The German Suitcase (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

“Pretty damn good,” Sol Steinbach said, sounding like he meant it after Stacey Dutton and Bart Tannen presented the concept for the ad campaign. He had quick eyes, a wiry physique, and a crusty familiarity that went with his hands-on management style. “It’s classy and genuine. Good stuff. Real good. I like it a lot.”

“Thought you might,” Tannen said covering his sigh of relief with professional swagger.

Stacey’s book of Irving Penn’s photographs of cigarette butts was on the conference table next to the suitcase. It served as a prop during the presentation and, now, Steinbach was eagerly turning the pages of the exquisitely printed volume. “Amazing. I remember this show. I’ve belonged to MOMA for forty years. Haven’t smoked in twenty; but I’m dying for a cigarette now.” He laughed and closed the book with a thwack. “You think we could get Penn to do the print ads?”

Tannen shrugged. “I don’t even know if he’s still working. He’s no kid. I can tell you that.”

“Yeah,” Stacey chimed-in, her thumbs dancing over the keys of her Blackberry. “Here we go. Born 1917. Makes him…ninety-two.”

“Hey, I’ll take twenty more years,” Steinbach said with an infectious cackle. “I’m going to have ’em too. Know why? Competitive cycling. Now, that’s a sport. Muscle tone. Cardio-vascular conditioning. Take it from me, Bart. Trade-in your golf cart for a racing saddle before it’s too late.”

“Yeah, I hear they do wonders for your prostate,” Tannen said with a grin.

“Don’t tell me,” Steinbach said his eyes aglow with mischief. “You guys just landed the Flo-Max account.”

“Can we count on you for an endorsement?”

“Lucky for you there’s a lady present,” Steinbach retorted with a wink to Stacey. “This little gal saved your ass, Bart. I should hire her and get rid of all this overhead,” he went on, gesturing to the posh office and astonishing view of the city.

“The suitcase was just waiting there for me, Mr. Steinbach,” Stacey said, self-consciously. “I got lucky…”

“Makes three of us,” Steinbach fired back. He stepped to the suitcase and examined it from different angles. “Dates to the thirties,” he went on, zeroing-in on the serial number on the nameplate. He ran his fingertips over the pebble-grained leather, then the sweat-stained handle before going on to the precisely machined latches, pressing his thumbs against them. “It’s locked. No keys, huh?”

“How I wish,” Stacey replied.

“Mark suggested we get a locksmith,” Tannen said.

“For what? I’ll have one of my techs come over,” Steinbach said. He grasped the handle and stood the suitcase upright. The sound of the contents moving about, got his attention; but the sight of the hand-painted data—that Stacey and Tannen had been careful to conceal during their presentation—was like going over the handlebars at high speed. Steinbach flinched, taken aback. He knew what it meant. He knew the ugly story this piece of vintage Steinbach could tell.

Tannen saw his reaction and winced. “Sorry, we were hoping you wouldn’t see that, Sol.”

Stacey nodded. “Yeah, we weren’t planning on using this one, Mr. Steinbach.”

Steinbach’s busy eyes widened in an incredulous stare. “Why the hell not?”

“Well, we’re…we’re pretty sure it’s from the Holocaust,” Tannen replied, clearly surprised. “And we—”

“No shit, Sherlock. I know where the hell it’s from.” Steinbach pointed to the hand painted data. “That’s his group number and prisoner reference number. They were assigned at the deportation center.”

“Well, Sol, we felt it might be…be inappropriate to use the Holocaust to sell luggage. If you don’t find it offensive, then, maybe, we could—”

“Offensive?” Steinbach interrupted again. “No, no, it’s controversial. It’ll get plenty of attention.”

Tannen rolled his eyes. “Yeah like from the Jewish Defense League, the Wiesenthal Center, the W.J.C…” The latter was a reference to the World Jewish Congress.

“Hey, I give a lot of money to those guys,” Steinbach protested. He removed his suit jacket, then unfastened the cufflink on his left sleeve and pushed it up to his elbow, revealing a tattoo on the outside of his forearm. The faded numerals read: A178362. “The ‘A’ is for Auschwitz,” he explained bristling with anger. “On women, the number was followed by a tiny triangle because with our shaved heads and emaciated bodies the Nazis couldn’t tell one sex from the other unless we were naked.”

Stacey was visibly shaken. She’d learned what she knew about the Holocaust from living on the Upper West Side, her classes at Columbia, and the movies. When she was growing up in Lubbock, the state school board was more interested in the theory of Creationism than the fate of six million Jews in World War Two; and the only holocaust she heard about was the nuclear kind. The one ‘them commies’ were about to unleash. Stacey had never come face to face with a survivor, and gasped, softly, “Oh my God…”

“Exactly,” Steinbach said. “We used to say that a thousand times a day. The Jews are God’s chosen people? Chosen for what? Living hell?!” He shifted his look to Tannen. “So, we can dispense with the lectures on what’s appropriate or offensive. Okay?”

“Sure. I’m really sorry, Sol,” Tannen said like a chastised child. “In this business you learn to walk on eggs when it comes to these things.”

“No way you could know unless you’ve lived it,” Steinbach said, absolving him. “I was five years old when Auschwitz was liberated. I won’t go into what I did to survive.” He rolled down his sleeve and went about affixing the cufflink. “Father, mother, sisters all gone. And while they were being dehumanized, raped and exterminated, one of our biggest competitors—then and now—had a sign in the window of their store on the Champs-Elysees that said, No Dogs, No Jews.”

“Louie Vee?” Tannen prompted with disbelief.

Steinbach nodded, grimly. “Hey, it’s no secret. You can Google it. Then, they were collaborators. Now, they’re a conglomerate.”

“LVMH, right?” Stacey said, already thumbing the keys on her Blackberry.

“Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessy, SA,” Steinbach said with exaggerated pretention. “Somebody wrote a book about the company and mentioned how they made money by playing ball with Petain and his pro-Nazi government.”

“Found it,” Stacey said, scrolling down the screen. “Louis Vuitton, A French Saga, by Stephanie Bonvicini.” She scrolled again, and added, “In response to the charges the company worked with the Nazis, a spokesman said: ‘This is ancient history. The book covers a period when it was family run and long before it became part of LVMH. We are diverse, tolerant and all the things a modern company should be.’ That’s a quote.”

“They didn’t deny it, did they?” Steinbach said.

“Yeah, well it’s still going to stir up one hell of a hornet’s nest, Sol,” Tannen warned.

“It damn well better,” Steinbach growled. “Like I said, controversy is good. Generates lots of free media. It’ll make those Frenchmen squirm, too,” he went on with a laugh. “More important than that, much more important, it’ll keep the memory of the Holocaust alive.”

“Gunther’s been out front on that for decades,” Tannen said, jumping at the chance to establish GG’s Semitic bonafides. “The Never Forget campaign after the Seventy-Two Olympics was organized by this agency,” he went on, referring to the kidnapping and murder of Israeli athletes by Palestinian terrorists.

“For all the fucking good it did,” Steinbach fired-back. “Anti-Semitism is alive and well, Bart. We’ve got neo-Nazis in Paris abducting Jews off the street; Muslim wannabes in White Plains torching synagogues; bearded psychos in Tehran threatening to wipe Israel off the map.” He took a moment to settle, and then said, “After the war, I came to this country with my Uncle Abe, the only other family member to survive. He rebuilt the business from scratch, and it killed him. I was twenty-two when I took over. For me, it’s about profits. The more we generate, the more cash I have to support those causes that are close to my heart.”

“You know boss,” Stacey said, glancing to Tannen with a little grin, “Something tells me this piece of vintage Steinbach is going to be part of the campaign.”

“You bet your Blackberry,” Steinbach cracked. “That suitcase, and the guy who owned it, kick-off the campaign.”

“Assuming he’s still kicking,” Tannen cautioned.

Steinbach responded with a preoccupied nod. He had slipped on his glasses and was bent over the suitcase, squinting at the area next to the handle. “Looks like this one was monogrammed.”

“Hot-stamped in gold, as I recall,” Tannen prompted.

“Eighteen carat,” Steinbach replied, his voice ringing with pride. “Can’t make ‘em out. Fucking Nazis probably chipped ‘em off for the gold.” He removed his glasses, then smiled at a thought. “Come to think of it, I know a Jake Epstein. I know a handful of ‘em. One belongs to my temple; another lives in the same condo in Florida; another’s a surgeon. We served on a few boards together. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“Well, assuming we get lucky,” Tannen said with as much optimism as he could muster, “Our Jacob Epstein would be damn near ninety if he’s a day,”

Stacey’s thumbs were flying over her Blackberry, again. “Two-hundred-forty-thousand hits,” she said with a disappointed groan. “Jacob Epstein the Sculptor, the British financier, the rugby player…” She resumed thumbing the keyboard, using phone listings to narrow the search. “Okay, here we go. Lots of Epsteins in the Manhattan directory…not a single Jacob? A half-dozen or so J. Epsteins. Of those that list an address…not one lives in The Apthorp.”

“The Apthorp?” Steinbach echoed. “Geezus, talk about hornets nests. I don’t know who’s in more trouble, those guys or the ones who bought the Plaza. Anyway, here’s the drill: I’ll have my people run this serial number. I’ll also have ‘em put together a list of clients most likely to have vintage Steinbachs. I want to focus on print. Find out if Penn is still working. If he isn’t, look into Demarchalier and Meisel. I like Annie Leibovitz too; and I hear she needs the cash.”

“She may need the cash, but she’s doing Louie Vee,” Tannen said, referring to Steinbach’s competitor.

“Must be a mental block,” Steinbach said with a laugh. “There’s always Zach Bolden; but he’s usually booked solid. I want to move on this fast.”

“Me too,” Tannen said, gesturing to the suitcase. “You’re sending somebody to pick these locks, right?”

“Tomorrow. Won’t take him a minute,” Steinbach replied with a wily smile. “Who knows what we might learn about Jake Epstein once it’s opened…”

CHAPTER SIX

Two of the black-clad SS men had remained in the doorway of Professor Gerhard’s office. The third strode toward the desk, unbuttoning his winter greatcoat. His shoulder tabs sported the three-plaited silver threads of a Sturmbahnführer. “Professor Gerhard,” he said, removing a glove and extending a hand. “I’m Major Steig, the new SS liaison. I thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.”

“A pleasure,” the professor said, forcing a smile. He hung up the phone and shook Steig’s hand. Taut and sinewy, the Major had a malevolent edge and a self-conscious military bearing. There was nothing of the aristocrat in him, and Gerhard assumed he was one of the Nazi party functionaries with whom Himmler had been replacing members of the upper-class officer corps.

“You don’t seem at all surprised,” Steig said, with a glance to the phone.

Professor Gerhard shrugged, feigning indifference. “It happens all the time, now. People are here one day and gone the next. One gets used to it after a while.” His mind raced to find a way to get rid of the Major and his henchmen, and warn the students who were in danger. He slipped his watch from a vest pocket as if he had a pressing matter, stubbed out his cigarette in the Petri dish, and said, “Forgive me, but we are overwhelmed with casualties, not to mention classes have resumed. I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you as much time as I’d like.”

“But you’ll give me as much as I’d like, won’t you?” Steig said, savoring the riposte. For years, he’d been a Nazi Party organizer in Munich. The exponential growth of local cells and ruthless purging of anti-Nazi infiltrators during his tenure had gotten Himmler’s attention. An SS commission had been Steig’s reward; and he relished exercising his new-found authority. He nodded to one of the SS men to close the door, then raised his chin as if challenging the professor. “It seems that Gleichschaltung isn’t being enforced in your department,” he said, referring to Hitler’s program of Nazification designed to control every aspect of German life.

“Gleichschaltung…” the professor mused, taking a pack of Sturms from a pocket. “Cigarette?”

“An unhealthy habit. Frowned upon by the Führer,” the Major replied with a dismissive wave. “We were discussing Gleichschaltung.”

The professor put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, casually, as if he wasn’t intimidated. “We’ve always done our best to integrate our programs with the goals and ideals of—”

“Then how is it that you’ve failed to carry out the most important order of all?! That the purity of the Aryan race be preserved and protected! That all Jews be purged from our institutions!”

“With all due respect, Major, my orders are to graduate as many surgeons as possible as quickly as possible without regard to ethnic background.” He paused in search of a way to reinforce his position. “Surgeons who will bring glory to the Führer and the Third Reich by saving the lives and limbs of brave German soldiers wounded in battle.”

“Who issued those orders? Captain Kleist?”

“Really, Major, you know as well as I he passed them on from higher ups. I can assure you he did his best to see they were carried out.”

“Apparently, he failed to grasp the importance of racial purity. Perhaps, his involvement with one of the students in question clouded his judgment.”

“Involvement? What are you referring to?”

“You expect me to believe you don’t know Kleist and the Jewess Eva Rosenberg are lovers?! In direct violation of the Nuremberg Laws!” Steig exclaimed, referring to the anti-Semitic ordinances which, among other things, forbade sexual intercourse between Aryans and Jews. “I have it on good authority it began last year when he was still a student here.”

“Major, I run the Orthopedic Surgery Department, not the Cardio-Vascular Lab. I have nothing to do with matters of the heart. Eva Rosenberg is a very talented doctor as is Jacob Epstein who I imagine is the other ‘student in question’.” The professor knew once the SS smelled blood nothing could keep them from the kill. He was certain all was lost when a bizarre coincidence occurred to him. It could be dangerous to mention it; but if it gave Steig pause, it was worth the risk. He dragged deeply on his cigarette, then added, “As I recall, the Führer’s philosopher-in-residence just happens to be named Rosenberg as well.”

He was referring to Alfred Rosenberg an Estonian who had been a Hitler confidant since the early twenties. His pseudo-scientific theories of Aryan racial superiority and virulent anti-Semitism had so captivated Hitler that he made Rosenberg editor of
Volkischer Beobachter
, the Nazi newspaper, and made his book,
Mythus
—an irrational work extolling the National Socialist ideology—the Nazi bible.

“Just because his name sounds Jewish doesn’t mean he is Jewish. Even if he’s
mischlinge
, he’s been crucial to articulating the Führer’s vision,” the Major said, using the word for partial-Jew. “Some Jews with skills vital to the war effort have been exempted from Relocation. Some are even being allowed to serve in uniform. Several highly decorated. General Fritz Bayerlin, Commander of the Lehr Panzer Division for one. Admiral Bernhard Rogge for another. Both awarded the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords by the Führer.” Steig used a heel-click to emphasize the magnitude of their achievement. Indeed, the decoration he cited was equal to each man being awarded three U.S. Medals of Honor.

“My point exactly,” the Professor said, thinking he had pulled it off. “You see both Doctors Rosenberg and Epstein excelled in our accelerated program as did Captain Kleist. All three are certified orthopedic surgeons; and make up the most creatively talented team of doctors I’ve ever taught. Their work in the development of prosthetics is nothing short of brilliant; and, despite Kleist’s conscription, they continue to work together under my guidance. As you may know, Rosenberg and Epstein have Critical Skills Exemptions. I have their papers right here.” He removed two documents from a drawer, and gave them to the Major.

Steig tore them in half and threw them on the floor. “All medical exemptions have been cancelled by order of the Reichsführer! Brave German soldiers don’t need Jews to save their lives! Have you forgotten that all licenses to practice medicine issued to Jews have been nullified by the Nuremberg Laws?! That they are allowed to treat only their own kind to spare Aryan physicians from exposure to racial contamination?! Have you?”

“No I haven’t, Major,” the Professor replied evenly, exhaling a stream of smoke that filled the space between them. “It was Article Four as I recall; but under the circumstances, I thought—”

“The Führer does the thinking, Professor!” the Major exclaimed, slapping his glove on a corner of the desk. “You will see to it that the two Jewish students in question—and any others you know of—are purged from this institution! And their files sent to my office!” The Major tugged some paperwork from an inside pocket. “In keeping with the Führer’s decree that every Jew add the name Sarah or Israel to his or her own, these warrants in the name of Eva Sarah Rosenberg and Jacob Israel Epstein call for their immediate arrest and deportation to a work camp!” He turned to the two SS men and nodded. “Find them. Search every classroom and lecture hall until you do.”

“Wait!” the professor called out, causing the SS men to hesitate. “They’re not here,” he said in a bold lie. He took a clipboard from his desk and offered it to the Major. “You can check the schedule. Neither has class until later this afternoon.”

“They’ll be in custody by then!” the Major snapped. “The Reichsführer is outraged that this proliferation of Jewish doctors has gone unchecked; and that the high ethical and moral standards of Hippocrates which are essential to insuring the purity of German blood are being ignored!”

The professor suppressed his anger at how Himmler had twisted the meaning of the sacred Oath to coerce German doctors into diagnosing an imagined racial plague so its human carriers could be exterminated. “No doctor who trained at the University of Wittenberg Medical School needs to be reminded of his Oath,” the Professor said, referring to the University in Northeastern Germany where Martin Luther taught theology and developed the theses that he nailed to the door of All Saints Church, initiating the Protestant Reformation.

“Evidently, the Reichsführer disagrees,” Steig retorted. “I’m sure he’ll be fascinated to know what makes Wittenberg so significant in that regard.”

“Four hundred years of tradition,” the Professor replied with pride. “Considering Herr Himmler’s profound reverence for Hippocrates, I’m sure he knows Wittenberg was the first university to administer his Oath to medical students—in 1508.”

“He also knows his orders will be obeyed! Don’t disappoint him, again, Professor. Or I’ll be back with a warrant that has your name on it!”

Gerhard nodded like a chastened schoolboy and toyed with his cigarette.

“You know, Professor,” Steig went on with a smirk, “I’ve heard rumors you were involved with that traitor Huber and his White Rose troublemakers a few years ago.”

“With all due respect, Major, the rumors were false then; and they are false, now,” the Professor replied. “If I may, I’m quite concerned about Captain Kleist. As I said, he’s one of the brightest students I’ve ever had. A fine surgeon, from a fine Munich family, and I was wondering if—”

“Captain Kleist will be dealt with,” the Major interrupted. “If it wasn’t for his ‘fine Munich family’ he’d have already been shot.” He snapped off a Nazi salute, then spun on a heel and crossed toward the door, his greatcoat flowing behind him. One of the SS men opened it as he approached. “Search the classrooms and lecture halls anyway,” he ordered as they followed him through it onto the mezzanine. “There’s nothing in the Hippocratic Oath that prohibits lying to SS officers.”