“Yes, a Jew. Is that all right? You married an Arab.”
“Of course. Is he rich?” Her mother smiled and ate the forkful of sauerkraut, finally.
“I didn’t ask.” Colette cut a piece of schnitzel. “The only problem is I’m here, he’s in Detroit.” Bernd had phoned her late morning to say Harry was going to be released in a few hours and deported.
Her mother finished chewing and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “When are you going to visit him?”
“When he invites me.”
“He makes you happy. I can see it in your eyes.”
Her mother had purchased the chalet after the war, one of the thousands of refugees fleeing Germany. Her father had been a successful importer. He had left enough money, if invested properly, for Colette and her mother to live comfortably the rest of their lives. The chalet was three kilometers outside Bergheim, built on a hill with a northern view of the Bavarian Alps.
In the morning, Colette went to the village to buy groceries. She was going to make her mother spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. She walked out of the market and put her grocery bag on the front passenger seat. Drove out of the village and saw the Basilica of Maria Plain, with its black onion-domed spires against brilliant blue sky. She crossed the bridge over the Salzach and wound through the rolling hills.
Colette could see her mother’s house perched on a hill from a kilometer away, snow-capped peaks rising up behind it. There was a dark Audi sedan parked in front of the chalet as she made her way up the long gravel road.
She parked and got out with the groceries, went inside and put the bag on the antique wooden table in the kitchen.
Rausch was sitting with Frau Rizik, talking and drinking coffee when he saw a dark-green VW drive up, then heard someone in the kitchen.
“Colette has returned. Dear, there is someone I want you to meet.”
Just then, a younger, more attractive version of the mother came in the room. Rausch stood. Tried to hold back the smile.
“Colette, this is Herr Zundel. He was in the Heer with your father.”
“How do you do,” he said. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She stopped ten feet from him, seemed hesitant to come any closer. Hess had supplied the background on the father. He had been a lieutenant in the Heer, killed on the Eastern Front. “Your father was a brave man and a good soldier,” Rausch said. “It was an honor to serve with him.”
“Dear, come in and join us.”
“In a minute,” Colette said. “Excuse me. I will be right back.”
She walked out of the room, seemed anxious to leave. Did she suspect something?
“Colette is a journalist,” Frau Rizik said. “Works for Der Spiegel.”
“Ahh, Der Spiegel, our most respected magazine. Impressive. She must be very good.”
“I have all her articles. Would you like to see them?”
Colette had seen him somewhere, she was sure of it. And then he appeared like a snapshot in her head: getting out of the Mercedes in front of Hess’ apartment building. He was the bodyguard.
She went through the kitchen and up the stairs to her mother’s room, saw the city of Salzburg spread out through the picture window. On a shelf in the closet was a gray metal box. She opened it, slid her father’s military sidearm out of a worn leather holster, remembering her mother had shown it to her years ago, saying she felt safer having it because she was living alone. Colette ejected the magazine, filled with bullets and snapped it back in.
She went down the stairs, the gun hidden behind her back, walked into the salon. They were gone. She looked out the rear windows and saw them on the deck, her mother pointing to the mountains. Probably telling him where she skied. Colette sat on the couch, holding the Luger under a pillow in her lap.
They came back in a few minutes later. Her mother saw her and smiled.
“So you decided to join us. I was just telling Herr Zundel your first article about the Berlin Wall won an award.”
Colette said, “His name isn’t Herr Zundel. He wasn’t in the Heer with Father. He’s a Nazi.” She stood, pointing the gun at his chest fifteen feet away, nervous, trying to keep her hands steady.
“I am nothing of the sort,” the Nazi said. “Put the weapon down, please. I have papers in the car that will prove what I am saying is the truth.”
She saw his right hand slide inside his jacket. “Keep your hands where I can see them. I am nervous. I don’t want to shoot you, but believe me I will.” She glanced at her mother, who seemed frozen. “Call the police.”
“You are making a mistake,” the Nazi said.
“Dear, what are you doing?”
“He came here to kill us.”
He smiled. “I will show you my identification.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them. Mother, call the police.” This time she raised her voice.
Gretchen Rizik moved toward the kitchen, keeping her distance from the Nazi. But he lunged at her, got his arm around her neck, hand going into the jacket, coming out with a matte-black gun which he pressed against her cheek.
“Put down the weapon,” he said.
Colette had to do something, and do it fast. Focused on the bodyguard’s big foot in a brown leather shoe, aimed at it — hands shaking, squeezed the trigger, the Luger jumping, her ears ringing. The Nazi was hobbling now, trying to stay on his feet, firing, her mother moving left, diving for the couch, Colette moving left, aiming at his chest, squeezing the trigger. The Nazi going backward, looking at her, trying to raise the gun and then he was on the floor.
Colette kicked the pistol out of his hand, but he was dead, eyes staring up at the ceiling. She searched him and found his billfold, opened it and took out his driver’s license. His name was Arno Rausch, fifty-one, a Munich address. What was she going to do with him? Saw herself putting him in the trunk of his car and driving it into the Wallersee, a lake not far to the north.
Her mother was sitting on the couch. She didn’t look good, face drained of color. “Are you all right?” Colette laid her down on the couch, tried to make her comfortable. “You’re going to be okay,” Colette said, wondering if she’d had a heart attack. She got up and called an ambulance.
Twenty-nine
Detroit, Michigan. 1971.
First thing Harry did when he got home, he mixed a drink, bourbon and soda, sat at the kitchen table, listening to the messages on his answering machine, skipping through them until he heard Colette’s voice.
“I have been so worried about you. My friend with the police told me what happened. I tried to visit but they would not let me see you. I am staying with my mother in Bergheim. Call me as soon as you can. I miss you.”
Harry picked up the phone and got an overseas operator. He gave her the number and listened to it ring a long time before he hung up. He tried her apartment and got her answering machine. He had a bad feeling. It was 11:20 p.m. in Munich. He thought about calling Huber but decided against it.
Cordell got home at 5:25, opened the front door and went in the house. Looked the same as the day he enlisted, maybe worse. Shit everywhere in the living room, empty Popeye buckets, liquor bottles: pints and fifths scattered on the floor. Plaid sofa, fabric all tore, lamps without shades, holes in the plaster walls, ashtray overflowing with tan filtered cigarette butts, electric fan on, blade out of line. He could hear it scraping the mesh cover.
“Momma, you home? Where you at?” Dropped his army duffel on the floor in the hall, walked down to the kitchen, saw more of the same. Lightbulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling, dishes piled in the sink, bottles on the floor, empty refrigerator. His momma was some kind of fucked-up homemaker.