going to move him to a suite for the inconvenience. No charge.
Harry said, OK. Where else was he going to go at 1:30 in the morning?
Fourteen
Rausch sat in the driver’s seat of the Volkswagen, side window cracked six inches. He smoked, flicking ashes and blowing smoke through the opening. He glanced at the clock on the dash. It was 1:42 a.m. Hess had been in the house for almost two hours, and Rausch wondered what was taking him, although Hess had told him he enjoyed walking around before he woke them. Looking at their photographs, their furniture, and their belongings. For Hess it was better to know something about them, to feel a connection, make it personal.
Rausch was parked on Baaderstrasse, in a quiet residential neighborhood. He saw a figure coming toward him on the sidewalk, Ernst Hess in silhouette, the faint glow of a streetlight behind him. He walked to the car and got in. Rausch felt crowded now, two big men sitting almost shoulder to shoulder in the narrow interior. He could see the rush of power, Hess still charged with adrenalin.
“You were in there for a long time,” Rausch said. He started the car, slid the shifter into gear and accelerated.
“We were talking. I enjoy conversing with civilized, intelligent people.”
“I thought something had gone wrong.”
“What could go wrong?”
“Maybe the man had a weapon and surprised you.” He saw Hess glance at him.
“How long would you have waited?”
“Until you were finished.”
“What if I did not come out?”
“But you did.”
“I am asking you this hypothetically.”
“I would have waited until it was no longer safe,” Rausch said, not exactly sure what he was saying, but Hess seemed to approve. He smiled. “Very good.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He owned an automobile dealership, sells Volkswagens. Can you believe that?”
Rausch went left on Rumfordstrasse.
“I told him I thought that was ironic, a Jew selling a car developed by the Führer.”
Rausch glanced at Hess. “What did he say?”
“Hitler had nothing to do with it. Ferdinand Porsche designed and built the Volkswagen.”
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was the woman’s occupation?”
“Retired. She had been a teacher at the Jewish Training Workshop on Biederstein in the late thirties.”
“What were the Jews training to be?”
“Swindlers,” Hess said, grinning. “What do you think?”
The streets were dark, deserted as they crossed Frauenstrasse, driving into Altstadt. He could see the tower of the Neues Rathaus.
“The Lachmanns were originally from Munich. They had emigrated to New York in 1939.” Hess looked at him. “Had I been a Jew that’s what I would have done. After Kristallnacht, anyone who did not know what was happening was either naïve or not paying attention.”
“Why did they come back?”
“Lachmann said because they are Germans. I told him they should have stayed in New York.”
“Did they resist, put up a fight?”
“Do they ever?”
That was what was so surprising. Jews went to their death like lambs to slaughter. If an intruder were trying to kill him Rausch would defend himself. “Were they afraid?”
“Someone woke you up and put a gun in your face, wouldn’t you be?”
“This isn’t happening,” Mrs. Lachmann had said. Hess grinned.
Rausch swung around to Kaufingerstrasse and pulled up behind Hess’ Mercedes parked on the street. He would leave the stolen VW in a parking garage.
Hess turned in the seat, ears still ringing from the gunshots. He pictured the Lachmanns kneeling naked on the cold hard concrete floor, Hess sitting in a chair behind them. They were always embarrassed taking their clothes off in front of a stranger. It made them feel vulnerable.
He had taken Herr Lachmann’s glasses and his wife’s engagement ring to add to his collection. He would relive the encounter later. Now he was more interested in hearing about Harry Levin. The Jew surprising him, first coming to the restaurant in Washington DC, sitting at the table with them, speaking German with his Bavarian accent, fooling all of them. Hess thought that one incident would be the end of it. The man would go home and he would never think about him again. At the urging of the ambassador, he had even agreed to pay for the daughter’s funeral expenses, trying to put a positive spin on what had happened. The Washington Post acknowledged his sympathetic gesture in a brief article, and quoted him saying: “My heartfelt apology goes out to Mr. Levin and his family.” The carefully worded press release had been written by a publicist at the embassy. It mentioned Hess’ involvement but never admitted culpability or guilt.
Two weeks later the crazy kike sneaks onto his estate. Hess couldn’t believe it, looking across the tennis court, seeing a man standing on the other side of the fence with a gun, thinking he was going to shoot him, this lunatic from Detroit who sold scrap metal. And although the surveillance photographs were inconclusive Hess was positive it was Levin. Who else? Levin was seen again outside the fence at the airship factory, and Hess knew he had to do something. This Jew wasn’t going away.
Rausch had followed Levin to the ratskeller, despatching six men to take care of him, put him in the hospital, but not kill him. With Munich hosting the Olympic Games in eleven months, Hess didn’t want the negative publicity of a murdered American tourist, an incident that might imply Munich was not safe.
Harry Levin had escaped again and no one had been able to give him a reasonable explanation as to why. “Tell me how he got away,” Hess said to Rausch.
“He was lucky.”
“Lucky,” Hess said. “There were six of them.”
“A Negro was helping him,” Rausch said. “He was skilled.”
“A Negro? They were together?” Hess said. This was getting interesting. “Who is he?”
“An American soldier. They were sitting next to each other at the bar. My men chased them down the street,” Rausch said. “They were about to pull them out the car when the police arrived.”
More excuses.
Hess got behind the wheel of the Mercedes and drove to the apartment.
Earlier that morning Rausch had stood tall and erect in front of his desk, military bearing still evident three decades after Germany had lost its army and Rausch his rank. He was a born soldier. Needed to be told what to do, and needed to be complimented after completing a job. They had been together since ’43, assigned to Einsatzgruppen B.
As big and strong as Rausch was, he had been bothered by killing Jews. Rausch would feel sick, couldn’t eat or sleep. Hess had joked about it. “What is your problem? My appetite has never been better. I sleep like a baby.”