The German Suitcase (12 page)

“No, you haven’t. And you won’t. I won’t let you.” She threw back the pile of bed covers and beckoned he join her. “Now get under here. We have to do everything we can to stay alive.”

“Why? So the Nazis can capture and kill us?”

“Jacob,” she said with a roll of her eyes, like a mother scolding a child. “It’s time for bed. Now.”

Jake sighed in concession and did as she ordered. Eva blew out the candle, then pulled the bedding up over them, and pressed her back against his. “Good night, Jacob. God bless.”

“I hope so…” Jake said, feeling more vulnerable, now, than ashamed, “…but the desperate prayers of our people have gone unanswered for so long, I’ve little faith He’ll hear ours.”

While Eva and Jake huddled in the cabin’s unfamiliar darkness, 60 kilometers to the north, a motorcycle came down the road toward the Starnberg Checkpoint. Its headlight, masked to a narrow slit, sliced through the blackness like an illuminated saber. The driver and an SS officer, riding in the side car, looked like snowmen in their white-splotched greatcoats. Both wore helmets and goggles and carried side arms. The motorcycle turned onto the snow-covered shoulder and slithered through the drifts toward the guardhouse.

The painted pine interior had a single bunk, several chairs, a desk with a phone and typewriter, a tack board on which bulletins and fugitive alerts were displayed, and a potbelly stove where a coffee pot hissed. The Sergeant, sporting a bandage on his dog-bitten knuckle, sat at the desk, two-finger typing a report. The Lieutenant stood at a window, smoking a cigarette while keeping an eye on the road. “We have visitors,” he said as the SS officer climbed out of the sidecar and pulled a courier’s bag from the foot well. He shouldered his way through the door, and pushed his snow-caked goggles up onto his helmet before pulling off a glove and taking an envelope from his bag. “Fugitive alert. SS Munich. Top priority,” he said, handing it to the Sergeant.

The envelope contained two alerts. FUGITIVE JEW was printed in large letters across the top of each. The name Dr. Eva Sarah Rosenberg was beneath her photograph on one. Dr. Jacob Israel Epstein beneath his photograph on the other. The alerts stated that Major Heinrich Steig at SS Headquarters be notified immediately if they were sighted or captured; and that they be taken alive for purposes of interrogation. The photos had been obtained from Eva and Jake’s student files which Steig had confiscated. Taken three years ago when they first came to the Medical School they depicted young, bright-eyed idealists eager to study medicine and the art of healing.

The sergeant’s eyes widened at the sight of them. He waited until the courier, who had poured himself a mug of coffee, had finished it and departed before showing them to the lieutenant.

“Tack them up with the others,” Junger said with a dismissive exhale of cigarette smoke after giving them a cursory glance. “We’ll keep an eye out for them.”

“It’s a little late for that,” the sergeant said with a self-satisfied smirk. “I think they were in the car, this morning, with your girlfriend.”

“What?” the lieutenant said with a puzzled frown. “You mean with Fraulein Kleist?”

The sergeant nodded, smugly.

“You realize what you’re suggesting? The Kleists? Harboring Jews? Are you positive it was them?”

“I’m not sure about the woman. She was so bundled up I could barely see her face. But him—” he stabbed an angry forefinger at Jake’s picture. “—He was in the back with that fucking dog. I was staring right at him.”

“That’s…that’s incredible. I can’t believe it.”

“Well, I’d hate to be the one who has to explain to SS Major—” The sergeant paused and glanced to the alert “—Steig, why we didn’t report our sighting.”

“You’d hate to be the one to wrongly accuse Herr Kleist of harboring Jews, either. Believe me,” Lieutenant Junger retorted. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then turned to the window and stared at the blowing snow, wrestling with the dilemma.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

During the week following the photo session in Zach Bolden’s studio, Stacey and Tannen concentrated on developing other creative phases of the ad campaign; and contacting past Steinbach clients who possessed pieces of luggage that had attained vintage status. They had just wrapped up a meeting with several who had agreed to participate when the CD’s from the Wiesenthal Center arrived. Tannen popped one into his computer and began reviewing the data with Stacey. As promised, archivist Ellen Rother had photo-documented, and annotated the historical significance of every item in Dr. Jacob Epstein’s suitcase.

The visual and written data revealed that: The documents which had been partly visible when Ellen opened the suitcase were Jake Epstein’s Displaced Persons Identity Card issued by a post war processing center and his Austrian passport. A photo, taken in his early twenties, was affixed to the latter by a metal rivet. The clothing had been manufactured in Europe during the period. Though of high quality, their total cost would have been about forty Reichmarks, or four U.S. Dollars at the 1945 exchange rate. Also among the items were: an empty Sturm cigarette package, a copy of
All Quiet on the Western Front
in a
Mein Kampf
dust jacket, a pillowcase, and a dog collar. Each of the snapshots found in one of the pockets was a close-up of a concentration camp prisoner’s forearm. Each had a different number tattooed on it preceded by the letter A for Auschwitz. A few ended with a tiny triangle, designating a female prisoner. Though the prints were faded and crackled with age, the numbers could still be read. However, the shallow depth-of-field blurred everything beyond, making the prisoners’ faces unrecognizable. The CD contained nothing more shocking than the concentration camp uniform that had brought gasps when the suitcase was opened. Regarding the latter, Ellen’s report noted that a yellow triangle, which designated the wearer as a Jew, had been sewn above the left breast pocket as had a patch of white fabric with a prisoner number—A198841—stenciled on it.

That was yesterday.

This morning, Stacey, Tannen and Steinbach were selecting which of Zach Bolden’s photos—the ones he’d taken of Jake and Steinbach together—would be used in ads that would soon be running, simultaneously, in
Vogue, Vanity Fair, Harper’s, GQ, Esquire
and other fashionable magazines. The luminous, gritty, black-and-white enlargements had been tacked up on a wall in Tannen’s office. Like the lined faces, gnarled fingers, fading tattoos, and depth of character of their two well-worn subjects, the nicks, scratches, gouges and stains in the suitcase’s pebble-grained leather, along with the white, hand-painted personal data, were highly resolved, and rendered in extreme detail.

Steinbach’s quick eyes darted from one to the other as he walked slowly past them. “They’re perfect. Perfect. The client’s always right…except when he’s wrong. Mea culpa, kid,” he said to Stacey. “I owe you one.”

“Naw, we’re even, Mr. S.,” Stacey demurred with a glance to Tannen. “I had to do something to justify my billing rate.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Steinbach joked; then, he pointed to one of the prints, and said, “Don’t like this one much. Not enough machismo. You agree?”

Stacey nodded.

Tannen cocked his head in thought and removed the print from the board. A short time later, they were on the verge of picking a winner when Stacey’s Blackberry went off. She palmed it and glanced to the screen. The text message from Adam Stevens read: Plz call ASAP.

Adam had spent the time since the photo session working on his article—which would be published at the onset of the ad campaign—but hadn’t yet finalized the draft. There was a good chance the Wiesenthal CD would contain information worthy of discussion with Jake Epstein; and the lack of deadline pressure had enabled Adam to hold-off the interview until after it had been issued. He began reviewing the data on his laptop the moment it was delivered to his cubicle in the Times Building, yesterday; and was puzzling over one of the snapshots of prisoner identification numbers when Stacey returned his call.

“Hi, I’m in a meeting. What’s going on?”

“You check-out the Wiesenthal CD yet?” Adam asked.

“Yeah. Nothing earth-shattering. Why?”

“Well, it may not be earth-shattering, but what I’m looking at, here, is kind of weird.”

“Sounds like Clive-the-fastidious-fact- checker’s at it, again.”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact…” Adam quipped.

“You’re not still chewing on that date of birth thing, are you?”

“No, I ran that down. Turns out sometimes the prisoners painted the data themselves; sometimes the Nazis did it. I guess that could account for the discrepancy. I’ll get it nailed down in the interview.”

“Now, there’s a thought,” Stacey teased, good-naturedly. “So, what is it that’s got you weirded out?”

“Not over the phone.”

“Email me.”

“No way. It’s too sensitive. You should come over.”

“I can’t. I’m up to my ass.”

“Take it from me, this could be your ass.”

“Shit,” Stacey muttered in capitulation. “It better be good, Clive.”

The meeting with Steinbach and Tannen was winding down. Stacey explained the call was related to the
New York Times
story; then she hurried from the building and hailed a cab. “Forty-first and Eighth,” she said to the driver.

It was less than a mile—a five minute zip in light traffic, but a frustrating, half-hour slog in midday gridlock. Stacey fidgeted with impatience as the taxi inched forward. She had just noticed the news crawl on the backseat TV screen—which she thought read:
REPORT CLAIMS MICHAEL JACKSON FOUND DEAD
—when her Blackberry rang. Mom was flashing in the display. She slipped the device from its pouch, and bit a lip while making a decision, then thumbed Talk. “Hi, Mommy…” she said in her West Texas drawl which had a way of surfacing whenever she spoke to folks back home.

“Hi, there pun’kin,” her mother said, echoing her sugary accent. “Tried y’all a couple of times…”

“I’m sorry. It’s been like twenty-four-seven at work,” Stacey said, glancing to the news crawl which now read:
IRANIAN GOVERNMENT CLAIMS NEDA SHOT BY ELECTION PROTESTERS NOT MILITIAMAN AS WITNESSES CLAIM
. “You got the TV on? I think Michael Jackson died.”

“Sure as hell did. OD’d in his own bed. That’s what drug addict degenerates do. Probably had a coupl’a six year olds over for a slumber party,” her mother replied with a snide cackle. “So, what’cha all workin’ on?”

“An ad campaign, what else?”

“An-ad-campaign-what-else-for-what?” her mother said rapid-fire with a laugh, mimicking her.

“Luggage.”

“Sounds real excitin’. Speakin’ of roll-aboards, when’s my little jet-setter comin’ back home?”

“Christmas, I guess…”

“Book your flight yet?”

“Lighten up, Mom. It’s only June.”

“Be July in less than a week. Don’t lollygag, Stacey. They’re still lookin’ for an English teacher down at the high school. I always said you shoulda—”

“Mom…” Stacey groaned, making it into two syllables. “How many times do we have to have this conversation? I live here. In New York City. I’ve got a great job, a guy who cares about me, lots of friends, an apartment I love…”

“Your daddy misses you.”

“Maybe you should give him my number.”

“Very funny.”

“No it isn’t. He never calls me.”

“Hey, I live with the man; and he don’t say but two words to me. I mean, he’s just, I don’t know…”

“Taciturn?” Stacey prompted.

“There you go with your words. If that means he’s not much of a talker, then it’s right on target.”

The cab slowed and pulled to the curb next to the
Times
building. “Listen, I gotta go.” Stacey stuffed a ten in the driver’s hand. “Change is yours. I need a receipt. Sorry Mom, I’m dashin’ to a meetin’.”

“Who-all’s it with?”

“A reporter for
The New York Times
.”

“
The New York Times
? Y’all be careful, you hear? They think the gummint should be runnin’ our lives.”

“No one’s runnin’ mine but me, Mom.”

“Like always,” her mother retorted, unable to keep a hint of pride from softening her tone.

“Yep, like always. I gotta go.”

“Okay. I love you pun’kin. We all do.”

“I love y’all too, Mommy. Bye…” Stacey leapt from the cab, pocketing the Blackberry, then dashed into the lobby, unable to imagine just what Adam had discovered about Dr. Jacob Epstein’s suitcase that had so unnerved him; that had provoked his secretive behavior and threatening remark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Eva’s wistful smile was all Max could think about during the drive to SS Headquarters. Even as he strode beneath the frozen Nazi flags and through the steel door, Eva’s haunting image, framed by the wiper-streaked windshield of his sister’s car, came to him. The bustling activity in the entry hall snapped him out of it. He quickened his pace and went to the Duty Office to pick up his orders. Like his father, he had no doubt that a combat unit would be his fate. The Eastern Front under siege by the Red Army? The West where Allied forces had taken Bastogne and were advancing on the Rhine? He tore open the envelope and stared at his new posting with disbelief. It was as pleasantly surprising as it was confusing; but he had no doubt his parents would be relieved. “I need to use your phone, sergeant,” he said to the Duty Officer.

“All phones are restricted, Sir,” the sergeant said. “Besides, they’re holding transport for you.” He directed Max down a corridor to a door labeled Motor Pool. It opened onto a courtyard where a military supply truck, vapor rising from its tail pipe, was waiting. A group of SS enlisted men, in winter gear sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the cargo bed. Max tossed his duffel into the cab, climbed up next to the driver and was soon headed down Dachauer Strasse, an arrow-straight highway that ran northwest from central Munich.

Less than half an hour later, Captain Kleist was at the main entrance of Dachau Concentration Camp. Wrought iron letters welded to the gate, proclaimed:
Arbeit Macht Frei
; literally, Work Makes Free. At sunset, the stark shadow of its message crept across the grounds. Set amidst peaceful glens of birch trees and towering poplars, through which the Wurm River meandered, Dachau had been established in 1933 to incarcerate and reeducate enemies of the state; and, early on, many had been declared rehabilitated and released, even Jews with the proviso they leave the country; but, over the years, Dachau had become yet another Nazi extermination factory.

The young captain was shown into the Commandant’s Office in the Jourhaus, the camp’s main administration building. “Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain Waffen-SS,” reporting for duty, Sir,” Max said, snapping off a Nazi salute with as much military bearing as he could muster. “Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler,” the commandant said, raising his arm from the elbow without looking up from the file he was perusing. Despite his military polish, and the silver-plaited insignia of an Obersturmbannführer on his shoulder boards, Colonel Wilhelm Weiter, Waffen-SS, Kommandeur, Konzentrationslager Dachau, looked gaunt and weary. A Nazi flag behind him was flanked by stern photographs of the Führer and Reichsführer. Dreary, iron-gray light came from a window that framed a landscape of bare trees on the hillside beyond the train tracks that led to the main entrance. The colonel closed the file and looked up at Max. “Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain, Waffen-SS,” he repeated. “Is that what you said?”

“Yes, Sir,” Max replied, crisply.

“No!” the colonel snapped. “You are Captain Kleist, not Dr. Kleist. You are an SS officer first and a doctor second. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Welcome to KZ-Dachau, Captain Kleist.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You know, it’s against the rules for SS personnel to be posted in their home district?”

“Yes, Sir. I do,” Max replied, trying to sound congenial. “It came as a surprise. I’m quite fortunate. My parents will be pleased.”

“Really? According to your file—” Weiter said, slapping the folder on the desk, “—the reasons are disciplinary. Punishment for associating with Jews.”

“They were my classmates, Sir. They were also fine doctors, I might add.”

“One of them was also a fine lover, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir. She was.”

“At least it was the Jewish woman,” the colonel said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t joking. “You know the Führer’s views on homosexuals?”

Max nodded.

“You didn’t impregnate her, did you?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good. The only thing lower than homosexual Jews are heterosexual Jews. Do you know why?”

“No, Sir. I don’t.”

“They propagate.”

Max’s lips tightened. “As an officer and a physician I’m prepared to carry out my lawful duties, here, Sir, and conduct myself as a gentleman.”

“I’m sure you will…” The colonel stood and circled the desk. “Having been assigned to the ramp, you will have many opportunities to do so.”

“The ramp? I’m not familiar with it, Sir.”

“It is the most important assignment in the entire camp. Given only to doctors…the finest doctors…from fine families like yourself.”

“Thank you, Sir. Every member of the Kleist family strives to serve the Fatherland.”

Weiter’s eyes hardened. “Your oath is to the Führer, captain. The SS is sworn to serve him and only him. You will serve him by using your medical knowledge to prevent Jews and other degenerates from defiling the racial purity of the Aryan race.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Sir.”

“You will,” the colonel retorted. “Speaking of your family, I’ve been informed your father, though a devout Catholic, a vital contributor to the war effort, and a confidant of the Führer, is also a lover of Jews. The disciplinary notice in your file states that SS Major Steig suspects your entire family of helping Jews avoid relocation to work camps.”

Max locked his eyes onto the colonel’s and, in a strong, steady voice, said, “With all due respect, Sir, Major Steig is mistaken.”

Weiter studied him, then nodded, seeming to accept it. “Steig,” he grunted, his lip curling with disdain. “He’s a Party functionary. Not one of us. Not a true member of the officer corps which is why you’ve been given this chance to prove him wrong.”

“I won’t waste it, Sir.”

“Don’t!” the commandant exclaimed. “Be ruthless. Avoid ambiguity. Let nothing cloud your fealty to the Führer. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Sir. I can,” Max replied.

“Let’s hope so, for your family’s sake.” Weiter emphasized it with snap of his head, then circled back to his desk, and turned the pages of a binder. “We are expecting a trainload of prisoners in the next several days. Your first tour will be posted on the duty roster in your barracks. Check it often. A fellow officer and physician, who has served on the ramp with distinction, will conduct your orientation. Any questions?”

“Yes, Sir. I’d like to let my parents know I’m here. Is there phone I can use to—”

“No,” the commandant fired back. “All telephones are for official use only. All calls are monitored. Even mine.” He pushed a button on his intercom. “Send in Lieutenant Radek.”

A man with slick, center-parted hair and a cruel turn to his mouth strode into the office, carrying his SS cap tucked under his arm. Lieutenant Klaus Radek snapped to attention with a heel-click and an energetic Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler, Herr Commandant.”

Rabid. Attack dog. Dangerous…Max thought, taking notice of the medical caduceus on the collar of Radek’s pristine uniform. No bedside manner.

“Good luck, captain,” Weiter said, without acknowledging Radek. “Dismissed.”

The air was biting cold as the two officers left the building. Their greatcoats snapped in the wind as they crossed the desolate grounds on frozen gravel that crunched beneath their jackboots. “KZ-Dachau was the ingenious creation of Reischführer Himmler. It’s a privilege to be posted here,” Radek said, leading the way down a broad street that bisected the compound. A group of prisoners were chipping ice from the pavement in front of a guard tower. Their striped denim uniforms provided little protection from the cold or from the truncheons being wielded by the SS guards to make them work faster. “Dachau is divided into two main sections: Military Garrison and Prison Compound,” Radek resumed, unmoved by the display of cruelty. “The former includes housing for SS officers and enlisted personnel, the SS Training Center, and the Hygienic Institute where medical research is conducted. The prison is enclosed by electrified fences, a deep moat, and unscalable walls with seven guard towers. No one escapes from there. The prisoners work the gravel pits, build roads, drain marshes, and till fields. The skilled ones staff laboratories and workshops. We also supply workers to local armaments factories. Remember first and foremost Dachau is a work camp.”

Max nodded. “ I saw the sign in the entrance gate. Work Makes One Free.”

“Another example of the Reichsführer’s ingenuity,” Radek said with an appreciative cackle. “A brilliant motivator. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Max replied with a sly, sideways glance. “Second only to the truncheon as we’ve just seen. But none of the prisoners are ever freed, are they?”

Radek looked offended. “Death is their freedom. They work until they die of exhaustion, starvation, disease. In case you’re wondering, we aren’t able to house and feed everyone who is sent here. Your job will be to select the most robust and healthy.”

“And the rest?”

“You mean, the elderly, the sickly, those who can’t be productive workers?”

Max nodded.

“Exterminated on arrival,” Radek said, with self-righteous aplomb. He pointed to an area between the prison and central kitchen facility. “In that courtyard over there.”

Max stopped walking and locked his eyes onto Radek’s. “So, I decide who lives and who dies.” It was a statement not a question.

“No, Sir. They all die. You decide when.”

“Children?”

“Children are parasites. They consume food, take up space and produce nothing. You won’t find a kindergarten here.”

Max shuddered, shaken to his core. Be ruthless. Avoid ambiguity. Let nothing cloud your fealty to the Führer. The commandant’s advice had hit home in all its brutal honesty. He took a moment to settle, then lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Radek.

They were in the Prison Compound, now, striding down the Lagerstrasse that ran between two endless rows of beige stucco barracks. Each Block, as prisoner housing units were called, had a peaked roof, a few small windows, a single entrance, and a sign with large black numerals on a white field. Those aligned on the east side of the Lagerstrasse were numbered 1 through 17; those west 18 through 34.

“All prisoners are quartered here,” Radek went on. “Each trainload pits the executioners who have orders to kill all Jews and undesirables, against the administrators who must provide as many slave laborers as possible. We doctors are caught in the crossfire: charged with selecting those who are to be exterminated; and, amidst the poor hygiene of massive overcrowding, with maintaining the health of those selected for the work force. More than twenty thousand prisoners are housed in these barracks.”

Max gasped. “Twenty thousand?”

“Yes, Sir. In thirty-four blocks. Maximum capacity two hundred per block; but we’ve stacked the bunks and assigned three prisoners to each. All but Block Thirty-One—that’s the prisoner brothel.”

“Prisoner brothel?” Max echoed, astonished.

Radek nodded smugly. “The whores are all Aryans of course. They service political prisoners, skilled sub-camp workers…
Juden Verboten
.” He emitted an ironic chortle. “Even with that, the Prisoners Committee complains the conditions are beneath human dignity.”

“They are,” Max said, forcefully. “This is a breeding ground for epidemics. “Tuberculosis, typhus, diphtheria…”

Radek nodded grimly. The situation too grave for even him to shrug off. “We’ve a massive outbreak of typhus we’ll be lucky to contain. It’s forced us to expand the Revier,” he said, referring to the Prisoner Hospital. He pointed to the eastern row of barracks where another group of prisoners, supervised by SS guards, was constructing an exterior corridor that linked all but two of the seventeen housing Blocks. “It’s staffed by prisoner doctors. Mostly Jews. None of us ever go in there.”

Max looked aghast. “This isn’t a work camp. It’s a death camp…for us all.”

Radek smiled slyly at what he was about to say. “The next time you see Reichsführer Himmler, why don’t you suggest he change the nomenclature?”

Max glared at him in anger, decided the better of expressing it, and dragged deeply on his cigarette, picking up a pungent odor. “What do you do with the corpses?” he asked, emitting a lengthy exhale.

Radek nodded to the thin wisps rising on the wind. “Up in smoke,” he replied, amused by his cleverness.

“There’s a crematorium here?”

Radek nodded. “‘Thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.’ This is God’s work. We’re His little helpers.” He gestured to some buildings in a cluster of trees. “It’s next to the gas chamber. Neither is up to the task. The Genickschuss has proved efficient,” he said, referring to a point-blank pistol shot in the back of the neck. “Corpses are dumped in mass graves, doused with gasoline and burned…when we have gasoline.”

Max had heard the rumors. Everyone had; but no one could believe such atrocities were taking place ten miles from Central Munich, in Catholic Bavaria, in Germany—a cradle of Western civilization where great literature, music and art were created and revered; where cutting edge advances in science were made; where the printing press was invented; where Guttenberg printed bibles!

On the face of it, being posted to Dachau was the next best thing to being posted to the Medical School. Max could easily go home on leave; and, of course, his parents would be relieved he wasn’t in a combat unit; but Max wasn’t relieved; because being posted to Dachau wasn’t his punishment. No, as Major Steig’s snide threat had implied, the Jew-lover’s punishment would be more insidious than that. Indeed, being assigned to work the ramp—to make what were known as Selections—would force Max to engage in morally repugnant behavior and criminal acts.

At the completion of the orientation tour, Radek was leading the way down the Avenue of the SS, lined with the stately residences of the Commandant and the camp’s upper echelon when, in a deceptively congenial tone, he said, “By the way, Max, I understand that you—” He winced as if catching himself. “My apologies, Sir. I shouldn’t take such liberties without asking permission. May I use your Christian name, Sir?”

Max studied him warily. “No. No, lieutenant, you may not,” he replied, asserting the privilege of rank; then deciding that, at this early juncture, it might be wise to be accommodating, he added, “Of course, it might be acceptable in certain situations. For example if we were off duty, having an informal chat, that sort of thing…”