The German Suitcase (27 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Max waited until darkness fell before leaving the Revier and venturing across the grounds in his prisoner guise. American troops had yet to enter the compound; and Max knew he had to move quickly before they did. He hoped the brothel would be quiet, as it was the last time he was there. To his surprise and dismay, the reception area was crowded with prisoners in a festive mood. Some were chatting in small groups; others lounged on the worn sofas that lined the walls; a few hovered about the desk where the heavily made-up and tattooed Madam was working on a client.

The buzz of her needle penetrated the din. She glanced up from the prisoner’s arm, on which she was working, and smiled at Max without a flicker of recognition. His ragged prisoner’s uniform, shaved head, and dirt-impregnated skin made it easy for Max to cloak his military bearing in subservience; he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the handsome and commanding SS captain who had taken control the night Jake confronted and killed Radek.

“All my girls are busy at the moment,” the Madam said with a salacious grin, making the obvious assumption. “There seems to be a celebration going on.”

“I don’t want a girl,” Max said, uncomfortably.

“That thing?” the Madam said, pointing to the yellow triangle on his uniform with a dismissive chortle. “Forget it. They don’t matter anymore.”

“I know,” Max said then, in as casual a tone as he could manage, added, “I…I came to get a tattoo.”

“Ah, same as him, I’ll bet,” she said indicating a number she was tattooing on the man’s arm. The glistening ink read 29/4/45, the date the camp was liberated. “It’s quite popular all of a sudden.”

Max forced a smile. “I’ve a different number in mind.”

“You can have whatever number you like, love. Your mother’s birthday, your girlfriend’s brassiere size. It’s two Marks; and you’ll have to wait your turn.”

Max suppressed his anxiety, hoping the Madam would care more about the money than what number he wanted tattooed on his arm; and when his turn came she wasted no time collecting her fee in advance; but her brows raised with intrigue as prisoner A198841, KZ-Dachau, indicated the number sewn above the pocket of his uniform was the one he wanted.

“You’re a strange one,” the Madam said, her tattoo needle poised for action. “Clients have been asking if there’s a way to have those removed.”

“It’s important for processing,” Max said, his mind racing to find a way to satisfy her curiosity. “I was transferred from Auschwitz just after I arrived and…and I wasn’t fully processed. I don’t want any problems with the Americans. I just want to get out of here and find my family…” He pushed up his sleeve, and set his arm on the desk. “…if any of them are still alive.”

The Madam sighed in empathy. “Good luck to you,” she said, setting to work with her needle.

A short time later, his forearm stinging from her handiwork, Max left the brothel and headed back to the Revier in the darkness, using one of the narrow alleys between the housing blocks to cut across the prison compound. It was littered with the corpses of prisoners that hadn’t been transported to the burial pits due to the breakdown in camp routines. Max was just a few steps into the alley when the deathly silence was broken by the sound of fast-moving footsteps behind him. He turned to see a man stumbling down the deeply shadowed Lagerstrasse pursued by a mob of angry prisoners. Many brandished clubs. One had a handgun. Several shots rang out. The bright orange-and-blue muzzle flashes gave Max strobe-like glimpses of an SS officer’s uniform and sent circles whirling in front of his eyes. Several rounds struck the fleeing SS man. He lurched and went staggering into one of the darkened alleys between the barracks on the other side of the Lagerstrasse. The mob closed in around their fallen prey and went to work with their clubs and boots. Max shuddered, then, struck by an unnerving thought, he quickened his pace and returned to Jake’s quarters in the Revier.

Hannah was alone. She appeared subdued and saddened. Max didn’t have to ask why. Her expression said everything.

“He’s left, hasn’t he.” It was a statement, not a question.

Hannah forced a brave smile and nodded. “A short time ago…”

Max sighed, his worst fears confirmed. “And he was wearing…wearing…” Max paused, the words catching in his throat. “…wearing my uniform.”

Hannah nodded again. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Max was aching inside. Heartbroken. Unable to speak. He had sensed the man in the SS uniform who had been shot, beaten, kicked, cursed and spit upon by the angry mob was Jake, but didn’t want to accept it, and had hurried back to the Revier, hoping beyond hope that he would still be there with Hannah; but there had been no saving Jake from the pack of rabid prisoners he had shrewdly tricked into executing his plan to help Max survive. “He…he saved my life,” Max finally said in a hoarse whisper.

“He’d be very pleased,” Hannah said, seeming to brighten. “I tried to stop him, but he said as long as he was going to die, he wanted to die doing what doctors do.”

“I’m so sorry, Hannah,” Max said, hugging her comfortingly. “I’ll be here for you. I promise.”

“Here?” Hannah echoed as they separated. “You can’t stay here, Max. As soon as the Americans take over the prison, they’ll quarantine the Revier. If you don’t go now, you may never get out.”

“I promised Jake I’d care for you, Hannah,” Max protested, knowing he’d be prohibited from returning to the Revier once he had left.

“Not every promise can be kept, Max. No matter how well intentioned,” Hannah said. “The Americans may have penicillin, but not for me, not for anyone on whom it would be wasted. I can’t say I blame them.”

“But there must be a way to—”

“No,” Hannah interrupted. “I’ve accepted it, and so must you. Will you promise me something, instead?”

“Of course, Hannah. Anything…”

“Do everything in your power to survive; and live your life in Jake’s memory.”

Max nodded, deeply moved by her courage.

Hannah smiled weakly, then took a loop of string from a pocket and slipped it over Max’s head. While he fingered the key that dangled from it, she reached beneath Jake’s bunk and pulled out his suitcase—the gold-monogrammed Steinbach that Max had given him. The pebble-textured leather was scuffed and nicked. The once polished fittings were blackened and scratched. The white, hand painted lettering that spelled out Jake’s name, date of birth, and group number was chipped and slashed with whip marks. “Jake asked me to return this,” Hannah said setting the suitcase on the floor next to Max. “Now, go,” she commanded softly. “They could be deploying guards as we speak. Take that and go while you still can. Remember, you’re not out of danger, yet—you may never be.”

Max’s eyes welled with emotion. “I’ll never forget either of you, Hannah. Never…I…” He hugged her, tightly; then turned away and hurried from the room with the suitcase.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Deep within the warren of cubicles on the mezzanine that overlooked the
Times
newsroom, Adam and Stacey were still coping with the disappointing Bio-metric report when an email appeared in his inbox. The Sender:
[email protected]
. The Subject: Epstein CD Addendum.

“Something from Ellen,” Adam said as he opened it and scanned the text which made his eyes widen. “They found a strip of negatives hidden in the spine of a book that was in Dr. Epstein’s suitcase.”

“Yeah, look. There’s an attachment.”

Adam clicked on the link. Another window began to develop on the computer screen. Seconds later the strip of 35mm negatives appeared.

“Intriguing,” Stacey murmured.

“Can’t make out who the hell they are, though.”

“Photoshop has a contact sheet app, doesn’t it?”

Adam nodded, downloaded the data, and imported it into his Photoshop program. After a series of keystrokes and mouse-clicks, a strip of positive black and white images appeared beneath the strip of negatives.

“Look at that one,” Stacey said, leaning over Adam’s shoulder. “Doesn’t that guy kinda look like the guy we think is Dr. Epstein, if Dr. Epstein is Dr. Epstein.”

Adam’s face screwed up in puzzlement. “What I think you just said is, the guy in that photo sort of resembles the guy in Dr. E’s old passport photo—the one Bio-metrics determined is a match to the campaign ad shot of Dr. Epstein—which gives us nothing.”

“Precisely what I said…” Stacey broke into a fetching grin. “…with my legendary copywriter’s clarity, of course; but there’s still no way of knowing for certain who those guys are,” she went on, referring to the photos of the two men on the screen. “Is there?”

“No, but we can guess,” Adam replied. “I mean, Dr. Epstein said Max took the photos they used on the forged documents, right?”

Stacey nodded.

“Maybe Dr. E returned the favor? Maybe we just got our hands on a photo of Jake and a photo of Max.”

“Maybe,” Stacey muttered, distracted by something on the screen. “What’s that?” she said pointing to the one they thought sort of resembled Jake’s old passport photo.

“What’s what?”

“That,” Stacey replied indicating a pale speck visible in the open collar of the subject’s shirt.

Adam shrugged. “A freckle, a blemish, a swirl of chest hair. Hard to tell.”

“You might want to try enlarging it, Clive.”

Adam went into the tools menu and highlighted the indistinguishable speck; then he kept enlarging it in steps until a blurry image filled the screen. “It’s some kind of religious medal. Look’s like it says St. Thomas More, but…but Jake’s Jewish.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“So that can’t be Jake, can it?”

“Nope,” Stacey replied. “The Kleists were Catholics. The GMA archives stated a Catholic medal was found with Max Kleist’s remains, remember?”

“Then this photo—the one Bio-metrics determined is a match to Dr. Epstein’s campaign ad photo—is a photo of Max Kleist.”

“So, what’re we saying here, Clive? That Dr. Jacob Epstein is really Maximilian Kleist?”

“Maybe,” Adam said, the staggering implications of their discovery, tempering his zeal. “We better have Bio-metrics run an FRT comparison before we go jumping to any conclusions.”

“I think we should have an FRT run on both of ‘em,” Stacey said.

“Good idea,” Adam grunted. He emailed both photos to Bio-metrics in Los Angeles, requesting a Facial Recognition Technology comparison of each be made with the campaign ad photo of Dr. Epstein, which he had emailed previously; then he and Stacey headed to the
Times
cafeteria. Its long expanse of circular white tabletops and stackable chairs ran the entire width of the building. They sat in the balcony that was suspended within the double-height space and afforded breathtaking views of the city.

About two hours later, they returned to Adam’s work cubicle to find an email from Bio-metrics. It stated the FRT analysis determined that one of the photos was a ten percent match to Dr. Epstein’s campaign ad photo; but that the other one matched with a ninety-four percent degree of certainty.

“St. Thomas More’s a match,” Adam announced.

“My God, Clive, you were right,” Stacey exclaimed. “Dr. Epstein is really Max Kleist!”

Adam looked troubled. “Why don’t I feel elated?”

“Hey, I don’t exactly feel like doing cartwheels, either,” Stacey said; then, she winced, struck by an unsettling thought. Her posture slackened. The steam went out of her. “You’re not elated because it’s still not proof, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Adam replied, equally deflated. “Look, you know how bad I want this Stace; but we don’t even know if it was Dr. Epstein’s book, do we? That photo—if it is the Dr. E we know and love—is just proof that he once wore a St. Thomas More medal, and that’s all it is. It’s not proof, let alone proof beyond any doubt—as somebody famous once said—that he’s Max Kleist or anybody else for that matter.”

“It was in his suitcase,” Stacey protested.

“Yeah but, like I said, we have no proof it was Dr. Epstein’s book or that he was the person who concealed those negatives in the spine.”

“Now what?”

“I’m interviewing him tomorrow,” Adam replied struck by an idea that seemed to buoy his confidence. “Maybe he can tell us who these people are.” A mouse-click brought the Photoshop menu onto the screen. Several more directed the program to make an 8 1/2” X 11” enlargement of each of the four photographs. As the first image came sliding out of the printer, Adam picked up his cell phone and speed-dialed a number at the Simon Wiesenthal Center. “Ellen? Adam Stevens at
The Times
—yeah, yeah just got it. Thanks—Well, actually there is. I need a small favor.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

A week after Dachau was liberated, Germany signed the instruments of unconditional surrender. Radio broadcasts and newspaper headlines heralded the end of the war in Europe. One proclaimed:
RED ARMY OCCUPIES REICHSTAD. REPORTS HITLER SUICIDE.
Another reported:
HIMMLER CAPTURED. USES CONCEALED CYANIDE CAPSULE TO TAKE LIFE
.

A Displaced Persons Team from the U.S. 7th Army took over administration of Dachau and acted swiftly to contain the typhus epidemic. The thousands of corpses about the grounds and on the Death Train were buried with the forced assistance of local townspeople. DDT dusting teams detoxified the entire camp. All survivors were tested for typhus. Those found to be infected went untreated due to the scarcity of penicillin and were confined to the Revier. Hannah was among them. As she had predicted, quarantine notices and U.S. soldiers were posted at all entrances. Though her health had worsened, she identified herself to American medical personnel and continued caring for patients more seriously ill than she.

Max spent the time living within the compound as a surviving prisoner. As Hannah also predicted, he was still in danger. Though the presence of American troops had deterred survivors from seeking vengeance, some were still quietly hunting down and executing every member of the SS they could find.

The American military administrators quickly realized Dachau’s facilities weren’t up to processing the more than 32,000 survivors, and set-up a Displaced Persons Center at another Nazi concentration camp that had also just been liberated. KZ-Landsberg, thirty miles west of Dachau, was in a sleepy river town of the same name that had gained notoriety because Adolph Hitler had written
Mein Kampf
there while imprisoned in 1924.

Max soon found himself in a queue of survivors boarding trucks that would take them to Landsberg—where the threat of communal showers and medical examinations awaited him. Like all men, he was born with a physical detail, one he still possessed, which in an instant could reveal he wasn’t a Jew. Indeed, the fact that he hadn’t been circumcised could easily raise the suspicion of physicians or shower mates. It would be disastrous for a member of the SS to be caught masquerading as a survivor, let alone a Jewish one. For an SS doctor who had worked on the ramp and made selections, had sent people to be executed—it would be a death sentence.

Though it was mid-May, the temperature in Bavaria rarely got above 10 degrees Celsius. Max was shivering in the early-morning chill as an American soldier with a sidearm and a clipboard checked-off each prisoner on a list of names and ID numbers. Several had already been taken aside for further identity verification. The officer looked at the number on Max’s uniform, then to his roster. “Epstein, Dr. Jacob?”

Max nodded, indicating the name painted on the suitcase. The officer’s pen remained poised above his clipboard with, what Max had every reason to fear was, uncertainty. He pushed up his sleeve, revealing the tattooed number. The officer winced, then checked-off the name next to it, and waved Max aboard the truck.

Just after daybreak, the long convoy of trucks and military support vehicles left the prison, heading west through forested terrain. Half an hour later, it ground to a stop. The roar of engines and rumble of tires gave way to the sound of distant gunfire. Word spread that a platoon of German soldiers, vowing to fight to the last man rather than surrender, had opened fire on the lead vehicles. The pocket of resistance had to be eliminated before the convoy could resume its journey.

Max was fortunate to have gotten out of Dachau’s Prison Compound without being discovered; but the threat of processing loomed. He had to escape somehow; had to get out of the truck before the convoy got underway, again. Leap over the tailgate and dash into the woods? Too risky. Too great a chance of being shot or pursued and captured. His mind raced in search of a way that wouldn’t raise suspicion, that would keep the Americans from realizing he was missing, at least, until the convoy reached Landsberg. Agonizing minutes, during which he feared it would start rolling, passed before he found the answer, smiling to himself at its obvious simplicity. “I don’t know about the rest of you…” Max said in Yiddish to those around him “…but if I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to piss in my pants.” Nearly a dozen men piped-up in agreement, and, as Max had hoped, the English speakers among them prevailed upon their military escorts to let them relieve themselves.

Their wretched prison existence had long destroyed any sense of decorum or privacy; and many of them began urinating in the middle of the road upon climbing down from the truck. One aimed his stream at its tires.

“Hey, hey!” an American soldier called out. “Go water some trees, will ya?” He shooed them toward the forest. Noticing Max had the suitcase with him, he said, “I’ll keep an eye on that if you want.”

Max shook his head no, tightened his grip on the handle, and kept walking toward the tree line. He drifted away from the other prisoners into a thick stand of birches and pretended to be emptying his bladder. Then, making sure he wasn’t being watched, he dropped into the underbrush and scurried deeper into the forest. Having grown up in Munich, Max knew the area well. He circled back to the road, emerging from the tree line far behind the convoy. After several miles, the road intersected the railroad tracks that ran from Dachau to Munich, ten miles south. A leisurely half-day’s stroll along the right-of-way would take him straight into the heart of the city.

It was just after midday when the smoldering hulk of downtown appeared in the distance. Munich had been heavily bombed prior to the American ground offensive that had taken the city. The sight of the Frauenkirchen, Munich’s 15th century Catholic cathedral, took some of the spring out of Max’s step. Its massive roof had collapsed and one of its domed towers had fallen. The Hauptbahnhof, where American troops were now posted, had also been hit. Instead of following the tracks into the terminal, Max made his way from the train yard into the adjacent streets, and on through the devastated Altstadt and Lehel Districts to the Isar River. Bogenhausen, where his family’s townhouse was located, was on the opposite bank. Max was relieved the Prinzregentenbrucke, that spanned it, was still standing.

Long shadows stretched across the pavement as Max came off the bridge onto the Friedensengel Ellipse and headed north toward Holbstrasse. The once picturesque street that led to Possartplatz was an obstacle course of collapsed buildings and burned-out vehicles. Many townhouses on the tree-filled square had been damaged by airstrikes. The Kleist’s among them. The roof had partially collapsed. Many windows had been blown out. And the front door had been torn off its hinges.

A chill went through Max as he stood beneath the park’s budding trees, staring at the wreckage. Was his family at home during the airstrike? Had they been killed? Were they buried alive in the debris? Max hurried into the rubble-filled foyer. The scent of explosives and dust hung in the cool air. There was no sign of his parents or sister. He called out several times before proceeding. The walls of the long gallery that led to the chapel, his mother’s office, and the library beyond, were bare. Books were strewn about the latter. The large Kandinsky that had hung over the fireplace was gone. A section of the cast iron balcony had fallen, crushing the piano. Every drawer, cabinet and closet had been looted. Not a single piece of artwork remained.

Max assumed his family had fled the city for the relative safety of their lake house. The phones were out. There was no calling them. In need of a passport and money, he went to the chapel in search of the cash and document blanks his father kept in the tabernacle. Debris partly blocked the doorway. Max climbed over it, took a few steps, and then lurched as if he’d been shot. A horrified cry came from deep inside him. His eyes were staring in shock at his sister’s body at the base of the altar. Anika’s hands were tied behind her back, her skirt thrown up over her torso, her undergarments torn off, her legs splayed widely. There was a bullet hole in the back of her neck. She hadn’t suffered the fate Max feared had befallen his family. No, Anika hadn’t been killed in the bombing. She had been savagely raped and executed. In the chapel! He was on the verge of retching when he glimpsed the bodies of his parents on the floor nearby. They were fully clothed. Pools of dried blood encircled their heads like mahogany halos. Their hands were tied, and they, too, had been executed. Genickschuss—a bullet in back of the neck, SS style. The way it was done at Dachau.

Max knew who was responsible. It was Major Steig who had accused him of violating the Nuremberg Laws; who had him reassigned to Dachau and coerced him into making Selections by threatening his family’s safety; who suspected the Kleists of helping Jews and others escape the SS and Gestapo and tried to force Jake to implicate them. It was Steig who had colluded with Radek and whose smug allusion to Max’s parents and lascivious reference to his sister the night he came to the Officers Club left no doubt this was his doing.

Max was still tormented by the way Jake had died. Now, once again, he felt as if he’d been gutted. He took heart in the natural appearance of his family’s remains. Indeed, they were in what a physician would identify as the Fresh Stage of decomposition, which meant it wasn’t yet visible; but it also meant they had been dead for only a few days and might still be alive had Max gotten there sooner. He was gasping for breath as he lowered his sister’s skirt, then knelt between his parents and cradled his mother’s head. Tears ran down his cheeks. He was trying to come to grips with all that had happened when he heard the soft crunching of debris, and whirled around, anxiously. His posture slackened as Kunst, the family’s German Shepherd, emerged from a pile of broken plaster and roof beams and came loping toward him.

“Hey boy,” Max murmured as the animal nuzzled him.

The dog whimpered in reply, then, lowering its head as if in mourning, hovered over the family’s remains.

“I know,” Max said, faced with the task of burying them. The Kleist family plot was in Ostlicher Freidhof Cemetery where Holy Cross Church was also located. Family members had been interred there since it was built in the 1860s; it was several miles away in the Geising District. He went down to the garage and found the doors wide open and his father’s Mercedes and sister’s Volkswagon gone. The bicycle that had been left behind by the looters wouldn’t be of use. Munich was a paved urban landscape, except for the Englisher Garten, a vast expanse of woods and meadows on the river; but it, too, would require transportation. Possartplatz, just across the street, was the only plot of land logistically feasible; but it was an unsecure and inappropriate resting place, not to mention Max would have to dig three graves with kitchen utensils or his bare hands.

They were his parents, his sister, and the thought of just leaving them there was tearing Max apart. On the other hand, it was more than likely that the convoy had reached Landsberg; and the Americans would soon discover he was missing. He needed to get out of Germany as soon as possible, and had neither the tools nor the time to inter his family properly; but he knew who he might entrust with the task. He fetched some blankets, and wrapped their remains separately, securing each with lengths of cord salvaged from window blinds. When finished, he aligned his mother, father and sister side-by-side at the foot of the altar; then wrote their names and dates of birth on separate cards, affixing them to each. On a fourth, he wrote that the Kleists were decent and courageous people who were executed for helping Jews and others survive the Nazi horrors.

Turning his attention to what had brought him to the chapel in the first place, Max found the vault-like tabernacle door had been opened. The solid gold chalice was gone, the Hosts spilled across the altar and onto the floor. To his dismay, the packets of cash, blank passports and travel passes were also gone, along with the paintings that had graced the walls. This left him with the cash in his wallet and his German passport.

Night had fallen. Max decided to spend it in the townhouse, gathering anything that might prove useful: foodstuffs, clothing, hand tools, medical supplies, and the deed to the cemetery plot which he found in his mother’s office. The elevator had been wrecked in the bombing; and with the dog leading the way, Max lugged the suitcase up three bomb-damaged flights to his quarters, which, along with every other room on the upper floors, had also been looted. Some clothing had been left behind, as were the drawings of prosthetic devices he’d been developing with Jake and Eva. He rolled them up and was slipping them into a mailing tube when the edge of a picture frame on the wall next to the luggage closet caught his eye. The door had been swung back in front of it by the looters, concealing the painting from view. To Max’s delight, it was Kandinsky’s Murnau With Church, one of the artist’s smaller works. Once removed from its frame and slipped into a pillowcase for safe-keeping, Max found it fit neatly in the bottom of the suitcase which he had emptied onto the bed.

The luggage closet was empty. Not a Steinbach remained. Ostensibly, they had been filled with booty by the looters. Reflecting on that day four months ago when he had given the suitcase to Jake, Max suddenly realized what Jake had given him. It was more than a way to survive Dachau. Much more. The battered, whip-scarred suitcase with Jake’s name and other data painted on it, along with the tattoo and striped prison uniform, would be invaluable in the days to come.

Indeed, the soiled, ragged uniform would not only deter suspicion, but also garner sympathy; and Max had no intention of changing into the civilian clothes he had gathered, though he made immediate use of a pack of Sturms he found in a shirt pocket. The few cigarettes it contained would be stale, and chokingly harsh; but Max hadn’t had one in weeks. The smoke soon filled his lungs with its satisfying warmth. He exhaled slowly, savoring it along with the thought of spending one last night in his own bed. He was repacking the suitcase when he noticed the
Mein Kampf
dust jacket amidst the items. Max smiled in wistful appreciation of Jake’s witty choice of camouflage on finding Remarque’s anti-war novel within. He had read it as a teenager; and, now, settling against the headboard with his cigarette, he began reading the opening lines:
We are at rest five miles behind the front. Yesterday we were relieved, and now our bellies are full of beef and haricot beans. We are satisfied and at peace…