Colette grinned again, rolled down the window and tossed out the cigarette.
“Where to?” Harry said.
They drove to a rundown area on the outskirts of Munich that reminded him of parts of Detroit after the ’67 riot.
“It’s right there, Harry.” Colette pointed. “Across the street.”
He slowed down and pulled over. A sign above the door said Gaststätte. It was a small pub in the center of a block of vacant storefronts, wind blowing a piece of newspaper along the sidewalk, a couple Blackshirts out front, smoking.
“You still think this is a good idea, huh?”
“No, Harry. That is why I have gone to all this trouble.”
“How long is this going to take?”
“If I am not out in one hour call the police.”
He didn’t like the sound of it.
She read his expression and said, “Take it easy. I am kidding you.”
Harry watched neo-Nazis come and go. At the hour mark he was starting to worry in spite of Colette’s casual attitude. When she still hadn’t appeared twenty minutes later, he got out of the car, crossed the street and went in the bar. When the door opened every skinhead in the place turned and looked at him. The bar was packed shoulder to shoulder with drinkers. Every table occupied. He’d never felt more out of place. He scanned the room, saw Colette subtly shake her head, and felt like a fool, but didn’t have time to dwell on it. A tall skinhead with an ax handle came over from the bar.
“What are you doing here? Are you lost?”
“I thought this was a bar. I was going to have a beer.”
The skinhead stared at him as if he were an idiot, poked him in the chest with the tapered end of the ax handle. Harry could feel the weight of the .38 in his jacket pocket. Wanted to draw it, put it in the guy’s face, but it would be the last dumb thing he ever did.
“I think you’ve made a mistake. I think you are going to turn around and walk out. Never come back here again.”
Harry moved to the door, opened it and went out.
Colette finally came out half an hour later. She glanced in his direction and started down the sidewalk. Harry made a U-turn and picked her up at the end of the block. She got in, looked at him and said, “Are you out of your mind? Harry, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I was reacting. Worried about you. You were in there almost two hours.”
“Well‚ you caused quite a stir.”
“Who were you sitting with?”
“Gustav, one of my new friends.”
“Where was Werner?”
“Drunk. He introduced me to a few of the guys. Two of them propositioned me in front of him, said they wanted to take me in the toilet and fuck me.”
“How romantic,” Harry said. “Nice group of guys. What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Playing hard to get, huh?”
Colette smiled. “I looked at them like they were losers.”
“That’s a stretch. But in a way you can’t blame them,” Harry said. “I doubt they see girls like you come in there very often. What was going on in there?”
“The usual. Blackshirts smoking, getting drunk, calling each other out. But I did find out something, Harry. They’re having a rally tonight. They were all talking about it. It’s at a beer hall not far from here. Rumor has it some high-ranking Third Reich Nazis are going to be there.”
“And you’re thinking of going?”
“I have to. No outsider has ever photographed one of their rallies.”
“And lived to tell about it.”
“Harry, you surprise me,” Colette said. “If this was your story you wouldn’t hesitate. I know you.”
It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t let her go alone.
“What time are you going to pick me up?”
Colette pulled up in front of the hotel at 9:00. He got in, she leaned over, kissed him and smiled.
“You look nice, Harry.”
“It’s my neo-Nazi rally outfit.” He was wearing Levis and a dark-blue jacket. The Colt was in his right side pocket. ”I don’t have to tell you how dangerous this is, so if you want to change your mind.”
She shifted into first, and then second, picking up speed, merging with traffic. They drove to the industrial area they’d been to earlier. Colette went past a beer hall the size of an airplane hangar, and parked down the street. She turned in her seat, facing him.
“If they catch me, Harry, I want you to run.”
“They’re not going to catch you,” Harry said. “We’re not going to take any chances, do anything stupid. Okay?”
“Okay.”
They got out of the car and walked back through the beer hall parking lot, crouching between cars, getting close to the building. He saw a Blackshirt standing just outside the rear door, smoking a cigarette, three dumpsters lined up against the wall behind him. Harry could hear the muted sounds of cheers, applause inside the hall. The Blackshirt took a final drag, threw his cigarette and went back in.
They hid behind the dumpsters, waited, moved to the door, opened it and went in the kitchen. Harry could hear the amplified voice of someone shouting: “Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.” And then the chorus joining in. “Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.”
Colette led him through the kitchen, up a stairway to the balcony at the back of the hall. They got on their knees, peeking over a solid wood railing. What he saw reminded Harry of photos of Nazi rallies he’d seen, banners with swastikas festooned on the walls, the big room filled with Blackshirts sitting at long tables, drinking beer. At the far end was a dais, a man at the podium in a black suit, three Nazis in uniform on each side of him, sitting at a table, facing the crowd. They were all in their mid-fifties and sixties.
“Heil Hitler,” the Master of Ceremonies said, raising his arm in the Nazi salute.
The room erupted, Blackshirts screaming, “Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler,” standing, arms raised, ax handles banging on the wood floor like thunder.”
“Who is he?” Harry whispered.
“I don’t know.” Colette whispered back. She raised her camera and took a couple shots.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm.” The MC paused, waiting for the noise to die down. “It is now my pleasure to introduce our distinguished guests. These men are the true heroes of the Reich, men of conviction, men of character. And now, without further ado, let me present Otto Reder, Unterscharführer at Sobibor.”
Reder, the first man at the table on the MC’s right, stood and took a bow. He was tall, distinguished-looking. The Blackshirts cheered, banged their beer mugs on the table, their ax handles on the floor.
“Wilhelm Hoffman, Sturmbannführer at Buchenwald.”
He was on the left, stood and gave the Heil Hitler salute and the skinheads went crazy.
“Gerhard Ulmer from Gusen, Emil Drescher from Treblinka, Kurt Kretschmer from Mauthausen and Ernst Rohm from Auschwitz.
The Blackshirts were standing, shouting: “Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil.”
The six Nazis on the dais sat. The cheering stopped, and then it was quiet.
“There’s someone else on the right side of the dais,” Harry said. “You see him?”
“There, in the corner,” Colette said.
“Like he wants to see what’s going on but doesn’t want to be seen. Get him, will you?”
“I’ll try but I’m not promising much. I need a longer lens.” Colette aimed her camera, took a couple shots.
“In their day,” the MC said, “these men did their job and did it well. And now we have to do ours. We are the new rat catchers. The new exterminators. The new patriots. We have to take back the Fatherland.”