Free Voices of the Dead by Peter Leonard

pushed his hair back with his right hand. “Your mother was a great beauty. She had her pick of the men. But when she met your father that was it.”
    Harry took the photo out of his shirt pocket and showed it to him.
    “Both of your parents had exquisite taste. Always well dressed.” Martz glanced across the room. “It is too bad.”
    “I remember seeing Hitler in the neighborhood,” Harry said.
    “He lived not far from us. He would drive around with his Nazis, honking the horn at people on the street, saluting. In the early years he was a curiosity. We made fun of him. Didn’t think he would last. How could he? That was in 1928. Five years later he became chancellor,” Martz said. “Do you remember the food rationing and the curfew for Jews?”
    Harry nodded.
    “By 1940 we couldn’t buy shoes or clothes. Then we couldn’t have cameras. Then we couldn’t buy coffee, chicken, fish, or vegetables. We couldn’t buy coal to heat the house. In September ’41 all Jews over the age of six had to wear a yellow star.”
    “I remember,” Harry said.
    “I was taken to Dachau about six months before you. I was in the yard the day the SS put you and your father on the truck. There was no logic to the selection. The important thing, Harry, you survived.”
    The silver Zeppelin was gone when Harry came out of Martz’ house an hour later and walked back to his hotel. He crossed the lobby, stopped at the front desk and asked the clerk if there were any messages for Harry Levin.
    “Herr Berman is in the lounge waiting for you.”
    Harry saw him sitting at a table, a stocky, ruddy-faced man wearing a tweed sport coat, reading the newspaper. Stark said Fedor Berman had spent three years at Auschwitz. He was the only person in the bar, and looked up as Harry approached. “Herr Berman, Harry Levin.”
    The man stood up and they shook hands. He pulled a chair out for Harry. “ Bitte .”
    They sat at opposite sides of the table. “Will you join me in a drink?”
    Harry ordered a beer. “Bob Stark tells me you’re a skier.”
    “I spend the morning hiking, walking up the hills I will be skiing down in a couple months. Must get the legs ready.”
    Berman poured schnapps in his coffee and sipped it. Opened a briefcase on the chair next to him, took out a manila envelope and handed it to Harry. He opened the envelope and slid out the contents, a dozen photographs of a country estate shot from different angles, and several pictures of Hess’ airship factory. “Where does he live?”
    “Schleissheim,” Berman said. “His main residence. Thirteen kilometers north of here. He has a sophisticated security system and a security team watching the estate.”
    “Who’s the big guy that’s always with Hess?”
    “Arno Rausch. His bodyguard. He’s worked for him since the end of the war.” Berman paused. “Hess also has an apartment in the city.”
    Berman handed him a photograph of the building, the address written at the bottom in the margin. He drank his coffee and schnapps.
    “Have you been to Munich before, Herr Levin?”
    “A long time ago,” Harry said.
    “Enjoy your stay. If I can be of further assistance—”
    “There is one more thing,” Harry said. “I need a gun.”

Montreux, Switzerland. 1942.
    The four Nazis got off the train at Konstanz, the blond SS Sturmbannführer eyeing him as he walked by. The train stopped again at the border. The rabbi had told him Swiss authorities were cracking down on refugees trying to enter the country. Jews who were caught were deported or handed over to the Nazis.
    Swiss police boarded, checking papers. A heavyset officer, hat pulled low over his eyes, looked Harry up and down the way the Nazi had, as if he was guilty of something. Studied his identification, glanced from the photo to his face.
    “Volker Spengler,” he said. “A German boy traveling alone in a time of war. Where is your visa?”
    “I don’t have one,” Harry said.
    “How do you expect to enter