The German Suitcase (13 page)

“Ah, but we are off-duty and speaking informally, so it wasn’t a breach of etiquette. Was it, Sir?” Radek prompted, pretending to be relieved. “All I was going to say was, I understand that you have a Jewish lover.”

Max shuddered, his eyes burning with indignation, his fists clenching in preparation for combat.

“Just between us, Max,” Radek went on with a jaunty tap on Max’s shoulder, “you’re not the only one with a taste for forbidden fruit. Despite those pesky Nuremberg Laws, I find Jewish women to be quite succulent. There’s something about them that makes my mouth water.” Then, with a sly lifting of his head that implied, ‘Rank notwithstanding, I can do this and there’s nothing you can do about it,’ Radek added, “They are a disposable commodity, here. Feel free to have as many as you like. Just don’t get caught.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The recently constructed
New York Times
Building was a modern, high-tech tower of shimmering ceramic rods and computer-controlled louvers. It took up the entire block between Fortieth and Forty-first streets opposite the Port Authority Bus Terminal, soaring 52-stories above the Eighth Avenue corridor.

Stacey dashed through the entrance past the glass-enclosed atrium where the spindly trunks and delicate foliage of silver birches climbed toward an overcast sky. The 560 vacuum fluorescent screens of Moveable Type, the art installation in the lobby, went by in a blur as she hurried to the security desk. Suspended on thin cables, the paperback-size screens displayed an ever-changing, replay of the day’s stories and related material from the
Times
’s archives. The theme at the moment:
ANTI-SEMITISM ON RISE IN EUROPE — KOSHER WAREHOUSE FIREBOMBED IN PARIS — NEO-NAZIS DEFACE SYNAGOGUE IN DRESDEN — BERLIN HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL VANDALIZED WITH SWASTIKAS /WIESENTHAL CENTER ASKS EU TO INTERVENE — BENEDICT REINSTATES BISHOP WHO DENIED HOLOCAUST
. Suddenly, all 560 screens reset. Now, the data tracing across them read:
KING OF POP MICHAEL JACKSON FOUND DEAD — PERSONAL PHYSICIAN MAKES DISCOVERY — DRUG INDUCED CARDIAC ARREST SUSPECTED — GLOBAL OUTPOURING OF GRIEF OVER LOSS OF MUSIC ICON
.

Stacey scrawled her name in the Visitor’s Log; then, Security Pass pasted to her jacket, she popped into an elevator just as the door was closing. It took her to the fourth floor mezzanine, one of several overlooking the newsroom. Staircases, sheathed in red plastic panels, slashed through the open well like bolts of crimson lightning, connecting the work levels. She made her way between the paneled cubicles where reporters toiled in the glow of computer screens. Adam was kicked-back in his chair staring at an image from the Wiesenthal CD on his laptop when he saw her approaching. “Hey, there you are,” he said, removing his iPod ear buds. “You hear about Michael Jackson?”

Stacey nodded sadly. “A drug-addicted degenerate, according to my mother.”

“She’s right…” Adam said, deadpan. “…a drug-addicted degenerate genius.”

Stacey smiled. “So, what’s the big secret?”

“Sensitive secret,” Adam corrected in a low voice. “Not something I’d want overheard or hacked.” He indicated the vast openness, and winced. “I love this place but it’s like working in a fishbowl.” He carried his laptop into one of the glass-enclosed side offices—that had been left unassigned to enable staffers to have private conversations—set it on the table and closed the door. The image on the screen was one of the black-and-white shots of Jake and Steinbach that would be used in the ad campaign; one of several Adam had acquired to use with his story and had scanned into his Photoshop program. “Our two heroes…” he said in his low voice.

Stacey nodded.

Adam touch-pad/clicked zooming-in to a close-up of Jake’s forearm. “The prisoner ID number tattooed on Dr. Epstein’s arm.”

Stacey nodded again.

Adam touch-pad/clicked again, bringing up another window. Like the first it had an image of a forearm with a prisoner identification number tattooed on it. “I was poking around the Wiesenthal CD and came across this. It’s from that packet of snapshots that were in the suitcase. They’re all similar to this one.”

“I know,” Stacey replied, curiously. “The faces are all out of focus. The text suggests they were taken to make a record of the prisoner ID numbers.”

“Taken by whom?” Adam prompted. “The Good Doctor? I don’t think so. I mean, not too many prisoners were running around concentration camps with a camera.”

“Not likely. I agree.”

Adam touch-pad/clicked again, setting up a split-screen: Each image was a close-up of a prisoner identification number tattoo. The one on Jake’s arm that Adam had zoomed into on the left; the snapshot from the packet found in the suitcase on the right. “Now, what’s the first thing you notice?”

“They’re both the same number,” Stacey replied without hesitation. “A198841. They’re identical.”

“Good puppy,” Adam said, patting her on the head. “Same number that’s on the striped uniform by the way.”

“So,” Stacey said, evaluating the data. “You’ve got two pictures of Dr. Epstein’s prisoner ID tattoo. A very old one, and a very new one.”

“Exactly what I thought at first, too,” Adam replied; then, trying not to sound too professorial, prompted, “Look more carefully.”

Stacey leaned closer to the screen. Her eyes moved back and forth across the side-by-side images several times, then flickered with insight. “The numbers are the same but the handwriting’s different!” She pointed to Jake’s photo. “I mean, look at those eights they’re like infinity symbols turned on end; and those sevens—I mean ones. Whatever. They’re not even close.”

Adam nodded smartly. “What are the chances the Nazis—fanatical record-keepers that they were—gave the same number to two different prisoners?”

“Slim and none.”

“Yet we have the same number. In different handwriting. Therefore, we might conclude that…” Adam let it trail-off, suggesting Stacey finish the sentence.

“…they’re not the same person.”

“What a gal!” Adam exclaimed.

Stacey’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Hold on. There were lots of concentration camps, right? Do we know for a fact that they didn’t all identify their first prisoner as prisoner number one? And, thereby, were giving out the same prisoner numbers?”

“No we don’t know that; but—” Adam tapped the screen. “—A is for Auschwitz, right? Both of them.”

“Duh,” Stacey groaned at her own denseness. “I knew that. So where we going with this, Clive?”

Adam shrugged. “Food for thought?” He zoomed-out the left image from the close-up of the tattoo to the wide shot of Jake and Steinbach, and pointed to Jake. “I mean, we know who this guy is. But who’s this guy?” he asked, pointing to the image of the forearm on the right side. “No tiny triangle. So, we know it’s a guy. Will the real Jake Epstein please stand up?”

Stacey rocked back in her chair, her spiky blonde hair bristling. “What are you getting at?”

“That I want to be damn sure before I write my story, that Dr. Jacob Epstein is…Dr. Jacob Epstein.”

Stacey’s jaw dropped. “You saying he’s…he’s some kind of imposter?”

Adam scratched at his carefully cultivated scraggle. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

Stacey pointed to the image of the snapshot next to the one of Jake and Steinbach. “Maybe he’s the imposter? Whoever he is. If there even is one.”

“Point taken.”

“Yeah,” Stacey said, sounding vindicated. “Either way, that’s a quantum leap, Clive. I’m the one who’s supposed to be writing fiction. Not you.”

“Fiction?!” Adam exclaimed. “Hey, I’ve held-off my interview of Dr. Epstein until the CD was issued so I’d have as much information as possible before I—”

“Come on,” Stacey interrupted, unwilling to let go of it. “You’ve had it less than a day. Barely enough time to scratch the surface.”

“Yeah, and look what turned up.”

“So? Why stop now? Dig deeper. I mean, there might even be some facts on it that’ll clarify this.”

Adam’s shoulders sagged in weary capitulation. “Maybe we should continue this over lunch?”

“I can’t. I have to get back,” Stacey replied with finality. “As my boss says, never sit on bad news. Always deliver it in person. Maybe we could—”

Someone knocked on the glass, startling them. Adam’s editor stuck his head in the door. Tall and rail-thin, due to an overactive thyroid that defied medical intervention, Paul Diamond had an easy-going demeanor that belied an incisive mind. In his mid-fifties, he had survived a downsizing in January when Metro lost its standalone status and was merged into National. “Saw you guys in here, thought I’d say, hi.”

“Hey…” Adam said, weakly, closing the laptop.

“How goes it, Stace?” Diamond went on. “Ad game treating you okay?”

“Yup, same old, same old. You know how it goes: All human beings are flawed. Our clients have products that will make them perfect. We make the pitch. They fork over the cash and find Nirvana…” She smiled and splayed her hands. “Piece of cake.”

“No thanks. I’m on a diet,” Diamond quipped with a laugh. “Things looked kind of tense from out there. You guys okay? You sure you don’t need anything?”

Stacey’s jaw tightened. She fired a veiled look of apprehension at Adam.

“Naw,” Adam replied, feigning nonchalance. “Fact-checking that suitcase piece.”

“Evil Nazis. Holocaust survivors. Apthorp trash. Ad campaign,” Diamond said rapid fire, enumerating the key story points.

Adam nodded. “That’s the one.”

“A good one. Keep me posted.”

“Sure. Couple of iffy details I’m trying to run down.”

“Just keep peeling that onion,” Diamond advised as he sailed off across the mezzanine.

Stacey sighed with relief as Diamond descended one of the red-sheathed staircases to the newsroom; then, said, “You had my heart skipping beats, there, Clive; but you made the right call.”

“For now,” Adam said, unwilling to permanently concede the point. “There’s no rush, Stace. I just want to get it right.”

“You sure as hell had better,” Stacey warned, her tone sharpening. “You could destroy this man, along with his family. Not to mention all the good he’s done, and everything he’s accomplished.”

“I know. That’s why I called you. Either way, I want to make sure I’m not writing fiction.” Adam paused and locked his eyes onto hers. “Just make sure you aren’t.”

Stacey nodded, stung by, but appreciative of, his brutal frankness. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe what Adam had implied; but was clearly unsettled by it. She had no doubt, this time, Tannen would go nuts.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

After leaving Jake and Eva at the cabin in Partnach Gorge, Anika spent the night at the chalet on Eibsee, and then drove back to Munich and her classes. By mid-week, the Kleists still hadn’t heard from Max; and, after dinner, they retired to the library to commiserate. Gisela sought solace at her piano. Accompanied by Anika on violin, she was playing the andante from Mozart’s Jupiter symphony when the room began vibrating with the drone of low-flying aircraft and the rumble of distant explosions. Her husband pulled the blackout drapes tighter across the windows. “They must be hitting the rail yards, again,” Konrad said, sounding ambivalent. “The war is lost. It’s just a matter of time. Pray that, wherever Max is, he manages to survive until it’s over.”

“You’re right,” Gisela said with steely resolve. “If Max were here, he’d be saying, don’t worry about me, help my friends.”

“We are, Momma,” Anika said, reassuringly. “I’ll have Eva and Jake on their way as soon as their papers are ready.”

“My people tell me sometime tomorrow,” Gisela said. “In the meantime, is there anything else we can do to make sure they’re not caught by the Gestapo?”

“What about disguises?” Anika said, brightening. “Wigs, eyeglasses, a moustache, theatrical latex to age them. I could get them at school,” she went on, referring to the Juilliard-like institution she attended where drama was taught along with music and dance.

“Too late,” her mother said, decisively. “The photos on the forged passports won’t match. Eva and Jake would have had to be in disguise when Max took them. Besides, the Gestapo checks papers on a whim. Keeping up disguises just isn’t practical.”

“Yes,” her husband chuckled. “Just ask the British spy who limped about with a cane one day and was spotted by the Gestapo running to catch a train the next.”

Anika nodded in concession. “As Max said, living with pseudonyms is going to be dangerous enough.”

Mid-afternoon the next day, Anika headed back to Partnach Gorge with the forged papers. Her stomach was in a knot as she neared the Starnberg checkpoint. To her relief, her friend, Lieutenant Junger, not the dog-bitten Sergeant, came from the guardhouse as her car approached. He raised the barricade, waving her on across the bridge with a cheery smile; then, his eyes hardened and shifted back to the guardhouse as an unmarked, six-passenger, staff car came from behind it. Major Steig was in the command seat next to the driver. Four SS men in black greatcoats were behind them. The big Mercedes crunched through the snow onto the road and, keeping its distance, followed Anika’s Volkswagen.

She was ten kilometers beyond the checkpoint when she first noticed the wide-spaced headlights and the distinctive grille in her mirror. Was it the Gestapo? The SS? Were they following her? Anika couldn’t be sure. She stopped at a roadside cafe just outside of Murnau, had a cup of tea, used the bathroom, and was back on the road within twenty minutes. On this frigid day, there were few cars or shoppers on Marktstrasse when the Mercedes reappeared in her mirror. She had no doubt, now, that she was being followed; and knew that, whether Gestapo or SS, they would have already arrested her had she been their target. No, it was Eva and Jake they wanted; and they were counting on her to lead them to their hiding place.

Anika knew Murnau well from the summers she had spent there; and she led the SS car into the town’s maze of twisting streets and back alleys, luring it down a narrow lane and through a blind curve where the road narrowed even further as it passed between two closely spaced buildings. The tips of the Volkswagen’s bumpers scraped against the sidewalls, but the beetle-shaped car made it through as Anika knew it would. She also knew, the Mercedes with its much wider track wouldn’t. As it came out of the turn, the driver hit the brakes hard at the sight of the narrow opening directly ahead, sending the massive vehicle skidding across the icy pavement. It came to a stop with its front fenders wedged between the two buildings. The last Anika saw of it, the driver was attempting to back up and extricate the vehicle. She was fairly certain the SS officer, shouting at him, was Major Steig.

Darkness had fallen by the time Anika turned onto the road that led to Partnach Gorge. Inside the snow-bound cabin, Eva and Jake had just finished a candle light dinner. He had made a splint for the table’s broken leg from pieces of kindling and a length of rusty wire he’d found, and stacked-up cordwood for benches; and they’d been happily devouring their cans of cold soup and tins of biscuits in the ‘Dining Hall’ as they referred to it. Now, while Eva took stock of their supplies, Jake sat in the worn armchair with his
Mein Kampf
-camouflaged copy of
All Quiet on the Western Front
. He was reading Chapter Six in which 2nd Company, en route to the front, passes dozens of newly made coffins stacked in a schoolyard—coffins that the soldiers realize have been made for them; thus prompting the German soldier who narrates the story to conclude his emotions have been forever deadened, and his youth, and most likely his life, wasted. Jake had drifted off in somber reflection when Anika came bursting through the door.

“They’re onto us,” Anika said. She removed the forged papers from her handbag and put them on the table in front of her startled charges. “You have to sign these,” she went on with unwavering focus.

The travel passes, student visas, and passports—Italian for Eva, Austrian for Jake—had been made out in the pseudonym each had selected. Their photos had been fastened with official steel rivets procured by a resistance member who worked for the manufacturer; each had been stamped with the Reichsadler—the Imperial eagle clutching a swastika in its claws—and boldly endorsed with forged signatures. Jake and Eva were keenly aware that the passports lacked the large red J, for Jew that had been stamped on their real ones by the Gestapo.

“What happened?” Jake asked as they went about signing the documents.

“Someone spotted us,” Anika replied. “Probably at Starnberg. The SS must’ve gone to the chalet on Eibsee; and when you weren’t there, they decided to let me lead them to you; but I lost them in Murnau,” she said with a spirited laugh. “They may never get out of there!”

Eva’s eyes darkened with concern. “Then you’re in danger too.”

Anika shrugged, unfazed. “My father will think of something. We have to go. Now. They’re probably checking every hotel and ski lodge as we speak. Night trains are best, anyway. The Gestapo men are bored and groggy on schnapps.” She snapped her fingers and winced. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she went on, taking a glassine envelope from her handbag. Inside the long, narrow sleeve was a strip of 35mm film. Among the half-dozen negatives were the shots Max had taken of Eva and Jake for their passport photos. “This may come in handy.”

“Yeah, the next time we need forged papers,” Jake said with a laugh, taking it.

“It’s not funny,” Anika scolded. “Tuck it someplace safe. The Gestapo are always on the lookout for false papers. It could give you away.”

“I’ve got just the place for it,” Jake said, slipping it inside the pages of his book.

“That’s not good enough,” Anika said.

“It’ll do for now,” Jake said.

They gathered their belongings and packed the suitcase and rucksack, dividing up the foodstuffs they hadn’t consumed, and then hurried from the cabin.

Anika knew the military presence in Garmisch-Partenkirchen and its status as a winter sports Mecca meant Zugspitze Station would be under strict Gestapo surveillance; and decided to use Kainzenbad Station in nearby Mittenwald, instead. Once a teeming crossroads on medieval trade routes, it had since become a quiet hamlet of ski instructors and violin makers. Since it would be safer for Jake and Eva to appear to be traveling alone, Anika dropped them at different locations. After making their way through the town’s darkened streets, they took up positions from where they could observe the station and the polished rails that split the white landscape in a sweeping arc.

The quaint structure had a dormered roof and arched colonnades with glass-paneled doors and transoms. The light that spilled through them revealed nothing alarming. No guards were posted along the tracks or on the platform; and there were no staff cars in sight. Despite this, Mittenwald was close to the German-Austrian border, and documents were routinely inspected by the Gestapo before passengers were allowed to board trains to Innsbruck, Vienna, Verona and points as far south as Venice.

The two Gestapo agents, posted here, passed the time between trains, playing cards and drinking schnapps in the station master’s office. Due to the unpredictable schedules, they donned their trench coats and left its warmth to take-up their posts as each train arrived. This evening they had been joined by an SS major from Munich who declined their entreaties to join them and glowered at their undisciplined behavior.

Having lost Anika in Murnau, just hours ago, Steig still had no idea where Jake and Eva were hiding; but he had every reason to believe they were in this area. Furthermore, he knew Jake was from Vienna and Eva from Venice; and bet that if they were taking the train south, they would avoid Zugspitze Station and depart from Kainzenbad, instead. As Anika knew, it had a small Gestapo presence; and the major kept it that way, sequestering his entourage in the station’s baggage room to avoid scaring-off his prey. Steig also knew that the Gestapo had a habit of horning-in on SS operations, and was determined to keep them out of this one. It was an SS operation, his operation; and he hadn’t briefed them on it. For all the Gestapo knew, the SS major, cooling his heels in the station master’s office, was catching the next train.