The German Suitcase (8 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The first weeks of June in the Hamptons had been cool and wet, but Bart Tannen still managed to get in a few rounds of golf and spend time with Celine Sentier, whom he’d met a decade ago in Gunther Global’s Paris office. Though Celine’s flair for nouvelle cuisine had won his heart, on moving to New York, she traded-in her whisk and garlic press for a real estate license and a cellphone; and, with Tannen’s backing, got into East End real estate—as in buy it, renovate it, flip it.

Last summer, after a day of scouting open houses, Celine returned to their East Hampton rental, and said, “I found a house…” She paused, eyeing him from beneath her Gunther Global baseball cap. “…for us.”

Tannen was on the screened-in porch reviewing a proposal for a client. “You know the one I want,” he said, without looking up from his work. “When it comes on the market, we’ll—” he paused, struck by her inference. “Really?” Tannen asked, his overgrown brows twitching. “It’s for sale?”

It, as Celine knew, was the cozy bungalow in Sag Harbor on Noyac Bay that Tannen’s parents had rented every summer when he was growing up. “Uh-huh, just listed.” She handed him the offering sheet and, forcing a huffy sigh, added, “You Americans are so sentimental.”

“Unbelievable,” Tannen said of the asking price. “Would’ve gone for thirty-K back then. What did we bid?”

“Well…” Celine said, squirming in discomfort, “I think maybe you want to—how you say—weigh-in, first?”

“What?!” Tannen grabbed her hand and lunged for the door. “If we don’t get it, I’m kicking your little French derriere from here to Sag Harbor and back!”

“I did—I did! I put in a bid!” Celine squealed, bursting into laughter. “One-point- six. We may have to bump it, but we’ll get it.”

And they did; and Tannen had been working on it in his spare time ever since. After spending this balmy Sunday morning refinishing the back deck, he spent the afternoon cursing a little white ball that refused to Bite! Get up! Cut! or obey any of the other commands he gave it in flight. The days were longest in June, and it was twilight when he reached Shinnecock’s closing hole. He was lining-up a putt when his cellphone rang. “Sol?” he growled, seeing the caller-ID.

“Get you at a bad time?”

“Naw, I was just getting it on in the shower with the Doublemint twins,” Tannen replied with a cackle. “So?” he prompted, aware Steinbach was at the Epstein wedding. “That’s fantastic!—Yeah, let me know. I’ll have Gunther set up the archivist.”

That same day, Stacey and Adam had ventured downtown to the Highline. Until about thirty years ago, the elevated tracks that cut through Chelsea and the West Village, carried railcars to the factories in meatpacking district below 14th Street. The abandoned right-of-way, with stunning views of the Hudson, had been turned into an urban park with seating areas amidst lacy trees and a variety of horticultural specimens. They had spent the afternoon strolling along the mile-long oasis and were exiting the glass-walled elevator at street level when Stacey’s eyes darted to a swatch of boldly striped fabric amidst some curbside trash. It turned out to be the sling of a classic beach chair. Both the canvas and wooden frame were in good condition. “A scrub in the tub and it’ll be like new!” she exclaimed, convincing Adam to haul it back uptown on the subway.

Dusk was falling as they returned to her apartment to freshen up; and unlike Tannen and the Doublemint twins, Stacey and Adam actually were getting it on in the shower when he called with the good news. Tannen’s voicemail was more than enough to keep her pulse rate up. “I think we better do take-out,” Stacey said, as she and Adam were dressing.

Adam frowned. “Why? I thought we were going to that sushi joint over on Columbus?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to get back up to speed on Steinbach.” Since the disappointing meeting with Dan Epstein, Stacey had been using her time to catch up on the assignments she had set aside to work on it, exclusively. “I haven’t looked at it in weeks.”

“Come on, it’s an ad campaign for roll-aboards.”

“It’s a lot more than that, now,” Stacey retorted. “Remember that story idea I mentioned?”

Adam nodded, his eyes widening with curiosity.

“Well, heat up your hard drive, Clive, because it’s going to happen. Human interest. Nazis. World War Two. Holocaust survivors teaming up in an ad campaign.”

“Your Dr. Epstein signed on?”

“Yup. He and the CEO of the luggage manufacturer.”

“That’s a helluva headline,” Adam said, envisioning it: “Survivors use Holocaust to sell luggage.”

“Real catchy, Clive. But the verb has to be more… more altruistic. Survivors Use Luggage To…To Memorialize Holocaust. How’s that?”

“Terrific,” Adam replied.

“Pretty damn good,” Adam’s editor at the Times said when he pitched the story the next morning.

“This is great,” Tannen said when Stacey ran it by him. “Sol will be stoked.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Steinbach exclaimed when Tannen called. “That little girl is going to own prime time. You can’t buy this kind of advertising and PR!”

“It’s up to my father,” Dan Epstein said, concerned the Foundation might be tarnished if the article was perceived as a public relations stunt.

“It’s
The
New York Times
,” Jake said brushing off his son’s concern. “All the news that’s fit to print!”

“I have serious misgivings about that,” Hannah Epstein said when Jake briefed her on his conversation with Sol Steinbach. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the wedding reception; and they had spent the day at home recovering. Now, cocktails in hand, they sat on the plush sofa in the library of their art-filled triplex above the Foundation’s offices. “I’m not so sure you should be doing this Steinbach thing at all.”

“Why not?” Jake wondered. “Sol’s one of us, one of the good people. Why shouldn’t I help him out?”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t. It’s just that delving into the past has a way of…of stirring things up; things like suppressed emotions, forgotten events…even certain people for that matter.”

“You sound just like, Dan,” Jake said, wearily.

“I’m speaking of things Dan knows nothing about.”

Jake’s lips tightened. He nodded and took a long swallow of his martini; then he reached out and took her hand. “What would I do without you, Hannah? All these years…you take such good care of me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, now,” Hannah said, ignoring his charm offensive. She held up her glass and exhorted, “
Vorsicht
, Jake.
Gehen sie mit vorsicht
.”

“Enough with the
vorsicht
,” Jake said, unmoved. “I’ve been proceeding with caution all my life.”

“Yes, and with good reason. Why stop now?”

Jake shrugged and drifted off in thought; then, he set his glass aside and, with renewed energy, said, “You’re right. This is no time to be living in the past or the future for that matter. At our age, we should be living in the moment.” He moved closer and began nuzzling her. “What’s wrong with having a little fun with Sol, hmm…” he went on, kissing her neck. “…and raising funds for the Foundation at the same time?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Hannah said, with a girlish giggle, squirming in his embrace. “I’m sorry. I suppose you’re right. I’ll come along if you like.”

“I thought you had a luncheon?”

“I can always beg-off and send a check.”

“No. No, go. It’s important. Besides, Dan insisted on coming. I’ll be fine.” He smiled and kissed her forehead, tenderly. “
Ich liebe dich
…”

“Oh, yes,” Hannah said, burrowing into him. “I love you, too, Jake Epstein.”

Mid-morning the next day, Dr. Jacob Epstein and his son arrived at Gunther Global’s reception area. Tannen and Stacey, and Steinbach, accompanied by his technical consultant, had already assembled in the conference room along with Adam Stevens who was making notes while a
New York Times
photographer moved about quietly with her camera. The small talk had waned and an anxious silence had fallen by the time Jake and Dan Epstein were shown in by a receptionist.

Jake’s eyes darted to the conference table. Wide in the middle, narrow at the ends, its forced perspective focused his attention on the suitcase that was perched atop the polished rosewood. Dramatically illuminated by a spotlight, the battered piece of luggage, with the worn, hand-painted lettering, could have been the featured work in an exhibition of found art. Jake stood there, transfixed, unable to take his eyes from it.

Stacey’s heart was captured by the old fellow the moment she saw him. Despite her hardball lobbying, she suddenly felt almost maternally protective of him—and with good reason. She was responsible for reuniting him with his suitcase, for stirring up the horrific past it represented, for forcing him to relive it; and, now, she was concerned about how it might affect him. Watching this genial octogenarian staring at the suitcase with his slight forward lean, which made him appear almost childlike, was heart-wrenching. She was trying to imagine what was going through his mind, and was feeling like a parent who, having encouraged her child to partake in an activity, suddenly realized it contained an element of danger she hadn’t anticipated.

The moment was broken when Mark Gunther arrived accompanied by two women. He introduced the fashionable, artistic-looking one with high cheekbones and observant eyes as his wife, Grace; and the tiny taut one with the earnest smile and black attaché as Ellen Rother, lead investigator and archivist for the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s New York Office.

Adam slipped an audio recorder from his pocket and turned it on. The voice-activated, digital Sony PCM-D50 was favored by journalists for its long battery life, ease of operation and downloading to computers. It freed them to participate in interviews while insuring the accuracy of quotations. Like most of them, Adam used a spiral pad to record observations about people and places, and make research notes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gunther said. “Grace and I took a few minutes to bring Ellen up to speed.” He shook Dr. Epstein’s hand and said, “Welcome to Gunther Global, Doctor. We’re very pleased you’re going to be working with us.”

“Work? Sol promised it would be fun!” Jake said, providing a much needed moment of levity.

“Either way, it’s a privilege to be part of this special moment, Dr. Epstein,” Ellen said as if in the presence of royalty. “The Center is most appreciative of your generosity and many decades of support.”

“The privilege has always been mine,” Jake said with a benevolent smile.

Ellen returned it, then set her attaché on the table. It contained equipment to photograph, package, protect, and label the suitcase and its contents. She took several shots of it from various angles with her digital camera, then looked to Steinbach’s tech, and said, “Can we open it, please?”

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the precise fellow came forward. He tried several keys from a set of masters, found the one he wanted, and jiggled it in the lock to awaken the pins from their decades of hibernation. The tumbler made a crisp, metallic sound when he turned it as did the second.

Ellen hesitated, feeling the weight of this solemn moment; then, as the others pressed-in around her, she thumbed the spring-loaded latches that popped open with startling German precision, and raised the lid. An odor of grime, sweat and death that had been festering for decades rose almost visibly into the air.

It wasn’t pungent enough to stifle the gasp that came in reaction to what was inside the suitcase. Every pair of eyes was riveted to the bold gray and white stripes of a concentration camp uniform. The ragged garment obscured the other contents, but bits and pieces could be seen peeking from beneath it: A document stamped with a bright green seal of an Eagle clutching a swastika. The corner of a hardcover book. The cuff of a shirt. The tail of a necktie. A sheaf of snapshots—once bound by a now-disintegrated rubber band—in a side pocket of the silk lining.

The group surged closer, expecting Ellen to remove the striped uniform, revealing the items below. Instead, she began photographing the open suitcase from multiple angles, zooming-in on various details. “This is going to take a few minutes. So if you’ll all please step back…”

Stacey had been sticking close to Dr. Epstein and, as the group moved aside, she noticed the old fellow’s eyes were glistening with emotion. “Why don’t you take a seat, Dr. Epstein?” she said, guiding him to a chair.

Dan noticed and joined them. “Dad? You okay?”

Jake nodded and wiped a tear from his eye.

Despite her act of kindness, Dan Epstein was glaring at Stacey whom he blamed, along with Tannen, for his father’s distress. “This is what I meant,” he said in a taut whisper to Tannen. “I knew it was a mistake to force him to relive it. I knew he’d be shaken.”

Tannen nodded sadly. “We’re all shaken.”

“Enough of that talk,” Jake called out, overhearing. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Steinbach chimed-in, his voice breaking as he turned away. He was trying to regain his composure when his cell phone rang. He pulled a sleeve over his watery eyes and flipped it open. A text message was crawling across the screen: Serial # match. Herr Konrad Kleist. Munich. Steinbach stared at it in confusion, then showed it to Tannen.

Tannen looked puzzled. “What?” he whispered, his overgrown brows arching like caterpillars. “The suitcase belongs to some guy named, Konrad Kleist?”

“Yeah, whoever he is,” Steinbach replied clearly puzzled. “He bought it. Maybe as a gift? Who knows?”

“Maybe,” Tannen said, unsatisfied. “I’d rather be safe than sorry, Sol. Soon as this is over we’ll take the good doctor aside and ask him.”

Stacey saw the whispered exchange and expressions of concern. She also saw Adam jotting in his notebook. “What’s going on boss? I’m getting a bad feeling, here.”

“I’m not sure. We’ll get into it, later.”

“Remember…there’s a reporter in the room.”

A few minutes later, Ellen put the camera in her attaché, and motioned the Gunthers aside. After a brief conversation, Ellen returned to the table, then closed the suitcase and snapped the latches. “Will you lock them, please?” she said to the tech. “This is much more involved than I expected,” she explained, addressing the puzzled group. “It really should be done in a controlled environment. With Dr. Epstein’s permission, I’d like to have the suitcase picked-up and taken to the Center’s lab.”