Read Online Voices of the Dead by Peter Leonard - Free Book Online Page B

snow-capped peaks of the Bavarian Alps on the horizon, perfect blue-sky fall day. Stomach knotted up, feeling strange, a lot of memories. Half expected to see Nazis on the streets. The city looked different, bigger and more modern on the outskirts but when he got to Altstadt it was much the same as he remembered it.
    He checked in and went to his room and stood at the window, looking out at the twin onion-domed spires of the Frauenkirche cathedral and the Neues Rathaus in Marienplatz, and he felt like he was home.
    At 1:45 Harry walked out of the hotel toward the Frauenkirche, crossed Frauenplatz to Kaufingerstrasse, saw the Renaissance tower of Peterkirche and the red tile roof of the Alter Hof, and there gliding over the rooftops was a silver Zeppelin that said HESS AG in black letters on the side. It was as if Hess knew he’d arrived and was following him, watching him.
    Harry went left to Marienplatz and stood in front of the Glockenspiel, looking up at the mechanical figures, thinking about coming here on weekends with his father, standing in the same place, watching the figures doing the Coopers’ Dance.
    He stopped at a cafe and had bratwurst and a beer. Then he walked down Sendlinger Strasse, past the Asamkirche to his old neighborhood, the silver Zeppelin hovering over him, moving southwest.
    He found his house and took out the photo. By rights Harry now owned the building, not that he was going to try to get it back. The ground-floor space that had been a pharmacy thirty years ago was now an antique shop. He thought about the last time he’d been here, getting his fake ID, and leaving his parents under the floor in the bedroom closet, assumed they were still there.
    Harry had contacted Wilhelm Martz, a good friend of his parents and uncle. He had gotten his address and arranged to stop by. Martz lived on Kreuzstrasse, a couple blocks away. He found the house, a Bavarian Tudor, and rang the bell. The door opened, and a good-looking woman with dark curly hair and glasses eyed him with caution.
    “I’m Harry Levin.”
    Now she smiled. “Harry, how are you? I’m Lisa. Do you remember me?”
    Remember her? She was the cutest girl in the class, in the whole Jewish school. He’d had a crush on her, felt like a bumbling fool in her presence. He used to sit in class and look at her, thinking she was perfect except for her nose. It had a sexy hook, one little imperfection that made her all the more attractive. “I think so,” Harry said.
    “You think so? Harry, I have to tell you I was crazy about you.”
    “Really?” He grinned and walked in and she closed the door.
    “Really.”
    “Why didn’t you say something?”
    “Girls weren’t supposed to make the first move, Harry.”
    She escorted him into a room with dark wood trim and plaster walls, old-world craftsmanship. It was stuffy like the windows hadn’t been opened in years. Martz was sitting in a heavy overstuffed chair, an alert old guy with a permanent grin. He stood up, fixed his rheumy gaze on Harry. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with long silver hair combed back and dark eyebrows.
    Lisa said, “Nice seeing you, Harry,” and walked out of the room.
    “You look just like your father,” Martz said staring at him.
    Everyone told him that.
    “Your parents used to have parties. You would come down the stairs and ask us to turn down the music.”
    “I remember everyone dancing, having a good time.”
    Martz directed him to a green velvet couch that was next to the chair he’d been sitting in. “I think about your parents every day,” Martz said. “Your father was well liked by everyone. Jews in the neighborhood would come to him for advice instead of the rabbi. I used to call him Sol, short for Solomon.” He paused, taking his time. “It is amazing how much you are like him, same voice, same mannerisms. Your father used to pick his fingernails like that.”
    Harry looked at his hands, not even aware he was doing it, and stopped.
    Martz