The German Suitcase (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“For the love of Jesus!” Steinbach exclaimed after Tannen and Stacey briefed him on Adam’s suspicions and the threat they posed. “You two really are the Bad News Bears, aren’t you? It’s the only time you ever come over here.”

Stacey shrugged and shot a helpless look to Tannen.

Tannen splayed his hands.

The smell of leather and machined brass hung in the silence, intensified by samples of the new line that were neatly stacked in every corner. Steinbach had papered the office with Zach Bolden’s black-and-white photo blow-ups of him and Jake. The powerful images with their proudly displayed Auschwitz tattoos—
Two old Jews sticking it to the Nazis!
as Steinbach had put it—looked down, mockingly, from every wall.

“So now what?!” Steinbach went on, still charged-up. “Instead of a story about Holocaust survivors and a vintage Steinbach, it’s going to be about a Nazi war criminal?! This is a fucking disaster!”

“You said you wanted controversy, Sol…”

“Well, I’m getting more than I bargained for!”

“Maybe we can spin it so Steinbach and Co. get the credit for unmasking him,” Tannen offered unconvincingly, “…if it turns out that’s the case.”

“I mean, like…” Stacey ventured with an uncertain pause, “…like there’s no way
The Times
’ll run the story without resolving this first, right?”

Tannen grunted in the affirmative.

“That’s the upside?!” Steinbach challenged. “We sure as hell can’t postpone the launch til then! I’ve got a factory going twenty-four/seven. A warehouse busting with inventory. Sales reps priming the pump. Retailers screaming for merchandise! I’ve got to start selling luggage or I’m screwed.”

“Then start selling,” Tannen counseled, his voice reclaiming its authority. “Get ahead of the story. Either way, it’ll minimize negative impact and boost sales.”

“Negative impact? This is a catastrophe!” Steinbach roared, gesturing to the photo blowups that surrounded them. “How the hell can I run these ads?!”

“Stay the course, Sol,” Tannen said, forcefully. “Not much else you can do until
The Times
sorts it out.”

“Are you nuts?” Steinbach erupted. “I’m not leaving it to them. No fucking way!”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know,” Steinbach replied, bristling. “I need a ride.” He sprung to his feet and strode toward the private bathroom where he showered and changed after biking to work each morning. He paused and, loosening his tie, locked his eyes onto Stacey’s. “You’ve saved my ass more than once, kid. I’ll be in here changing. When I come out, I’m expecting you to knock my socks off.”

“Knock my socks off?” Stacey mouthed, stifling a giggle as Steinbach retreated into the bathroom. “Do people still say that?”

“My father does,” Tannen replied with a little smile. “It’s an elder thing.”

Stacey’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “So, as the elder statesman on this team, any bright ideas?”

“Yeah. You’re going to knock his socks off.”

Stacey rolled her eyes. “Way I see it, we’re at the tipping point, here,” she said reflecting on a book she’d read recently. She crouched to one of the sample suitcases and opened the latches, then snapped them closed, then did it again and again—snap-click, snap-click, snap-click, her mind racing in search of an answer. “By the way, the tipping point is that moment when all factors and forces in a given situation are at critical mass and everything is about to change simultaneously.”

Tannen’s eyes twinkled with insight. “The shit’s about to hit the fan.”

Stacey groaned. “Well, that is another way of putting it.” She was still snapping latches when Steinbach reappeared in his yellow-and-black cycling outfit and no-heel shoes. He came toward her in an awkward gait and arched his brows expectantly.

“Go back to the experts,” Stacey said, smartly, before he could ask. “The Wiesenthal Center. Nobody knows more about war criminals, right? If anybody can sort this out, it’s—”

“You’re right,” Steinbach growled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Not much point in knocking your own socks off.”

Steinbach laughed. “What was that gal’s name?”

“Rother. Ellen Rother,” Tannen replied.

“Right. Set a meeting, ASAP.” Steinbach went to his Giro d’Italia leaning against the wall and rolled it toward the door, setting its titanium derailleur to clicking. “Oh…” he said, glancing back at Stacey, “…in case you’re wondering, your boyfriend isn’t invited.” He rolled the bike into the corridor, leaving Stacey and Tannen in the office, mouths agape.

“Hell of a character, isn’t he?” Tannen prompted.

“A comic book character,” Stacey replied with an appreciative chuckle. “Kind of like Clark Kent going into the phone both and coming out as Superman.”

Tannen’s brow furrowed . “We could use the man of steel about now.”

“You thinking it’s time we get Gunther into it?”

Tannen winced. “Naw, it’s still too…too dicey. Besides, he won’t be back til next week. We can’t wait that long.” He plucked his cell phone from its holster. “I better get this thing set up.”

“I’ve got a call to make too,” Stacey said with trepidation, slipping her Blackberry from her handbag.

Tannen smiled, knowingly. “Good luck.”

“You think it’s the right move? Calling him…”

Tannen waggled a hand. “It’s always better when Celine just comes up behind my chair and hugs me. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. Know what I mean?”

“A little tenderness…”

Tannen nodded.

Stacey thanked him with a smile and put the Blackberry away.

Tannen set-up the meeting with Ellen Rother for the following morning, then he and Stacey headed back to the office. The city was steeped in sweltering humidity which had a way of intensifying the pressure. Stacey focused on developing ads that would feature other owners of vintage Steinbachs. Tannen worked on contingency plans and damage control in case the ads featuring Jake Epstein had to be pulled, and on scheduling photo shoots with Zach Bolden. When they finally called it a night, Tannen headed to the driving range at Chelsea Piers. It was a short walk from his West Village condo in one of the austere, glass boxes that had been built recently along the Hudson. Stacey headed south on Park Avenue, calling Adam’s editor at
The Times
en route.

“Paul? Yeah, hi, it’s Stacey. Any chance he’s still there? Oh, okay,” she sighed, disappointed. “I was going to have you call down a pass so I could surprise him. Yeah, probably is. Thanks.” She pocketed the Blackberry and headed into Grand Central, taking the shuttle to Times Square where she caught the subway that ran up the west side from the Battery to Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx.

Along with its swirling litter, thundering racket, and nauseating olfactory offenses, for $2.25, the Metropolitan Transit Authority also provided its subway riders with a cellular dead zone. Nary a catchy personal ringtone had ever been heard in these tunnels cut through the bedrock from which skyscrapers soared. Indeed, New Yorkers were free to think, reflect, zone-out, read a book, blast their iPods, decide whether to cook or get takeout, replay the day’s events, sleep, or as Stacey Dutton was doing now, indulge in self recrimination.

In unnervingly close, if not intimate, contact with dozens of strangers, she was holding onto a pole with one hand, and a paperback of Malcolm Gladwell’s
Outliers
—a quirky analysis of why some people succeed—with the other. The words became a blur as her mind kept replaying her spat with Adam. Stacey knew she was wrong, knew she had unjustly accused him of something unethical, something she believed him incapable of doing. Heartened by Tannen’s advice, she was anxious to apologize and make amends. When the No. 1 train pulled into the 79th Street station, she bolted from the car and sprinted up the stairs, making a beeline for the Crunch Gym on 83rd and Amsterdam. She often took this circuitous route to her apartment, pressing her nose to the glass if Adam was there, making him laugh; but he wasn’t on one of the window-facing treadmills he favored. The news crawl on the ubiquitous TV monitors read:
HANNAH MONTANA GETS NAKED. SEXY PICS FOUND ON MILEY’S IPHONE. DAD BILLY RAY FAULTED OVER
VANITY FAIR
PHOTO SPREAD
.

Adam wasn’t at the Starbucks on 81st and Columbus either; but, Stacey brightened at the soft click of a keyboard on entering her apartment. Adam glanced over his shoulder then back to the monitor without acknowledging her. After setting her things aside, Stacey slipped up behind him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. A long moment passed before he swiveled to face her. “How’re you doing, babe?” he asked, looking up at her with concern. “You okay?”

Stacey nodded, clearly relieved, and despite Tannen’s advice, said, “I’m sorry, I was way out of…”

“Shussh…” Adam whispered, his face against her breast, his arms squeezing her torso, tightly.

“How’re you doing?” Stacey prompted, softly, surprised by the intensity of his embrace. “You okay?”

“Yeah…yeah, I guess,” Adam replied as he released her and leaned back slightly.

Stacey’s eyes glistened with remorse. “The old guy just speaks to me, you know. I mean, I feel kind of protective toward him, almost maternal…”

Adam nodded, knowingly. “Very admirable traits. Not terribly useful for an investigative journalist, but admirable.”

“I know. I don’t have your certainty…your… your…” Stacey paused, unable to find the word she wanted which didn’t happen very often.

“Detachment,” Adam said, supplying it.

Stacey nodded as if conceding a flaw.

“Then you made the right choice, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah I guess,” Stacey said, awkwardly. Then, pushing past it, she gestured to the data on the monitor and asked, “So, what’re you up to?”

“Maximilian Kleist,” Adam replied with a sigh. “Over six million hits. M.D.—Nazi—SS—Auschwitz narrowed it to a couple of thousand. Lots of Maxes. Lots of Kleists and von Kleists; but Max Kleists?” He held up three fingers. “A guy in Berlin on Facebook; a guy in New York suing his father-in-law for busting-up his marriage; and a guy with restricted access. I’m still waiting on the German Military Archives; but the word is they’re notoriously slow. I’ve got nothing. It’s a total wipe out.”

“Well…” Stacey said, coyly. “I’d say, total sounds a little extreme…”

“What?” Adam prompted, sensing her inference. “What’s going on?”

“I shouldn’t tell you…”

“As I recall,” Adam said softly, nuzzling her. “That’s what you said the last time.”

“As I recall, this is what you did the last time.” Stacey emitted a squeal and spun from his grasp. “We’re getting the Wiesenthal Center into it. Tannen set up a meeting.”

Adam raised a brow. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Stacey replied; then, sounding apprehensive, she added, “You’re not invited. I mean, you were specifically not invited.”

Adam sagged in disappointment, then brightened at an idea. He reached to his backpack beneath the desk and removed his recorder. “Do me a favor,” he said, getting to his feet and offering it to her. “Take this with you?”

Stacey’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “You mean, like…like wear a wire?”

“Well…” Adam mused. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. Actually, it has amazing range. Just leave it in your bag and press Record.”

“Come on, Clive, you know I can’t do that.”

“Hey…it’s not Clive who’s asking,” Adam said, taking her face in his hands. “It’s me. Adam. The guy who’s in love with you. The crass tabloid reporter who’s still smiling over that sweet moment before…”

Stacey’s resistance crumbled with a sigh as she embraced him and, cheek pressing against his stubble, lips grazing his ear, whispered, “I’ll always be your little undercover girl…under the covers…on top of the covers…between the covers…always…but not tomorrow. Not at that meeting. I can’t.”

Adam leaned away from her with a puzzled frown. “You’re not serious…”

Stacey nodded. “It’d be wrong. You know it.”

“Come on, babe. I’ve got a lot riding on this.”

“Don’t do this,” Stacey pleaded, running her fingers through her spiky hair, nervously. “You’re confusing me.”

“Why? I’m just asking for your help.”

“No, you’re asking me to be disloyal. To do something underhanded. I’m confused because…I mean… Well, you’re…you’re Adam: the ethics guy; the guy who lectures at Columbia on moral ambiguity; who doesn’t cut corners, plays it straight; who said it’s a search for the truth…”

“Look, I really need to break this story,” Adam pleaded, his eyes widening.

Stacey backed away a few steps and, holding his look, said, “You know, I felt really bad for what I said in Tannen’s office; it was a low blow; but—”

“Really low,” Adam interrupted, pressing his advantage. “Now’s your chance to make up for it.”

“—but now…” Stacey continued, ignoring his retort. “Now, I’m starting to think, maybe, I was right. I’m getting the feeling you’ll do anything to make this story into something it isn’t.”

“Well, listening to your bullshit isn’t one of them!” Adam exclaimed, eyes flaring. He sent the desk chair rolling with an angry shove, scooped up his backpack, tossed the recorder into it, and charged out of the apartment, slamming the door after him.

Stacey shuddered, trying to come to grips with what had just happened. Her eyes welled with emotion, sending tears streaming down her cheeks. She took a deep breath, then stepped to the computer where the results of the Google search were displayed. She grasped the mouse and after several clicks, the screen went black.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Max hurried down the corridor in the Officers’ Housing Unit, pulling off his greatcoat. He fumbled with the key to his room, got the door open, and charged through it, tossing the coat on his bunk en route to the lavatory. He bent over the toilet and vomited, then vomited again. He took a few moments to recover, then flushed it and, with his mouth and nostrils aflame with the sting of bile, went to the sink to wash up.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened.

The trainloads of prisoners had been arriving at ever shorter intervals. Max had done several more tours since his shocking initiation with Kruger. As with the first, anxiety and tormenting guilt gave way to dispassionate decision-making. After each, Max retched violently, slept poorly, and wrestled with his conscience fearing he was becoming not only desensitized but dehumanized. He continued to avoid his colleagues and spent off-duty hours in his quarters, working on designs for prosthetics, listening to music on the radio, and reading Hufeland’s book on medical ethics.

Max shut off the spigot and was reaching for a towel when he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. He was stunned by the image that stared back at him. His face had lost its freshness, his eyes their aura of hope. He seemed to have aged ten years in not even as many days. Who is that person? he wondered. What is he doing here? How could he be involved in this—this evilness. It was as if he had created another person to cope with the discord the way abused children create another self who deserves the abuse. The inhumane nature of his assignment had been so disturbing that he retained the letter he had written to his parents, adding page after page on which he documented it.

A gusty wind was rattling the windows as Max addressed the envelope. He had just set it aside, intending to mail it at the camp post office in the morning, when someone knocked on the door.

“Hello, Max,” Captain Kruger said with a friendly smile when Max opened it. “Can I come in for a moment?”

“Of course,” Max replied, relieved after the way Kruger had acted on the ramp.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Kruger said as Max closed the door. “But the ramp is no place for collegial chatter.”

“I know, Otto. At least I do, now. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I had no idea what was—”

Kruger put a finger to his lips and turned on the radio. The inexpensive Deutscher Kleinempfanger—German small receiver—had been distributed at the Führer’s order to German households and military installations by the millions. Its Bakelite cabinet had two knobs, and a speaker covered with coarse cloth. An Imperial Eagle, clutching a swastika in its claws, was perched above the dial. Kruger thumbed it and found Die Walküre from Wagner’s Ring, ever-present on Third Reich broadcasts as were the Führer’s rantings and those of his Propaganda Minister Josef Goebbels. “That should convince any eavesdroppers we’re good Nazis,” Kruger said with a wily smile. He produced a pack of Sturms, gave one to Max and took one himself. “When I’m on the ramp, I block out all thoughts of people, places, family, everything.” He struck a match and lit Max’s cigarette, then his own. “It’s the only way I can get through it. Coming upon you so unexpectedly, well…”

Max nodded. “You’re not alone, Otto.”

“Yes, I watched you out there. I knew you’d understand.” Kruger took a deep drag of his cigarette. “You still keep in touch with Professor Gerhard?”

“Of course. I was the SS liaison to the Med School. Being reassigned so close to home, again, was a big surprise. I expected a combat unit.”

“So did I. It’s been almost a year. Home is a distant memory.” He exhaled wistfully, then noticed the envelope on the desk. “What’s that?”

“Oh, just a letter to my parents.”

Kruger winced. “I wouldn’t post it if I were you. Nothing leaves here. Not since the war started going badly. No phone, no mail, no passes and no visitors.”

Max took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. “It sounds like we’re prisoners too, Otto.”

“Precisely. They don’t want anyone to know what’s going on. They’re terrified of the consequences if the Allies win.” He finished it with a look that said: And let’s hope they do! A thought neither dared say aloud despite the thunderous music from the radio. “The mail is confiscated to catch dissenters,” Kruger went on. “If you’ve written the truth, you’ll be accused of treason.”

Max slipped the envelope into a drawer. “I’ve come too close to chance it, again.”

“A problem with your friends?” Kruger prompted in a veiled reference to Jake and Eva.

Max nodded. “They’re on the run. I got Professor Gerhard and my family involved. They’re all in danger, now, thanks to me.”

Kruger sighed in commiseration. “Speaking of families. I’m afraid those old folks you spared on the ramp the other night were culled out during processing.”

Max felt as if he’d been gutted. His eyes hardened with insight. “It was Radek, wasn’t it?”

Kruger nodded, grimly. “I’m told he executed them. Personally. Be careful, Max. You’ve made an enemy. I wouldn’t have told you such upsetting news, otherwise.”

“Thanks, Otto. Thanks a lot.”

“You’d do the same for me, Max,” Kruger said, stubbing out his cigarette. “I was on my way to the Officer’s Club. I’d been hoping to see you there.”

Max shrugged in apology.

“You should come, Max. It’ll do you good. We’re all doctors…good men. We blow off steam, get drunk and laugh. God knows you need it. Come on. I insist.”

Max was considering it when the musical broadcast was interrupted by a shrill voice: “Our beloved Führer has designated Berlin a fortress city!” Josef Goebbels exclaimed, launching into one of his tirades. “And has denounced claims that it will soon fall as vicious lies! The great German people are not demoralized by such mendacity! The destiny of the Aryan race is…” Max turned off the radio and led the way from the room, sharing a knowing smile with Kruger.

The Officer’s Club at Dachau was richly furnished, dimly illuminated and alive with the clack of billiards and repartee like a British men’s club; but instead of balding butlers in cutaways, attractive Jewish prisoners—from the wives and daughters of farmers to those of wealthy bankers and aristocrats—were forced to serve food and drinks and, despite the Nuremberg Laws that forbade sexual intercourse between Jews and Aryans, often themselves. Officers in black tunics, jodhpurs and gleaming boots gathered around tables, preened in club chairs, and slouched on sofas. The room sparkled with badges of rank, silver buttons, gleaming buckles and braided lanyards. A wall of shelves held rows of black caps with silver Death’s Heads above the peaks, their hollow eye sockets bearing blind witness to the goings-on.

Kruger introduced Max to a group of officers at a table covered with steins, tumblers, and stemware. The alcohol worked, quickly; and, soon, they were rocking with laughter and reminiscing about hometowns, families, and women they had left behind. Max reflected on his love for Eva, but didn’t dare mention he pined for a Jewess. His concern that Kruger might make a slip, was alleviated by a wink that signaled Max had nothing to worry about. Otto was right. In the company of these men, family men, educated men, physicians, Max felt almost human, again. After a while, Major Karl Heiden, an older fellow, holding court at the head of the table, leaned to Max and asked, “So, how are you doing? Have you been coping?”

“No, not very well, I’m afraid.”

“Well, we’ve all been through it, son,” Major Heiden said with the bedside manner of a small town doctor. “It takes time. You’ll get used to it.”

“I am getting used to it, Sir. That’s what worries me. It gets easier and easier. Though I can’t imagine ever getting used to playing God.”

“That’s not the way to look at it, my boy,” the older fellow counseled. “You’re a surgeon, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes I am. Orthopedics is my specialty.”

“Well, there you have it,” the Major concluded, signaling a waitress for a refill. “Making selections is no different than amputating a gangrenous limb or cutting out a bone cancer. By excising these threats to the nation’s health we’re saving lives as our oath mandates.”

Max looked confused. “You make it sound as if we’re practicing preventive medicine.”

“We are,” a young lieutenant with thick-lensed glasses chimed-in. “Working on the ramp is analogous to using a microscope in the lab to detect cancer cells or replicating viruses so they can be dealt with before they destroy the host body.”

“A convenient metaphor,” a middle-aged fellow, sporting captain’s insignia, said. “Fine, if it helps you sleep nights. I much prefer this.” He held up his glass of whiskey and grinned widely.

“I’ll drink to that!” an officer with a cocky air and a waxed moustache, exclaimed, before draining his glass. “What appears benign at first all too often turns out to be pernicious under higher magnification. The lieutenant’s analogy is no exception.”

“Yes, but it helps when the anesthesia wears off,” the young officer retorted, raising his glass. “Prost!”

“Gentlemen, please?” Kruger said, tired of their jousting. “It’s time we stopped treating our oath as something to be…” He wanted to say manipulated and subverted; but thought the better of it. “…to be redefined, so we can claim we’re living up to it.”

“But we’re not redefining it, are we?” the cocky officer prompted, blotting droplets of foam from his mustache. “Others are doing it for us.”

“Each of us still has to live within the dictates of his conscience,” Kruger said, pressing the point. “It’s a personal, individual choice.”

“Not anymore,” the young officer protested, fueled by the martinis he had consumed. “Have you read
Mein Kampf
?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t?”

“Well, the Führer makes it very clear,” the young officer lectured. “Those with social and genetic disorders that threaten Aryan survivaal must be identified by medical analysis. As Major Heiden said, when we make selections we’re using science to eliminate racial impurities and ensure the nation’s health.”

“Thank you,” the major said, reasserting his authority. Numbed by the alcohol, he had drifted off, seeming disengaged. “I’m afraid we’re forced to revisit this matter every time a new fellow joins the team. You seem like a nice young man and, I’m sure, a fine surgeon,” he went on, absolving Max with a smile. “But, none of us were happy to see you. Why? Because we’re tired of all this soul-searching. Who is most qualified to root out these racial cancers? Doctors. It’s as simple as that.”

Max had been sitting quietly, sipping his beer, taking it all in without taking part. Now, he heard himself saying, “Yes, assuming one accepts the premise; but it’s a false premise, and—”

“It’s the Führer’s premise,” Major Heiden snapped, his voice taking on an edge. “He has declared that Jews, gypsies, Bolsheviks and other degenerate species must be excised; and I’ve seen first hand what happens to those who disagree.”

“So have I, major; but how do you explain this to an outsider who claims it’s mass murder…the extermination of an entire race of people?” Max asked, being careful to attribute the question to a third party.

“Gentlemen!” someone called out before the old fellow could reply. “Am I mistaken or has Captain Kleist just accused the Führer of mass murder?”

Max knew the voice. He turned to see Radek standing behind him with an entourage of SS men. Kruger signaled him to ignore the provocation; but Max sprung to his feet as if welcoming it. “Quite mistaken. I never mentioned the Führer, lieutenant. You did. And I have witnesses.”

“I’ll be sure he gets their names,” Radek said with an insidious smirk. “I hasten to remind you—and your witnesses—that such remarks are grounds for disciplinary action, if not the firing squad.”

“So is insubordination,” Max retorted. “In case you’ve forgotten, lieutenant, I outrank you.”

“Not for long. Not after the commandant learns of your disloyalty on the ramp,” Radek countered, poking a finger into Max’s chest. Max brushed it aside. “Keep your hands to yourself, lieutenant.” Radek stiffened, threateningly, bristling within the knife-edged creases of his uniform. Max stood his ground glaring at him. They were on the verge of blows when Kruger lunged between them. “Gentlemen?! Gentlemen, stand down! Stand down or you’ll both face disciplinary action!” The two men’s eyes remained locked as other officers, responding to the commotion, gathered around them. Finally, they each took several steps back.

“Good,” Kruger said, forcing a smile. “Now let’s return to our seats and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

Max managed a contrite nod.

Radek smirked, then snapped his fingers at a young waitress passing with a tray of drinks. His entourage pounced like a pack of retrievers, delivering her to him, swiftly. Despite her physical maturity, she was still in her teens and self-conscious about her low-cut costume. Radek swept his eyes across the frightened girl’s creamy bosom as he plucked a glass of whiskey from her tray and toasted, “To Captain Maximilian Kleist who seems to have forgotten that he has taken two oaths: One as a doctor and one as an SS officer.”

Max took his stein from the table and, without missing a beat, said, “To Dr. Klaus Radek who suffers from the same malady!” He cocked his head, feigning uncertainty. “Did I just call you Doctor Radek? No offense intended, lieutenant. I take it back.”

“Along with your oath to the Führer to prevent these vermin from soiling the Aryan race!” Radek swept his glass in an arc past the assembled officers. “Prost!”

Some of them forced smiles. Others raised their glasses halfheartedly. A few thrust them into the air.

“What are you waiting for?!” Radek exhorted the laggards. “Toast the Jew-lover!” He drained the glass and slammed it atop the table. “Keep in mind the alternative to Selections is typhus duty in the prison hospital!”

“That’s right,” one of the officers said. “Goetz lasted less than three months, remember?”

“You mean, he died of typhus,” Max said.

“Yes! Painfully! Horribly!” Radek exclaimed with glee. “Served him right as it will you, captain, should your disloyalty continue. Heil Hitler!” He snapped-off a Nazi salute. “Bring the Jewess,” he ordered, striding off. The SS men who, still had the young waitress in tow, knew what that meant; and, from the look in her eyes as they escorted her from the club, so did she.