They were in Poland in 1945 when the Russians were coming from the east and the Americans from the west and it was a foregone conclusion Germany had lost the war. Hess and Rausch walked away from their battalion one night, stole a military vehicle and drove to Lodz.
Hess had money, diamonds and gold he had taken from the Jews, acquiring a small fortune. He had purchased clothing and an automobile so they could make their way back to Germany. After the war Hess started a construction company to repair Germany’s war-torn cities, and had become rich. He had traveled extensively between Munich, Frankfurt and Dresden, often carrying large sums of money, and decided he needed a gun for protection.
Rausch had said, “Do you remember the first one?”
“Do you mean after the war?”
“Yes. I was trying to think of the year.”
“1947,” Hess said. “I was still following orders.”
“Come on. I watched you. You enjoyed it.”
“Is it wrong to enjoy your work?” Hess said.
“I don’t think it had anything to do with work or taking orders,” Rausch said. “The Reich was over. You did this on your own. For yourself. Maybe you couldn’t stop.”
It was true, of course, although he had never admitted it to anyone, surprised Rausch had been so observant. “We were rebuilding parts of Dresden, do you remember? The city had virtually been destroyed. We used to eat at a certain cafe, and I couldn’t help but notice Jews were returning to the city. There was one couple we saw regularly.”
“The Jewess you couldn’t take your eyes off of,” Rausch said.
“You do remember. One day she dined alone and left her gloves on the table. I picked them up and followed her home. She lived in a flat in an old building that had been hit by Allied bombs. Parts of it had been destroyed.”
“Were you thinking about killing her?”
“No, I was thinking about returning the gloves,” Hess said. “My good deed for the day.”
“Is this the truth?”
“Do you want me to tell you?”
Rausch sat back.
“Her flat was on the first floor.”
“Was she married?”
“I am getting to that.” Hess gave him a hard look. “I rang the bell and heard a dog barking. The woman, her name was Gail Kaplan, opened it a crack and I held up her gloves. She swung it open and a little dog, a dachshund, tried to get out. She said, ‘No‚ Karl.’ The dog barked, I squatted and pet it. ‘What a beautiful dog,’ I said. ‘I‚ too‚ have a dachshund.’”
“You never had a dachshund,” Rausch said. “Did you?”
Hess glanced at him, raised his eyebrows. “The dog snapped at me. ‘What is your dog’s name?’ the woman said. ‘Alfonso. We call him Fonzie.’”
“Now I understand,” Rausch said.
He was a little slow at times.
“‘Oh, how adorable,’ the woman said.
“I said to her, ‘Before I forget, here are your gloves.’
“‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Frau Kaplan said. She bent down and picked up the dog and held it against her chest.
“‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water,’ I said. She said, ‘Yes, of course, it’s the least I can do. You saw me at the cafe, yes? I know I have seen you before, reading your newspaper.’”
“And then you knew?” Rausch said.
“I thought it might happen. The urge was there. I had the Luger in the pocket of my sport jacket. The woman walked out of the room, carrying the dog. I looked around. There was a grand piano on the other side of the salon. I took off my overcoat and walked to the piano and started to play Mozart’s piano concerto number 27 in B flat major. The woman came back in smiling, carrying a glass of water, Karl the dachshund walking next to her like they were a couple. I stopped playing and said, ‘Forgive me. I see a piano I cannot resist.’
“‘Please continue,’ she said. ‘I insist. I love Mozart, so does my husband.’
“She handed me the glass of water. I took a drink and put it on a table next to the piano, and played for ten more minutes.
“The woman said, ‘Bravo.’
“I stood, picked up my overcoat, draped it over my arm and moved toward the couch. I could feel the weight of the Luger in my pocket. ‘Is your husband home?’ I said. ‘I was hoping to meet him.’
“‘No,’ she said, ‘he is at work. He is an architect.’
“‘Another time,’ I said. I picked up this small green pillow off the couch. She gave me a quizzical look. I drew the Luger and said, ‘Let’s go in the other room.’ Now the dachshund came toward me, barking. I glanced at the dog and back at the woman and she was gone. I went into the bedroom and there she was sitting on the bed with the phone in her hand.
“‘Please,’ she said. ‘I am pregnant.’
“I moved toward her and said, ‘It will be all right.’ I held the pillow in front of her face, trying to muffle the gunshot, and pulled the trigger. The pillow caught on fire and the dog went crazy.”
“What happened to the dog?” Rausch said.
“It was still barking when I walked out.”
“How many others have there been?”
Fifteen
9:15 in the morning, Harry got a phone call from a woman named Colette Rizik, saying she was a journalist.
“I am writing an article for a magazine called Der Spiegel about the rise of the neo-Nazis in Germany.” She spoke with a British accent. “I understand you were attacked last night.”
“Who told you that?”
“I have a contact with the police.”
Harry agreed to meet her in the hotel restaurant in an hour. He took aspirin and iced his bruised rib. It felt better today. Showered, dressed and went down to the lobby. He was sitting at a table having coffee when a good-looking woman walked in. Every head in the room — men and women — turned and looked at her. Harry, assuming it was Colette, stood up, waved and she came over. He introduced himself, invited her to sit and she took the chair to his right.
Colette Rizik was blonde, five eight, stunning. She showed him her Der Spiegel ID card. It looked official, not that Harry would’ve known if it were fake. The waitress stopped by with coffee, poured Colette a cup and refilled his. Heads were still turning, looking at her. She reached in her purse and took out a pad and a pen. She had nice hands, long thin fingers with red nails.
“Thank you for seeing me, Herr Levin. As I mentioned I am writing an article for Der Spiegel, a magazine like your Time and Newsweek.
Colette turned and took a newspaper out of her bag, unfolded it and showed Harry a short, one column article with a headline that said:
Harry said, “What do you want to know?”
“It is very unusual for Blackshirts to attack tourists,” Colette said.
Harry listened, studying her. She wore a simple white blouse, collar folded over the lapels of a black blazer. He could see the swell of her breasts, the outline of her bra under the thin fabric.
“They have an agenda, you see. People they target to terrorize and harass. Did you provoke them in any way?”
“That’s what Detective Huber asked,” Harry said. “You think I picked a fight with six guys carrying ax handles?”
“I didn’t mean that.” She took the top off her pen, and wrote something on the pad. “Did you say anything to them?”
“Not a word,” Harry said. “They came in swinging.”
“What about your friend?”
“What friend?”
“I was told there were two of you.”
He watched Colette sip her coffee, red lipstick leaving a faint stain on the off-white china. She put her cup back on the saucer.