The German Suitcase (31 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The poster-sized enlargements of the print ads featuring Jake and Steinbach along with other visuals related to the campaign were still in evidence throughout Gunther Global’s headquarters; but the sense of accomplishment and excitement of the launch party had given way to a sense of impending doom as Adam briefed Stacey, Tannen, Steinbach and Gunther on his interview with Dr. Jacob Epstein. “He admitted everything,” Adam concluded. “Right down to working on the ramp.”

Tannen looked baffled. “Why? Why would he do that?”

Adam shrugged. “He was raised a Catholic. Maybe he needed to go to Confession.”

“So, you’re saying,” Tannen went on, barely able to repeat it. “Dr. Jacob Epstein really is Maximilian Kleist, M.D. Captain, Waffen-SS…”

Adam nodded. “He’s a Nazi war criminal.”

Steinbach stiffened, then his shoulders slackened. He looked crushed. “Jesus H. Christ…” he muttered.

“You’re sure?” Gunther prompted.

“Absolutely. I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up, and a chance to comment on the record.”

Gunther splayed his hands. “I don’t know, I’ve…I’ve got questions, not comments. I mean, he’s lived such an exemplary life. Chairman Emeritus of Beth Israel, museum trustee, generous philanthropist. What did he say? How did he explain it?”

“He claims he was coerced, that the SS threatened to kill his family if he didn’t do their bidding.”

“He’s always come across as so credible,” Gunther said. “Did you believe him?”

Adam shrugged. “No, not really. He can say whatever he wants, knowing there’s no way to—”

“Why should we believe you?!” Steinbach erupted, feeling stung. “You think this is going to make up for what your fucking newspaper didn’t do when it had the chance? When it would have mattered!”

Adam looked puzzled. “I’m sorry Mr. Steinbach, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Not surprising,” Steinbach said, his tone laden with contempt. “If you’re going to write about this, get the facts. All the facts.” He leaned forward in his chair, jabbing a forefinger at Adam as he went on. “From the mid-thirties to the mid-forties,
The New York Times
—owned and operated by a Jewish family—ran damn near twenty-five thousand front page stories on World War Two. Only twenty-six of them—twenty-six—had anything to do with the Nazis killing Jews.”

“I’m sorry, it’s the first time I’ve heard that,” Adam said, sounding chastised. “But I’m writing one, now—with all the facts—as I found them. As I said, I’ve no way of knowing if Dr. Epstein’s telling the truth.”

“You’re saying, he’s lying about being coerced?” Tannen prompted, his voice taking on an edge.

“No, I said I have no way of knowing if he’s—”

“Then maybe you ought to back off until you do!” Tannen snapped.

“Hey—hey, come on,” Stacey interrupted, once again caught in the triangulated conflict that had become her life: torn between her feelings for Adam, her adoring affection for Jake, and her loyalty to her company—not always in that order. “For what it’s worth, Adam said something about this the other day that seemed to make sense: Maybe Dr. Epstein’s been living a lie for so long he’s come to believe it.”

Tannen seemed to soften. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“I wasn’t offering it up as an excuse,” Adam said. “What he believes doesn’t change a thing. By his own admission, he was an SS officer. A Nazi doctor at a concentration camp—who made selections.”

Stacey frowned. “Ellen Rother said not all of them were monsters. Remember that book…
The Nazi…Nazi Doctors…
”

Tannen nodded. “As I recall, it condemned these bastards, while acknowledging some were conflicted and coerced.”

Stacey nodded smartly. “They were pained at violating their Hippocratic Oath. They drank heavily. They suffered post traumatic stress…”

“They decided who lived and who died. They sent people to be executed,” Adam added, using Stacey’s rhythm. “And Dr. Epstein was one of them.”

Stacey could barely contain herself. “But he said they threatened to kill his family. The fact that they did proves he’s not lying, doesn’t it?”

“Good point,” Gunther chimed in. “This is different—if it’s true. The trouble is, as Adam has so astutely observed, it’s hard to prove one way or the other.”

Tannen nodded in agreement. “Which is why as Ellen also said, the DOJ uses immigration violations to get these guys. I mean, there’s no doubt the good doctor lied about his past when he immigrated.”

“They both lied about it,” Adam said. “Mrs. Epstein is not Hannah Friedman, a Holocaust victim who, as it turns out, was in love with the real Jacob Epstein. Her real name is Eva Rosenberg.”

“What?!” Stacey blurted.

Adam nodded.

Incredulous looks darted from Steinbach to Gunther to Tannen who said, “That alone could cost them their citizenship and get them deported.”

“Adam nodded again. “In Dr. E’s case, it’s basically the Al Capone thing: He’s into murder and extortion, but he destroyed the evidence and killed all the witnesses, so we can’t prove it; but we can nail him on tax evasion. The bottom line is, Nazis were prosecuted at Nuremberg for what he did.”

“And still are,” Steinbach added with an angry growl. “Regardless of age or accomplishments. Demjanjuk just had his ninetieth birthday in a Munich prison where he’s finally standing trial. That snake Waldheim had been the head of the U.N. and was President of Austria when they finally nailed his ass. I could go on. The point is, justice was finally served.”

“And should be,” Adam said. “Though as I told the Epsteins, I’m not in the business of dispensing it. I deal in facts, and the fact is, he’s a war criminal.”

“But there were mitigating circumstances,” Stacey retorted. “Not only was he coerced, he and his family saved many lives. Jake’s, Eva Rosenberg’s, and others in Munich and Dachau. We know he’s not lying about that.”

“True,” Steinbach conceded, his tone softening. “Yad Vashem wouldn’t have honored them without having corroborating witnesses and evidence. Come to think of it, he’s not lying about the suitcase either. The Kleists purchased it years before the real Jake Epstein was sent to Auschwitz. It’s his name and DOB painted on it. How else could he have gotten it? And how else could Max Kleist have gotten it back?”

Gunther nodded thoughtfully and locked his eyes onto Adam’s. “You’ve just been put on notice. Should you proceed with your story, you’re more than obligated to mention the Kleist’s Yad Vashem award—which they paid for with their lives—as well as all of Dr. Epstein’s good works as a physician and philanthropist.”

“Of course. I’ll also be obligated to mention that after the war, the Allies declared that the SS was an illegal criminal organization; and that SS doctors were war criminals. Did you know that? People were hung for what Dr. Epstein did.”

“You want to see him hung?” Stacey asked, forlornly.

“My job is to get the story.”

“They lived it, and you get to judge it.”

“No, Stace.
Society
gets to judge it. We do it all the time. It’s called the criminal justice system. Evidence is uncovered, witnesses come forward, trials are held, verdicts are rendered…”

“Convictions and acquittals,” Stacey retorted.

“The man was in the SS. He made selections.”

“Come on, Clive! He was protecting his fucking family!” Stacey erupted, pushing up out of her chair.”

“Yeah,” Tannen chimed in. “Unlike those weasels at Nuremberg, he isn’t claiming I was just following orders.”

“Hey, I’m the guy who lived it,” Steinbach said. “Half of me would like nothing better than to see that Nazi son-of-a-bitch destroyed. The other half…”

“You’d be feeding your revenge fantasies, Sol,” Gunther cautioned.

“Bet your ass I would,” Steinbach cracked. “And I love every damn one of ’em!”

“We all do,” Gunther conceded in quiet reflection. “Grace spent years learning not to entertain them. It wasn’t easy. It’s a constant tug of war between the emotional craving for vengeance or, what we’ve come to call, closure; and the cerebral counterweights of patience and reason, of taking the moral high ground.”

“It comes down to ‘An eye for an eye,’ versus, ‘Do unto others’,” Tannen said. “Even the Bible equivocates…not that I’m an expert.”

“Yes, we live in a painfully polarized society,” Gunther went on. “Things are either black or white, red or blue, my way or the highway. No gray areas allowed. We think in extremes and demand simple answers to complex problems; but, whether it be the Middle East, health care reform, financial institutions, or the one we’re wrestling with, they’re far and few between, if any.”

“Well, I’ve been accused of taking the moral high ground on occasion,” Steinbach said with a self-deprecating cackle. “Which is why the other half of me is thinking we probably ought to let the good doctor off the hook.”

Adam looked puzzled. “The facts are clear and compelling. Why am I the only one who’s not ambivalent about this?”

“Because you’re young and ambitious and see this as your chance to make your mark as a journalist,” Tannen replied. “And you’re probably right.”

“Not to mention scared shitless about being laid-off,” Stacey sniped, dropping into her chair and swiveling around, coming face-to-face with Adam. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“What’s your excuse?” Adam challenged, rhetorically. “That he’s a mensch who’s spent his life caring for his fellow man. And you Mr. Steinbach. You’re a survivor of Auschwitz. You have a number tattooed on your arm. Your family was gassed by these monsters. My readers will be really interested to know why you don’t want this guy exposed and punished.”

Steinbach nodded, appearing to be deep in thought. “The bottom line is, I don’t see the good that comes from destroying the man and his family. Why trash everything he’s done as a doctor, as a philanthropist and, despite the Catholic thing, as a Jew? It doesn’t compute. As Mark said, I’d just be feeding my revenge fantasies.”

“But I’m not out to destroy him,” Adam said, matter-of-factly. “That’s not my goal. Never has been. I’m just searching for the truth. I mean—”

“Which will destroy him!” Steinbach interrupted. “Along with the name Dr. Jacob Epstein—the name of a Holocaust victim. It’ll be forever linked to this ugliness…forever soiled and sullied. The headlines will read
Dr. Jacob Epstein Revealed As War Criminal
,” Steinbach went on, his face reddening, his voice rising, his pace quickening.
“Dr. Jacob Epstein Nazi Fugitive! Dr. Jacob Epstein Murderer! Imposter! Fake!
The fucking
Post
’ll have a field day with it!
Jewish Surgeon Exposed As Nazi Slicer-Dicer!
The fact that his name is really Maximilian Kleist will get buried in paragraph ten, the Catholic thing even further down. And you know it! It bothers the hell out of me.”

“Makes two of us,” Gunther said, contemplatively. “As you know, Adam, I’m very close to this because of my wife; and I’m just as conflicted as Sol. We all have the luxury of time, distance, perspective; of sitting back in comfort and evaluating decisions people made under duress and the threat of death before most of us were even born. We don’t know what it was like to be tested, to live every moment in fear, in a nation ruled by a psychopath. On the other hand, we all have genuine emotional outrage that cries-out for justice, and we have every right to demand it; and have demanded it. In most cases—whether it be Mengele, Eichmann, Klaus Barbie, or one of the hundreds of lower echelon monsters—there’s been no reason to equivocate; but this one…this one’s not an easy call.”

Adam bit a lip, seeming to be moved by Gunther’s impassioned appeal. Indeed, he had become keenly aware that Gunther and Steinbach, the two people with a personal connection to the Holocaust, were counseling restraint. “Look, I didn’t come here to be talked out of writing this story,” Adam said, sounding more defensive than he planned. “And I’m not saying I have; but…” he winced and emitted an ambivalent sigh. “…you’re right, it isn’t an easy call.”

“Well, it’s your story, Adam. You’re the only one who can make it,” Gunther said with finality. “The sooner the better for all concerned.”

“If I walk away from it, you’ll run the campaign as planned, right?”

Gunther winced. “Frankly, that remains to be seen. Either way, we have a lot of work to do. So, let’s hop to it.” He punctuated it with a little fist-pump and strode from the room followed by Tannen and Steinbach.

Adam remained seated, head down, arms crossed, deep in thought.

Stacey started after the others, then hesitated, torn between her professional responsibilities and her concern for Adam. “Hey,” she called out, hurrying to catch-up with the three men who were striding out the door. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

“Take two, take ten,” Tannen replied. “Take the rest of the day if you think it’ll do any good.”

“Yeah, kid,” Steinbach chirped. “You’re our last hope. Knock yourself out.”

“No pressure,” Gunther said with a little smile.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The fugitive alert had been taped to the facade of a shop on the corner of Grimana. Eva’s apartment was at the end of the street close to the canal that ran along the rear of the buildings. Jake ripped the alert from the wall in disgust. “Steig… He’s found us, he’s toying with us.”

The dog sensed the tension and looked about warily.

Eva looked traumatized. “Maybe…maybe we should go to the Carabinieri…”

“The police?” Jake said, aghast, as he went about tearing down several other alerts that been posted. “No thanks. I’ve had my fill of document-checks and tense moments with men in uniform. I’ve also had some luck, and I don’t want to push it.”

“We have to do something, Jake. It’s obvious Steig knows where we live, and probably where we work.”

Jake nodded, his eyes clouded with concern. “I don’t think he’ll chance showing up at the hospital; but the apartment’s not safe. We better put together a few things and get out of there.”

“I can’t believe I’m on the run, again,” Eva said with a distraught sigh as they hurried toward her building. “What about the partisans? They’d love to get their hands on him.”

“They’d love to get their hands on me!” Jake retorted. “Besides, Steig won’t be easy to find. He isn’t strutting about Venice in his greatcoat and jodhpurs, believe me.” He tossed the alerts he had collected in a trash bin in front of the building. “We should think this through before doing anything.”

Eva reached into the bin and retrieved one of them. “If anyone contacts the partisans, it’s going to be me,” she said with steely resolve, brandishing the alert. “They’ll need little convincing to hunt down Steig once they see this.”

“If anyone contacts them,” Jake cautioned as they entered the building. He left the door open and waited for the dog that had remained outside to do its business. “Kunst, stay,” he commanded when the animal appeared, posting it in the vestibule in the event Steig showed-up. Though the dog had become less skittish, it growled in protest, pawing at the staircase. Jake repeated the command and stared him down. He waited until Kunst had settled on his haunches, then hurried upstairs after Eva who had gone on ahead. Jake had just reached the landing when he heard her shriek, exactly as she had outside on seeing the fugitive alert. He dashed into the apartment after her, and froze in place.

Major Steig was in a chair opposite the door, aiming a pistol at Eva who stood in front of him, trembling. As Jake had just predicted, the Major was wearing civilian clothes. His SS uniform was gone but the malevolence in his eyes was still there. “Vivaldi…” he said with a cagey smile. “A little too sublime for my taste but perfect on such a beautiful night. Close the door.”

Jake nodded, and did as instructed.

“I promised I’d let you know when your other Jewish friend had been captured,” Steig said in his sly way. “Little did I know it would be so easy.”

Jake’s eyes flared with anger. “The war’s over, Steig. The Führer’s dead. Himmler’s dead. You and your kind are finished.”

“I beg to differ,” Steig snapped, as he got to his feet, holding the pistol on them. “You think you’re the only one with an escape plan, Hauptman Kleist? Please, let’s not be naive. No SS man worth his salt is just waiting around to be arrested and strung up like a common criminal. Jews aren’t the only ones fleeing from Italian ports!”

“Then flee! What the hell are you doing here?!”

“My sworn duty to carry out the Führer’s vision,” Steig replied as if it were obvious. “We are his acolytes. His holy instruments. His warrior-priests. Centuries after his death, the SS will still carry his banner as the Jesuits still carry Loyola’s. You of all people should know that. It’s what Catholics, doctors and SS men—men who have taken oaths—do, isn’t it?” Steig stepped toward Eva and cocked the pistol. “It’s called God’s work.”

Eva stiffened, her eyes darting to Jake’s.

“Eva Sarah Rosenberg, you will turn and kneel,” Steig commanded and, in an aside to Jake, whispered, “It will be quick and painless as it was for your family.”

“As it was for my sister? You bastard!”

“The spoils of war,” Steig said with an icy sneer. “Both of mine were turned to cinders when your refined British friends firebombed Dresden!”

“That doesn’t make us even,” Jake said, coldly.

A reptilian smile turned the corners of Steig’s mouth. “I must admit there is something strangely exhilarating about fucking a woman before you execute her. An exquisite flower like your sister takes it to a level you can only imagine; as would this one, I’m sure,” the Major said, lasciviously, his eyes drifting to Eva. “But unlike you, I have respect, not disdain, for the Nuremberg Laws.” He aimed the pistol at Eva’s head, and commanded, “Kneel! Kneel at my feet Jewess as you will kneel at the Führer’s in the afterlife!”

Eva raised her chin in defiance and glared at him.

Jake was seething at Steig’s repugnant diatribe. The man was a deranged fanatic well-beyond the reach of any appeal to reason or common decency; and, despite his anger, Jake had kept his eyes focused on the pistol. At the last instant, when Steig’s finger seemed to tighten on the trigger, Jake lunged for the weapon, knocking it off line just as it fired. Eva screamed in fright as the bullet whistled past her and tore into the sofa. The surprising move knocked Steig off balance. He stumbled backwards, tripping over the rug. Jake went after him, grabbing hold of the weapon. The two men were rolling across the floor struggling to gain control of it when Steig drove a fist into the side of Jake’s head, staggering him. The major clambered to his feet, clutching the Luger. Jake shook-off the blow and came at him. Steig whirled and drove the muzzle into his chest, stopping him. Instead of pulling the trigger, he grinned, savoring his triumph. “Step back,” the major ordered, evenly. “I said step back and watch as your Jewess—”

He was interrupted by a ferocious growl as the door burst open, and Kunst came charging through it. The latch hadn’t engaged when Max closed it, earlier, because Steig had jimmied the lock to gain entry, and it had remained retracted. The snarling animal was in mid-leap when Steig fired. The dog yelped as the bullet tore into its chest. The powerful animal’s momentum carried it through the air into the Major, knocking him to the floor. The gun skittered across the carpet. With another ferocious growl, the animal locked its jaws onto Steig’s throat. Its glistening canines ripped a gaping hole in the soft flesh from which shredded viscera erupted. Blood came in crimson spurts. It spattered the dying animal’s coat and formed a widening pool around its victim’s head. Steig thrashed about on the floor as if struck by a seizure, his hands clutching at the carnage that had been his throat, then emitted a chorus of sickening gurgles as the life went out of him.

Paralyzed with fear, staggered by the sudden violence, and stunned by massive surges of adrenalin Jake and Eva stood unmoving for what seemed like an eternity. She was still trembling when Jake wrapped his arms around her and took her aside. They held each other, tightly, ignoring the bloody aftermath. After they had settled and Jake had collected his thoughts, he noticed the fugitive alert still clutched in Eva’s fist. “You won’t be needing that…”

“No. No partisans necessary,” Eva said, staring numbly at her image on the flyer.

Jake lit a cigarette, then touched the match to one of the corners. “And no police.”

“No police,” Eva echoed.

“Unless someone heard the shots and notified them.”

“I doubt it,” Eva said as the flame crept across the paper, turning her image to particles of fiery ash that rose into the air. “Gunfire’s become part of life. Nobody pays attention to it, anymore.” She took a few steps and dropped what was left of the flaming page into the sink.

Jake nodded in relief, exhaling a stream of smoke. His expression saddened as he crouched to the dog and removed its collar, then went about wrapping the animal in a large towel Eva had fetched from the bathroom. When finished, he went through Steig’s pockets, took the cash from his wallet and, with Eva’s help, rolled him up in the carpet on which he’d fallen. Several hours had passed by the time they had cleaned the place up, and it was well after midnight when Jake, shouldering Steig’s rug-entombed corpse, carried it from the apartment and down the stairs to the darkened street.

Though gregarious by day, Venetians turned into privacy-obsessed cave-dwellers at night. Just after sundown, regardless of the forecast, they battened their storm shutters as if expecting one of the Adriatic’s violent squalls to come raging across the Laguna Veneta at any moment. This peculiar habit plunged the streets into impenetrable darkness, giving them an air of medieval mystery that lasted until morning. Indeed, those sequestered behind the shutters could hear, but could not see, what was going on just outside their windows; and vice-versa for those on the street, adding to the city’s nocturnal intrigue.

Jake was approaching the canal at the end of the street when the soft throb of an engine rose in the darkness. Bent beneath Steig’s weight, he took cover in a doorway as the prow of a small boat emerged from behind the buildings. The weathered skiff motored slowly past the opening between them, its dim running light sending shadows stretching across the cracked stucco. Jake waited until the sound had faded before proceeding to the narrow fondamenta that bordered the canal. He lowered his cargo to the pavement and wasted no time rolling it into the placid waters. It sank quickly beneath the brackish surface, emitting a stream of bubbles. Jake tossed the pistol in after it and returned to the apartment for the dog.

The thought of disposing of the animal as they had Steig brought both Jake and Eva to tears. It was a short walk through the desolate, darkened streets to the Public Gardens where they had attended the concert earlier. Jake concealed the towel-shrouded animal in an out of the way thicket of boxwoods, concealing it with stones that he and Eva gathered. He remained on one knee for a long moment, reflecting on his parents and sister. He had done for the dog what he hadn’t been able to do for them; and hoped the Professor had been able to arrange for their proper internment.

The following morning after a few hours of fitful sleep, Jake and Eva walked to the Lagoon and sat on the seawall, looking across to San Giorgio Maggiore, the Lido and the Venetian Gulf beyond. Seagulls soared overhead in sweeping arcs, piercing the misty silence with their plaintive screaks. Jake took a deep breath of the sea air, and let it out slowly, savoring its briny freshness, then lit a cigarette and watched the smoke taken off in long thin streams by the wind.

“You know,” Eva said, more chilled by a thought than the dampness and rolling fog. “Steig was right. Just because the Nazis are on the run; doesn’t mean they’ll all be caught, let alone cured of this madness.”

“Not in a million years,” Jake said, shaken by her insight. “It was insane to equate the SS with Jesuits and doctors. Steig was so deranged, he couldn’t see that neither we, nor the priests, are sworn to evil as he was; but he was right about blindly obedient men, blindly loyal to an oath, being driven to fulfill the Führer’s vision long after his death.”

“Yes,” Eva said, shuddering. “His prediction is so chilling because it’s so eerily astute. There must be thousands of those death warrants with my name on them; and a month from now, or a year, or even twenty years for that matter, one of these obsessed monsters will find one, and come looking for me.”

“For Eva Sarah Rosenberg,” Jake said, pointedly.

Eva’s eyes narrowed in uncertainty. “What are you suggesting?”

“Well, I have a new identity; maybe you should have one too. Do you still have the papers? The ones my parents got for you?”

Eva shook her head no. “Lisl Hausmann is long gone. The Gestapo was after one of the Jewish nurses at the hospital. The partisans were hiding her. I gave them my papers. They changed the picture, bleached out the signature…I don’t know what happened to her.”

“Do you know who altered them?”

“I’ve no idea; but I could find out. Why?”

“Well, our dear Jake fell in love with a woman he met at Auschwitz. I was thinking…”

“Really?” Eva said, her expression brightening. “How wonderful for him. If even for a short time.”

“And for her as well,” Jake added. “She was quite lovely, intelligent and courageous. A fine physician, too. Reminded me of someone I know,” he concluded with a sideways glance.

“I see…” Eva said, playing along.

“The camp was overrun with typhus,” Jake went on. “It was inevitable she caught it.” He paused and took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “I promised her if I survived, I’d live my life in Jake’s memory. All things considered, I was thinking, it might be appropriate for you to…” He let it trail off, implying the rest was obvious.

“…to live my life in hers,” Eva said, slowly, taking a moment to contemplate the idea. “Yes, all things considered, I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?”

Jake nodded, solemnly.

“So…So, then, who am I?”

“Her name was Hannah. Hannah Friedman.”

“Hannah Friedman,” Eva echoed, trying it out. “I never thought of myself as a Hannah, but it’s a nice enough name. I guess I could get used to it.”

“Me too,” Jake said with an endearing smile. “And as soon as we can get papers forged, it will be yours.”

“And then what? Everyone knows me as Eva Rosenberg. It might be possible to stay here with a new identity; but it would be complicated…”

“…and dangerous,” Jake added, his eyes narrowing in concern. “We can’t go back to Munich. I don’t dare come forward and announce I’m Max Kleist, heir to the metal works fortune.”

“No you don’t dare,” Eva said with a spirited toss of her head. “Both our families are gone. There’s nothing holding us here. I’ve heard about a hospital in New York. A Jewish hospital. Since the mid-’30s they’ve had a special program to hire doctors fleeing the Nazis.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it, too. Mount Sinai as I recall.”

Eva nodded. “I was thinking maybe they could use a top-notch team of orthopedic surgeons.” She grinned, and added, “Jewish orthopedic surgeons.”