The German Suitcase (10 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A pin drop silence had descended over Gunther Global’s conference room by the time Mark Gunther returned from escorting his wife and the archivist to the reception area. Jake had covered the entire sequence of events that had brought him and Eva Rosenberg to the Kleist family’s townhouse, ending with Max giving him the suitcase, taking the passport photographs, and agreeing to allow his sister, Anika, to drive them to a hiding place the next day.

Now, gathered around the old fellow, they were all trying to comprehend the enormity of it. Not to mention the absurd and evil stupidity of it. Jake didn’t have to point out that the modern day equivalent would be two students at Mount Sinai Hospital Medical School being hunted by agents of the U.S. Government with warrants for their arrest and deportation to a death camp because they were Jews. The staggering incomprehensibility was soon replaced by breathless amazement that Jake was actually alive, there, with them; and, then, by burning curiosity to find out what happened next.

Jake sensed it and shifted in his chair, self-consciously. “You know, I couldn’t have afforded that suitcase, then,” he said with a laugh, nudging Steinbach with an elbow. “I’m not even sure I could afford it now!”

“You can have as many as you want. No charge!” Steinbach said, laughing along with him. “I couldn’t buy the media coverage this is going to generate.”

“Well, GG is still billing by the hour,” Tannen teased; then caught up in the moment, he added, “Talk about traveling companions for life…”

“Let’s keep our focus, people,” Gunther cautioned with professional aplomb.

“The kick-off line is: Surviving Harrowing Journeys.”

“Harrowing as hell,” Steinbach chimed-in. “This is everything we hoped for and more!”

“Much more,” Jake said pointedly. “This is the fuel that has kept my engine running all these years.”

Stacey’s eyes were aglow with quiet reverence. It was as if she was in the presence of royalty or the Pope. She didn’t even know people like Jake Epstein existed when she was growing up in Lubbock, let alone could she have ever hoped to be privy to a first hand account of his struggle to survive such atrocities. “You’ve lived through some incredible times, haven’t you, Dr. Epstein?” she prompted, her voice trembling. “I mean, like, my life’s a total bore in comparison.”

“Well, I had a psychopath named Adolph to thank for it,” Jake replied in his soft accent. “You know, in 1920 when I was born, Germany was paralyzed by the psychological and economic impact of the War. The First World War. By the early thirties, things were improving. The motion picture business was thriving; a community of artists had formed: Kirchner in Berlin, Kandinsky in Munich; technical innovation had resumed; and the auto industry was expanding: Daimler Benz, BMW and…and…” He paused, feigning he couldn’t recall. “…ah yes, a little company called Volkswagen started by a man named Porsche. Did you know, Josef Ganz, a Jew, came up with the original design and called it the Beetle? Yes, years before Hitler championed it and had him arrested on trumped-up charges. By the time I began medical school in the early forties, the Führer had been in power for a decade and had already invaded Poland, starting the Second World War…”

“Nothing like a World War to juice the economy,” Gunther interjected, savoring the sarcasm.

“…which destroyed the nation,” Jake resumed, pointedly, finishing his thought. “As I said, there’s more. Much, much more.”

“Well if you’ve got the time, we’ve got the time,” Tannen said brightly. “It’s your harrowing journey, Dr. Epstein; your story; and we need to hear it.”

“Yeah, we’re all ears,” Stacey said, eager for more.

“We sure are,” Adam chimed in. Until now, he had recorded it all, said little, and written a lot in his notebook. The more Jake talked the more enriched the piece he was writing became. “So, Dr. Epstein, did you and…and Eva, Eva Rosenberg, is it? Make it to Venice? I mean, what happened next?”

“Well, things didn’t go quite according to plan. The Nazis saw to that; and, and we, well…” Jake emitted a weary sigh and took a sip of water from his glass. “As I said, there’s so much more to tell…”

“I think maybe Dr. Epstein needs a break, boss,” Stacey said, her maternal instincts, prevailing.

“A long one,” Dan said, decisively. “I think we’ve had enough for one day. What do you say, Dad?”

Jake grimaced as if he wanted to continue, then nodded weakly. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid, I’ve run out of gas. I hope you all understand.”

“Of course,” Gunther said. “We can always pick up where we left off. I’ll have Bart schedule something at your convenience.”

“I’ll need to schedule some time too,” Adam said, closing his pad and turning off his recorder.

Dan nodded and handed him one of his Foundation business cards. “Call me. We’ll work something out as soon as my father feels up to it.”

Several days later, the same group, minus Gunther, reconvened for the photo shoot at Zach Bolden’s Chelsea studio. A brisk fellow with close-set eyes and shaved head, Bolden had an air of authority and thoughtful decisiveness that paid-off in a world overrun with massive egos and fragile psyches.

The cavernous space was painted a soft white and bathed in shadowless light that came from rows of saw-toothed skylights. The vintage suitcase, returned as promised, stood on a massive sheet of gray backdrop paper that rolled across the floor and up the wall to the ceiling. Bolden and several assistants—along with a white-haired stand-in who was sitting on the suitcase as Jake Epstein would soon be doing—were fine-tuning the lighting.

Despite her initial misgivings, Hannah Epstein had gotten caught-up in her husband’s contagious enthusiasm for the project. She regretted not being with him when the suitcase was opened, and insisted on accompanying him this time. At the moment, they were sitting in lounge chairs in a corner of the studio where hair and make-up stylists were preparing Jake for the session.

“Do they do your Botox injections too?” Hannah teased as they hovered about her husband.

“You’re just jealous because no one’s fussing over you,” Jake countered with a self-satisfied cackle.

“I’m crushed,” Hannah said, hand over her heart. “I thought fussing over me was your reason for getting out of bed in the morning.”

Adam overheard the charming banter and made a notation on his pad. He had been questioning Bolden, along with his assistants and stylists on technical matters, while the low-profile
Times
photographer worked with her camera. When the stand-in got up from the suitcase and went to retrieve Jake, Adam’s eyes darted to the white, hand painted lettering that had been made almost luminescent by the high-key lighting. There was something curious about the data but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and the thought evaporated as Jake arrived and Bolden tended to his camera signaling the session was about to begin.

The old fellow paused before taking his seat. The scene was powerfully reminiscent of that day in Munich when Max Kleist gave him the suitcase and photographed him and Eva sitting on it. Jake stared at it for a long moment; then, as he had done all those years ago, he sat on it and folded his arms across his chest.

Bolden worked with a Mamiya single-lens reflex digital camera. Favored by top professionals for its high-resolution and technical virtuosity, the RZ67 Pro IID, with its 6X7cm format, provided four times the pixel area of a 35mm camera. Over the next few hours, Bolden shot several sequences which required hair and make-up touch-ups, and many wardrobe changes: Jake in suit and tie; in a sport jacket; in a lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck; with a sampling of the prosthetics he had designed and patented arranged in the foreground; Jake standing next to the suitcase; holding it by the handle. For someone of his years, the process was wearying. The stress was intensified by the blinding strobe flashes that had him, and everyone else, blinking and seeing circles in front of their eyes. Despite the enthusiasm, advance planning and attention to detail, it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

“I’m worried about Papa,” Hannah said to Dan who had taken Jake’s seat next to her. She shielded her eyes as the strobes fired yet again, then added, “I think he looks exhausted.”

Dan splayed his hands in frustration. “I know, but there’s no stopping him, Mom. God knows I tried.”

“He seems to have lost that zest he always has,” Hannah went on with a concerned frown.

Dan nodded, then caught Tannen’s eye and waved him over. “I don’t know about you, but it’s obvious to us this isn’t going very well.”

“I’m aware of that,” Tannen replied, playing down his concern which, for other reasons, exceeded theirs. “It’s important to keep in mind that it takes—”

“Please, Mr. Tannen,” Dan interrupted. “I warned you this could be emotionally draining for him. I think we should call it off.”

“Let’s not overreact. I was about to say, it takes time for photographer and subject to develop a rapport. To make the kind of connection that—”

“I’m not overreacting. They’ve been at it for hours. If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will.”

“Have faith,” Tannen said; then, in an attempt to appeal to Dan’s Wall Street mind-set, he added, “There’s a lot of money on the line here. We can’t come away from this with nothing. We’ve all made too big an investment.”

Dan’s eyes burned with disdain behind his frameless lenses. “You’re worried about losing money?! I’m worried about my father losing his zest for life!”

“Dan, please,” Hannah said, regretting her concern had stirred her son’s antagonism. “Mr. Tannen is the expert here. Considering how excited daddy’s been about this, the least we can do is give it a fair chance.”

“We already have, Mom,” Dan replied. “But if you feel that strongly about it…”

“I do,” Hannah said with a crisp nod.

Dan locked his eyes onto Tannen’s and, in a commanding voice, said, “The ball’s in your court. Come up with a game plan, or the game is over.”

Tannen had screwed up badly; and he knew it. The investment angle had backfired and allowed Dan Epstein to claim the moral high ground. Tannen wanted to cut him down to size and was on the verge of replying: It’s not your call, kid, it’s your mommy’s! But embarrassing him in front of her might pressure Hannah into letting him pull the plug to save face, and Tannen didn’t dare risk it. Instead, he held Dan’s look and, in an equally authoritative tone, said, “Give me a few minutes.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Konrad Kleist didn’t have to wait long to make his clandestine delivery. Darkness fell early this time of year. As he always did on such missions, he dispensed with his chauffeured Mercedes and, accompanied by his daughter, used her Volkswagen instead. The black, beetle-shaped People’s Car was a no-frills vehicle which didn’t attract attention. Despite being championed by the Führer, few were manufactured during the war; and none of the more than 335,000 Germans who signed up to buy a KdF-Wagen, as they were called, ever got one. KdF stood for
Kraft durch Freude
—Strength through Joy; and those Strength through Joy cars that were built went to the Nazi elite, the Kleists among them.

Konrad didn’t tell Kunst to “Stay” this time; and the dog, sitting behind them in front of the Volkswagen’s split rear window, seemed fascinated by the falling snow as they drove along the Isar to the Ludwigsbrucke. The bridge arched across the river to a boulevard that—despite changing names several times and detouring around debris from buildings struck by Allied bombs—was the most direct route to the Hauptbahnhof.

Designed by Freidrich Bürklein, Maximilian II’s court architect, Munich’s main train station was constructed in the mid-1800s. Thanks to Allied air raids, it was under constant reconstruction, now. Despite them, the Deutsche Bundesbahn still managed to operate, more or less, daily, if not on the published schedule which had been further disrupted by the unusually harsh weather. Indeed, thanks to the latter, there hadn’t been any air raid sirens wailing on this night, not yet anyway.

Traffic around the station was light, as it was throughout the city, due to the severe gasoline shortage. Kleist guided the Volkswagen into Bahnhofplatz the broad street that swept past the main entrance. The newsstand was just beyond the taxi line where passengers, stung by the biting cold, queued for the few available taxis. Its forest green kiosk was topped by a snow-covered cupola and festooned with copies of newspapers and magazines clipped beneath the overhanging roofline.

“Coast looks clear,” Anika said.

“It always does until it’s too late,” her father cautioned. “Keep looking.” He slowed his approach, then pulled to the curb before reaching the newsstand so he could keep it under surveillance.

Anika slipped a magazine from her handbag and opened it to a section from which a half dozen pages had been torn out. Her father took a business envelope from inside his jacket and placed it in the fold. In it were the two blank travel passes and blank passports—one Italian, the other Austrian—that he’d taken from the tabernacle, and the passport photos of Jake and Eva, that Max had taken, and which Anika had processed by one of her mother’s operatives. The pseudonyms they had chosen had been written on the back of their respective photographs.

“Take no chances, Anika,” her father warned as he secured the envelope to the pages of the magazine with two steel clips. “Remember, if the dealer doesn’t say: ‘Why do you ask?’ just purchase a newspaper and leave.”

Anika nodded, slipped the magazine in her handbag, and left the car. Her father watched as she walked toward the newsstand. Without taking his eyes from her, he tapped a North State from a pack and lit it.

The news dealer had an ink-smudged apron tied at the waist of his bulky mackinaw, and a wool watch cap pulled down over his ears. The fingertips of his gloves had been cut off enabling him to make change more easily while making small talk with customers.

“Excuse me?” Anika said brightly when he finished chatting with the woman ahead of her. “Do you have any copies of Gallery Arts Magazine left?”

The news dealer took a moment to slip some coins into a pocket in his apron, then glanced over at her and said, “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I bought this one from you this morning,” she replied, removing it from her handbag. “But some pages seem to be missing. I’d like another.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” the news dealer said. He pulled a copy from the rack and gave it to her in exchange for the one that concealed the envelope.

“Thank you so much,” Anika said, slipping it into her handbag as she started walking back to the car. She had gone a short distance when three men in black SS greatcoats confronted her.

“Fraulein Kleist, isn’t it?” the officer said.

“Yes that’s right,” Anika replied, feeling the hair on the nape of her neck rising.

“Ah, I thought that was you. I’m Major Steig,” he said with a bow that caused the silver death’s head on his cap to catch the light of a masked street lamp, one of the few outside the station that were illuminated due to the nightly blackout.

“I’m sorry, Major,” Anika replied, trying to stay calm. “If we’ve met somewhere, I’m embarrassed to say I can’t recall having had the pleasure.”

“No need to apologize. I’m taking over for your brother at the University, and it fell to me to review the Kleist family file.” Steig let an insipid grin turn the corners of his mouth; then swept his eyes over her. “I’m afraid the photos don’t do you justice.”

“Thank you. I imagine you’ll have reason to include others. Let’s hope they’re more flattering,” she said, forcing a flirtatious giggle. “I really have to be getting along. So unless there’s something else I can do for you, it’s been—”

“On the contrary,” Steig interrupted. “Perhaps I could be of service to you,” he went on, trying to sound chivalrous. “I was passing by and couldn’t help notice your problem with the news dealer.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Anika replied, searching for a way to delay him long enough to allow the news dealer to pass the envelope. “Just a few pages missing from a magazine I purchased this morning. He exchanged it for another without any fuss.”

“I see. Which magazine was that?”

“Oh, I doubt it’s one you’d be interested in.”

“But you’re wrong, fraulein. I’m very interested in it. You see, it’s against the law to sell defective merchandise; and I intend to confiscate it before he sells it to another unsuspecting victim. The name of the magazine, please?”

“It’s called Gallery Arts,” she said, removing her copy from her handbag so he could see it.

“Of course,” Steig replied, smugly. “Even I’ve heard of the Kleist Collection.” He nodded smartly, and had just started walking toward the newsstand when a voice called out, “Major? Major Steig?!” He glanced over his shoulder to see Konrad Kleist, in a tailored lodencoat and fur hat, walking swiftly toward him with the dog.

The news dealer had been anxiously monitoring Anika’s encounter with the SS men, and was relieved that Steig had been intercepted. Milton Glazer, Gisela Kleist’s operative who would produce the forged papers, was due to pick up the envelope at any moment. It seemed an eternity passed before the bearded young man appeared. With the choreographed precision that comes from repetition, the news dealer removed the envelope from the magazine and slid it onto the corner of the counter just as Glaser strode past. He took it without breaking stride and soon vanished in a knot of darkened streets, nearby. There was no yellow star snap-fastened to the sleeve of his coat.

“I thought I recognized you,” Kleist said, keeping the German Shepherd on a tight leash as he reached the Major and his SS entourage. “What’s going on here?”

“Just having a friendly chat,” Steig replied with a glance to the dog. “There was no need to bring reinforcements.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Major,” Kleist retorted. “My son may be under your command and subject to your harassment, but my daughter isn’t.”

“Daddy, it’s okay,” Anika said, warding him off with her eyes. “The Major was just being helpful.”

“Thank you fraulein,” Steig said, shifting his piercing eyes to her father. “With all due respect, Herr Kleist, your son is neither under my command nor subject to my harassment. But you Jew-lovers will wish he was when he gets his new orders. Heil Hitler!” He bent his elbow in a Nazi salute, then whirled, and marched toward the newsstand, the two SS men in tow.

The dog watched warily, straining at the leash, and growled after them.

The news dealer was still holding the magazine from which he had removed the envelope. He knew what would happen next, and slipped it into a trash basket as the Major shoved several customers aside to reach him.

“A young lady just returned a defective magazine,” Steig said, holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

“I discarded it,” the news dealer said.

“I said, give it here!” Steig bellowed.

The news dealer responded with a compliant shrug, then fished the magazine out of the trash and held it in front of the Major’s face. It was dripping with the greasy remains of a meal he had consumed earlier. Steig backhanded the magazine out of the fellow’s hand and marched off. The two SS men followed.

Konrad and Anika Kleist stood stone faced as the trio went lumbering past in their black greatcoats. The dog was still growling and straining at the leash as father and daughter hurried to their car, bursting into laughter the instant they were inside. The moment of levity came to an abrupt end as the unnerving implications of what had just happened struck with sobering impact.

“What was he doing here?” Anika wondered with a shiver as her father pulled away from the curb. “He gives me the creeps.”

“Psychopaths tend to have that effect on normal people,” Kleist replied, his eyes narrowed in concern. “There are two possibilities: He was here because he followed us; or because someone tipped him off. Either way, this could be a big problem.”

“Unless…unless, it was neither,” Anika said.

“Neither? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, for what its worth, the Major said it was a coincidence. Maybe it was?”

“And maybe he’s onto you. I’m not so sure you should be driving Max’s friends to the Gorge tomorrow.”

“Yes, but if he is onto me…why tip his hand?” Anika prompted, her eyes brightening with insight. “I mean, he could have caught all three of us red-handed tomorrow. Right?”

Her father’s brows went up in tribute. “You know, Anika, you’re a very smart young woman. Yes, you’re very, very smart and you have guts.”

“I can’t imagine who I take after,” she said, with a proud glance to her father.

“Your mother,” Konrad said without missing a beat. “Whoever coined the phrase, grace under pressure, not to mention, strength of character, had her in mind, not me.”

“That’s what she says about you, papa.”

“I rest my case,” her father said. He shifted up a gear, and headed across the bomb-altered landscape in the direction of the Ludwigsbruke.

Anika stared into the darkened streets, hypnotized by the movement of the wipers as the jagged silhouettes of broken buildings paraded past. “I’m worried about Max, papa,” she finally said, breaking the silence.

“So am I. The SS isn’t in the habit of making hollow threats.”

Anika nodded grimly. “Can’t you do something? I know you’ve already interceded, once, but—”

“No, I can’t,” her father interrupted, bristling with frustration. “Thing’s have changed. My influence has been blunted. Whatever Max’s orders are, all we can do is pray the war ends before anything happens to him.”

“Pray?” Anika challenged, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “You really think God gives a damn about us? About Germany? How could He have let this happen if He does? How could He have turned these monsters loose?”

“I don’t know. I lay awake nights asking myself the same question, and keep coming up with the same answer.”

“Which is?”

“He’s testing our faith.”

“Well, it’s an unfair test. Our family has done enough to get a perfect grade. He can’t ask us to give up Max too. He can’t.”

The dog barked as if it understood.