Free Voices of the Dead by Peter Leonard Page A

this country without a visa?”
    “I’m going to stay with my grandmother.”
    “Where does she live?”
    “Montreux,” Harry said. “She is the only relative I have left. My father was killed in France during the invasion, my mother in Hamburg by an Allied bomb.”
    “We have a strict policy concerning refugees.”
    Harry had five hundred marks folded in his pocket, hoping it was enough. The rest of the money was hidden in the linings of his shoes. He handed the bribe to the policeman. “My grandmother asked me to give you this. To thank you, to show her gratitude for helping me.”
    The policeman looked at the folded pile of bills, tucked it in the front pocket of his uniform shirt. “Welcome to Switzerland, Herr Spengler.”
    He was finally free but didn’t trust the feeling. After all that had happened he couldn’t let himself relax. Thought about his parents, took the photograph out of his pocket, Harry posing with his mother and father in front of their house. He slid the picture in his pocket and looked out the window at the lush countryside, mountains in the distance, reminding him of Bavaria.
    The train went on to Montreux, arriving in the late afternoon. He got off, walked into the station and found a city map in a rack next to the ticket booth. He went outside, studying the street grid of Montreux. He had no idea where he was going and asked a policeman for directions. It took twenty minutes to walk to the Sternbuch residence. He found the address and knocked on the door. It opened and a bearded man in a fedora said, “What can I do for you?”
    He looked about forty, wore round tortoiseshell glasses and a shirt and tie.
    “I’m looking for Frau Sternbuch.”
    “And you are?”
    “Harry Levin.”
    “I’m Yitzchok, her husband.”
    They talked for a couple minutes, Yitzchok asking where he was from, and where were his parents, and how he had escaped?
    There were tables set up in the main room, people sitting around them drinking coffee and talking. It looked like a party. Yitzchok led him through the house to the dining room. A woman wearing what looked like a turban was sitting at the middle of the table, speaking to a group of bearded men wearing hats like the husband’s. She saw them enter the room and stopped talking. The men at the table turned to look at him.
    “Recha, I want to introduce you to Harry Levin, a Dachau survivor from Munich.”
    The woman stood and came around the table, her face telling him she understood what he’d been through. She put her arms around him, held him the way his mother did.
    “Harry, there is nothing to worry about. You are safe,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “It is a blessing you have joined us for Shabbos.”
    Now the men got up, came over and shook his hand. It was a bit overwhelming these strangers welcoming him like this.
    They lit candles and had Shabbos dinner, Recha Sternbuch, her family and forty displaced French, Czech and German Jews, a rabbi saying prayers, people passing platters of food. After dinner the tables were taken out of the rooms downstairs and replaced by mattresses where the refugees slept. It was an open house for anyone who didn’t have a place to stay.
    Recha put Harry in a room upstairs with her son, Avrohom‚ who was thirteen, nice quiet kid who had a book in his hands, reading by lamplight.
    “What is that?” Harry said.
    “Talmudic scripture. Historical writings of the ancient rabbis. It is the legal code that forms the basis of religious law.”
    “This is what you read for pleasure?”
    Avrohom looked like he didn’t understand.
    “What does it say? Read something.”
    “Here is a passage: Babia Mezia 114b. ‘The Jews are called human beings, but the non-Jews are not humans. They are beasts.’”
    “It should be changed to ‘the Nazis are beasts.’”
    “You were in Dachau, my mother said. What was it like?”
    Harry told him the whole story, the kid listening without expression.
    “God was