The German Suitcase (24 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

After being escorted by the SS men to the Revier, Jake wasted no time treating the searing bruises and welts Radek had inflicted on Hannah. She spent the night in his quarters soothed by his comforting words and caring embrace. Within weeks, she had healed physically and, despite the shattering emotional trauma, was well on her way to regaining her mental toughness. By the last week of March, she had resumed treating typhus victims. Jake was, now, among them. He had grown weaker and could no longer deny he had contracted it. Though not always able to make it through an entire shift, he continued caring for other victims free from the concern of catching it.

As Major Bruckmann had advised, Max thought about the things that matter in life, like reuniting with Eva, to cope with his tours on the ramp. The influx of prisoners from Eastern Block camps was overwhelming, fueling the typhus epidemic. As Hannah had feared, not only weren’t antibiotics available for prisoners, they weren’t available for SS officers either. The prescriptions Max and Kruger had left in their own names at the pharmacy hadn’t been filled, and never would be. Penicillin was so scarce in Germany, that only the Führer, after being wounded in an assassination attempt in 1944, had been treated with it. Even Major Bruckmann didn’t have a source. Nor were other SS doctors, nurses and pharmacists willing to share, or sell, what Max suspected, they had pilfered for personal use.

The SS hospital was running out of basic medical supplies as well. Warehouses were under constant Allied bombardment along with roadways and rail spurs. Expected shipments never arrived; and despite its proximity to the Ruhr Valley and its vaunted mining industry, KZ-Dachau didn’t even have coal for heating or cremating the dead.

Everyone had sensed the war was lost. Now, everyone knew it. American troops were across the Rhine, within two hundred miles of Berlin, and sweeping across Bavaria toward Munich and Dachau. Himmler had become obsessed with preventing its prisoners from being liberated. Nothing else mattered, now. Even Radek’s bizarre death, which Kruger feared would be rigorously investigated by Major Steig, had been ignored.

On Wednesday, March 27th, Max was dressing for yet another tour on the ramp when Major Bruckmann stopped by his quarters.

“I’m afraid things are going to get worse before they get better,” the impeccably groomed major said. “I’ll be leaving before the week is out. I wanted to wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Sir. I wish you the same.”

“I also wanted to give you this,” Bruckmann went on, handing Max an envelope.

On opening it, Max’s eyes widened in disbelief at the glass vial it contained. “Penicillin?”

Bruckmann nodded. “While packing, I recalled you’d been in search of antibiotics for a friend in the Revier.”

“Yes, Sir. My best friend. Jacob Epstein. He’s a doctor. An exceptional one. I tried everything short of gunpoint. Where’d you get it?”

Bruckmann’s eyes danced with mischief behind his metal-framed lenses. “From Lieutenant Radek.”

Max looked astonished. “Radek?”

“The one and only. After his ‘accident’, Colonel Weiter assigned me to notify his family, and arrange for his remains and personal effects to be sent home. I came across it while going through his quarters,” Bruckmann explained. “It seems he’d been requisitioning medicines and supplies for patients and keeping them for himself. Everything from antibiotics and disinfectants like Argyrol and mercurochrome to gauze pads and adhesive tape. It was quite a cache.”

“Selling them on the black market, wasn’t he?”

Bruckmann smiled, knowingly. “I saw no need to include them with his underwear and socks. I’m afraid it’s only one vial. As you know, even several doses are often insufficient when it comes to typhus.”

“Better than nothing, Sir.” Max wanted to go to the Revier and give Jake the injection, immediately; but had barely enough time to get to the ramp. Before leaving, he took a case that contained a syringe from his physician’s bag, and slipped it into a pocket of his greatcoat.

That evening, after finishing his tour, Max went directly to the Revier. Jake, Hannah, Dr. Cohen and some staff members were gathered in the meeting room; but Cohen wasn’t chairing a briefing, he was holding a Seder. It was Passover. Some Jewish prisoners had squirreled-away pieces of moldy bread from their rations. Moistened with water, rolled into thin sheets and dried, they had been reconstituted into makeshift matzos that, along with a flickering candle, were in the center of the table.

“Well, we’re only short six ingredients,” Cohen said, with a facetious chuckle, referring to the seven symbolic foods required at a Seder, matzo being one.

“I beg to differ,” Jake said. “By my count, we’re short only three.” Everyone looked puzzled.

“We have matzo and?” Cohen prompted.

“…the karpas, chazaret and maror,” Jake replied, enumerating the bitter-tasting herbs eaten with the matzo as a reminder of the hardships the Hebrews suffered while enslaved by the Egyptians.

Now, everyone looked really puzzled. Everyone except Hannah who, with an amused smile, said, “You pilfered them from the kitchen, didn’t you Jake?”

“No need,” he replied with a sly grin. “This place is bitter enough to make up for all three.”

After the Seder, Hannah began her rounds of the wards, and Max accompanied Jake to his quarters, handing him the envelope the instant the door closed. “A little something for Passover.”

“The six missing ingredients?” Jake quipped, dropping onto his bunk exhausted.

“Not exactly,” Max replied with a laugh. “Moldy matzos may not a happy Passover make, but green mold does have its uses.”

Jake’s eyes widened at Max’s reference to the process that produces antibiotics. “Penicillin?”

Max nodded, savoring the moment.

“Where’d you get it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Jake shrugged. “It’ll be wasted on me, anyway,” he said, his eyes brightening despite his gloomy prognosis. “But it might not be too late for Hannah.”

Max looked shocked. “Hannah? Hannah has typhus?”

Jake nodded. “Early stages. Abdominal pain, dull rash, fever. Her reward for taking care of me. I tried to stop her: treated her poorly, denied my feelings, talked about Eva incessantly. Didn’t do a bit of good.”

“Of course not. She’s in love with you, Jake. She told me. I assured her you felt the same way.”

“I do. I care for her deeply…with all my heart.” He emitted a disconsolate sigh. “And I killed her.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the only one with typhus around here,” Max said, placing a palm on Jake’s forehead. “My God, you’re burning up.”

Jake nodded. “I told you, I’m finished.”

“No you’re not.” Max removed the syringe he’d brought with him from its case, sterilized it with alcohol, and began assembling it. “Hannah has time. The Americans have penicillin. They’ll be here soon. We’ll save her. I promise. And this…” He took the vial from the envelope. “…is going to save you. And I won’t take no for an answer.” Before Jake could protest, Max swabbed his bicep and the vial’s seal with alcohol, then punctured the latter with the needle, withdrawing the plunger, slowly. The glass cylinder filled with white liquid. He pinched Jake’s pasty flesh between his fingers, popped the needle into it, and depressed the plunger. “Happy Passover!”

Later, that evening Max and Kruger were in the Officer’s Club celebrating the unexpected turn of events. A depressive pall seemed to hang over the place, which was half empty and had lost its
joie de vivre
. Max was lighting a cigarette when his eyes darted to the entrance. He froze, holding the burning match.

“What is it?” Kruger asked, seeing his reaction.

“My favorite attack dog just walked in.” The flame reached Max’s fingers making him toss the match aside.

“Steig?”

Max nodded. “And several mongrels from his pack,” he added as the Major strode toward their table. “Looks like you were right, Otto.”

“Captain Maximilian Kleist,” Steig intoned, his greatcoat swirling about him cape-like as he removed it, knowing someone in his entourage would keep it from falling to the floor. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Max forced a smile. “Major Steig—Captain Kruger,” he said, introducing them.

“Kruger…ah yes, I recognize you from your file,” Steig said, sending Kruger’s heart rate soaring. “By the way, Kleist,” he added, as if it was an afterthought. “Your parents send their regards, as does your sister. A most beautiful young woman. Anika, isn’t it?”

Max’s heart rate exceeded Kruger’s, now. All the unnerving reasons why Steig might have been in contact with his family raced through his mind. He forced a smile and casually lit his cigarette to cover his anxiety. “Thank you, Sir. As you know, communications have broken down. We’ve been out of touch since I reported here.”

Steig dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “All in the line of duty. It seems the Reichsführer learned there was a Jewess in their employ. She’s here somewhere, now, I imagine.” He sat at the table opposite Max, and frowned with uncertainty. “Or was it Auschwitz? Anyway, the next time I see your parents, I’ll let them know you’re well.”

Max stiffened at the shocking news. He couldn’t believe Tovah—sweet, gentle, beloved Tovah—had been taken from his family’s home. From
her
home! And sent to a death camp. He exhaled a stream of smoke, fighting to keep his composure. “I’d appreciate that, Sir.”

Steig had the advantage, now, and pressed it. “The Reichsführer was quite upset by Lieutenant Radek’s accident.”

“We all were, Sir. I’m told it was horrible.”

Steig’s eyes narrowed. “I’m told you and Lieutenant Radek didn’t get along.”

“We had our differences,” Max said, evenly.

“Yes, but there was one thing you had in common. Wasn’t there?”

“I can think of several,” Max replied, somehow able to feign aplomb. “We were both physicians, both SS officers, and we both worked the ramp.”

“I was referring to your mutual disregard for the Nuremberg Laws,” the Major said, eyeing an attractive waitress serving drinks at a table, nearby.

“I wouldn’t know, Major,” Max said, stealing a look at Kruger whose eyes were blank. “As I said Lieutenant Radek and I weren’t close.”

“Well, I suspect his appetite for Jewish women was his fatal flaw,” Steig said, pointedly. “Speaking of Jews, I’m afraid your friend Epstein was arrested and sent to Auschwitz. I offered him an alternative but he refused to cooperate. It probably cost him his life.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Max said, evenly. If Steig didn’t know Jake had survived and been transferred to Dachau, Max certainly wasn’t going to tell him. “He was always strongly principled.”

“I imagine you’ll be pleased to hear your other friend, Fraulein Rosenberg, escaped.”

“Well, you can’t win them all, Major,” Max said, suppressing his elation.

“No, but I will win this one,” Steig said with a sly smile. “She’s still being hunted. It’s just a matter of time. I’ll be sure to let you know when I have her in custody.” The major got to his feet, and placed a folded sheet of paper on the table in front of Max. “Like your sister, a very beautiful young woman. I’m sure Lieutenant Radek would’ve found Eva Sarah Rosenberg intriguing.”

Max watched as Steig led his entourage from the Club, then lifted the sheet of paper and unfolded it. The heading read: FUGITIVE ALERT. Eva’s medical school photo was centered beneath it, her fetching smile beckoning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Adam’s question had left the group gathered around Jake in stunned silence. They stood unmoving amidst the blaring music and chattering crowd, the launch party swirling around them.

Stacey was rocked. She couldn’t believe what she had heard, and winced as if she’d been stabbed. Inside she was screaming, For Chrissakes, Clive! What are you thinking?! Her eyes burned into Adam’s like lasers cutting steel.

His eyes were cool and focused.

Steinbach’s were panicked.

Dan’s were puzzled and pained.

Hannah’s were characteristically steady.

Jake’s were blinking in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said in his soft accent. “Are you saying the snapshot and tattoo aren’t the same number?”

“No, no I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear,” Adam replied. “The number’s the same but the handwriting is different.”

“Are you sure?” Jake prompted, looking baffled. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Positive. I don’t have a copy of the snapshot with me but there’s probably one around here somewhere. Stace?”

Stacey’s heart had plummeted along with her spirits. Her enthusiasm had prompted the old fellow to tell a perfectly harmless story, thereby unleashing a demon she, and others, thought had been engaged and forever vanquished. She was dumbstruck by what she had just done, if unintentionally; but now that the glaring incongruity had been resurrected, she, too, saw it with frightening clarity—and it unnerved her. “Somewhere. I guess,” she replied, her voice quavering. “I mean, I could try to find one. I could access it on my computer, but—”

“Don’t bother,” Dan Epstein said with finality, shifting his look to Adam. “Bring one with you on Friday, if you like. Come on, Dad. There are some people here who are anxious to meet you.”

“Wait. I want to answer his question,” Jake said, standing his ground and engaging Adam’s uncertain eyes. “No. No, I can’t say I ever noticed the writing was different. Nor can I explain it. There must be some mistake.” Jake sipped from his glass and cocked his head in reflection. “As I said, I put my arm on the table and…and Max took a picture of it. Of my arm. This arm!” Jake raised it overhead then, pointing to one of the print ads, exclaimed, “That arm!” He chuckled at a thought and added, “Despite my legendary accomplishments in the field of prosthetics, I assure you it’s the same one I had then.”

“Well, if anyone should know, it would be you!” Adam said, unable to keep from laughing. “It’s just been frustrating. I mean, there aren’t any names written on the back…the faces are blurred beyond recognition…you couldn’t tell the men from the women if it weren’t for the little triangles…”

Jake nodded in empathy and shrugged. “After all these years, I can’t even remember how I came to have them. I’m sorry. I guess Max had the film processed and…and you know…sixty years later they turned up in my suitcase.” He paused, broke into an impish smile and, said, “…in my vintage Steinbach!” A ripple of relieved laughter ran through the crowd. When it had subsided, Jake shrugged again, and concluded, “I guess we just didn’t have the time or, in the end, the need to make notations on them. I mean, once we knew the GIs were coming…” He splayed his hands, suggesting the rest was obvious. “You know, Max promised I’d survive; even after I’d contracted typhus. I refused to admit I had it; but he knew, and, somehow, he got me penicillin even though there was none to be had. I still don’t know how he did it. You have to understand, if you were a prisoner, surviving became an obsession. Nothing else mattered. Unfortunately, in the end, it was poor Max who didn’t.”

Hannah touched his arm, comfortingly, and brushed away a tear that rolled down her cheek.

“A senseless tragedy,” Jake whispered, sadly, continuing to reminisce. “At the time, everyone was so excited by the news that the camp was going to be liberated. You can’t imagine how it felt when we realized we were going to survive, that we were going to return to our families, to our communities and lives. We had been condemned to death one minute and given a new lease on life the next! Thirty-two thousand sick and starving prisoners crying, cheering, screaming with delight at the prospect of being fed and given medical attention. As for Max, well, he was—” The old fellow paused, overwhelmed by the memory. He took a sip of prosecco and was collecting himself when he sensed the quiet and realized the crowd around him had grown much larger and was hanging on his every word. Evidently, many of the partygoers, Tannen, Celine, Ellen and the Gunthers among them, had sensed something special in the air and gravitated toward him. Jake took a deep breath, then another sip from his glass, and tilted his head as if trying to recall something. “Now, where was I?”

Hannah leaned closer and whispered, “Max.”

“Ah yes, Max. Max was so elated,” Jake went on, caught up in the reverie. “He kept talking about Eva. Eva Rosenberg. I believe I mentioned her. They were madly in love with each other; and since there was a good chance she had made it safely to Venice…her family lived in the ghetto, there…he kept talking about going to find her. Of course, we talked about being doctors again; about healing the sick, and getting back to our research and working on the prosthetics we’d been developing together. I’ll never forget the moment when the Americans marched through the main gate. It was just so…so incredible. I…I can’t tell you the feeling that came over us. There we were, me in my ragged striped prison uniform, Max in his black SS uniform with the death head on the cap, crying and hugging each other, and then…then…” Jake began choking up. He paused, barely able to continue. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes glistening with emotion. He glanced to Hannah who leaned to him supportively, then took a deep breath and said, “And then, a terrible thing happened.”