“What’s going on?” Harry said.
“You leave Germany, I make the weapons charge disappear. This is the best offer you are going to get.”
“What if I don’t want to leave?”
“You go to trial. If the judge is lenient you are sentenced to three years in prison and given a fine. Tell me what you want to do.”
“I see your point.”
“I thought you would.”
Huber handed Harry the envelope. Harry opened it and took out his wallet, passport and watch. He fastened the watch on his wrist. It was 3:45 p.m., Monday.
Huber took a Pan Am ticket out of his inside sport-coat pocket and handed it to him.
“What about my clothes?” He saw signs for the airport. Saw a plane take off, rising through the clouds, its turbines whining.
“Your bag will be there when you arrive in Detroit.”
“Why’re you doing this?” Huber continued to surprise him.
“You can’t stay here stalking one of Bavaria’s leading citizens. We have bodies, yes, but nothing to connect them to Herr Hess. You may have been a witness to murder thirty years ago, but proving it is another matter.”
“He’s going to keep doing it,” Harry said. “I hope you know that.”
“Let me worry about it.”
They pulled up in front of the terminal. Huber escorted Harry to the gate, showed his ID to the gate agent and walked him outside, across the tarmac to the plane, a big blue-and-white Pan Am 747, the two of them standing at the bottom of the stairway. He glanced up and saw a silver Zeppelin drifting in the clouds overhead.
“Do not come back to Munich, Herr Levin. This time I could help you but I will not be able to again.”
Harry walked up the gangway, and went in the plane. Showed his ticket to a stewardess and she pointed down an aisle. He was in 15A. Sitting in 15B, in the empty plane, was Cordell Sims, grinning in a claret-colored leisure suit.
“I wondered what happened to you.” Harry took off his sport coat, folded it and put it in the overhead compartment, sat in the aisle seat. He looked out the window and saw a catering truck parked next to the plane.
“I got to tell you, Harry, sitting in lock-up I had my doubts.”
“You’re not alone,” Harry said.
“And look at us now. So it’s finally over, huh?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? They kicking you out of the country. How many countries you been kicked out of?”
“Two. Both of them Germany.” Harry paused. “They couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Americans making trouble, reminding people the Nazis are still at it.”
“But you want to stay, don’t you? Get Hess. I see it on your face. I see you sneakin’ off the plane. How they do in movies. Go through the galley while they loadin’ the food on, hide in the caterin’ truck.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Harry said.
“Whatever you do just don’t involve me, okay?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Harry said. “I’m going home.” That was the truth. He felt like he was letting Sara down, but what could he do?
People were getting on the plane now, coming down the aisles, carrying their bags, lifting them into the overhead compartments, squeezing into their seats.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” Harry said.
Cordell flashed a megawatt grin. “Get me some trim pussy, fresh gash beef. Been three months. Not like you, Harry, man about town, banging the fräuleins.”
“One,” Harry said.
“What happened, you all break up, or what?”
“That’s a good question. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
He thought about Colette, had strong feelings for her, but what was going to come of it? Especially since he couldn’t come back to Munich without risking jail time.
“Got one back home?”
Harry grinned, picturing Galina draping her trench coat over the banister, walking up the stairs naked, turning at the last second, looking over her shoulder at him, saying, “Harry, are you coming?”
“You do, don’t you. Harry, you old hound dog.”
“How about you?”
“Had five when I left. See where they at.”
They flew to London, had a two-hour layover, and got on another plane to Detroit. Harry upgraded to first class, only saw Cordell one time when he walked up to the front of the 747 to check it out, see how the other half lived. Harry was sipping champagne, eating shrimp cocktail.
“Looks nice up here, Harry.”
“It’s not that good,” Harry said, trying to make him feel better.
“No? Wanna trade seats? I’m back with the chickens and goats. Had something for supper didn’t know what it was. Could not identify it.”
Harry didn’t see Cordell again until they landed and went through customs. They got their bags, walked outside. It was busy, crowded at 4:30 in the afternoon, cars stopping in front of the terminal to pick people up. Harry was taking everything in, happy to be home. He’d been gone eight days but it felt like a month. “You want to get together sometime, come out have dinner, give me a call. You’ve got my card, right?”
“S&H Recycling Metals on Mt. Elliot just east of Hamtramck.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Live on Hendrie in Huntington Woods,” Cordell said.
“What if I want to reach you?”
“Yeah, for what?”
“Who knows,” Harry said.
“Don’t know my mom’s still in the house, or if the house still there. Better let me do the contacting.”
Harry offered his hand and Cordell shook it. “Till we meet again.”
“Be cool,” Cordell said, hoisting his duffel up on his shoulder. He crossed the street, heading for a bus that had just pulled up.
Twenty-eight
Bergheim, Austria. 1971.
Colette had run out the rear door of the apartment building, got in her car and drove 150 kilometers south out of Munich her mother’s chalet in Bergheim, arriving Monday evening at 6:45. Colette knocked on the door. Gretchen Rizik opened it, screamed, and hugged her for five minutes saying, “It is so good to see you. I can’t believe you are here.” Colette told her she had a couple days off and wanted to surprise her. Didn’t mention Hess or what happened in Munich. Why scare her mother, make her worry? She would stay in Austria and lie low until the article appeared. Colette had mailed everything to Gunter on her way out of town.
When they were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner — Wiener schnitzel, roast potatoes and sauerkraut — Colette told her mother about Harry. “He’s American, born in Munich.”
“How did you meet?” Her mother excited, dying to know all the details.
“I interviewed him for the story I just wrote.”
“How romantic,” Gretchen said, holding up a forkful of sauerkraut but too busy talking to eat. “What is his name?”
“Harry Levin.”
“That’s a good German name. How old is he?”
“Forty-three, but seems younger,” Colette said. “Eat your dinner.”
“The food can wait, this is more important. What does he look like?”
“Handsome, mother. He has dark hair, good shoulders, and he’s about this much taller than me.” She raised her hand a few inches over her head. “He’s a Holocaust survivor. Escaped from Dachau when he was fourteen.”
“He is a Jew?”