The German Suitcase (30 page)

The red brick building had Juliette balconies and a shop on the corner next to the street level entrance. Simple gold lettering, on the window proclaimed:

MORDECHAI ROSENBERG

GOLD - CUSTOM JEWELRY - COINS

The sight of a swastika painted on the door stopped Max in his tracks. A workman was scraping off the word Juden that had been painted across one of the windows. Peering inside the shop, Max saw that the fixtures had been toppled, merchandise drawers had been thrown to the floor, glass display cases had been smashed, their contents looted. The Rosenberg family lived on the fourth floor. The dog was still skittish and resisted when Max ordered him to “Stay,” leaving him in the lobby, but obeyed its master, dutifully. As the condition of the shop suggested, someone else was living in the Rosenberg’s apartment, now. They had no information about Eva or her family, and suggested Max speak to the Rabbi at the synagogue on the other side of the campo.

The wizened fellow’s eyes brightened at Max’s Yiddish and the name Eva Rosenberg; they saddened as he explained her family was taken away by the Nazis. “I recall seeing her one day in winter,” the Rabbi went on. “January, early February, perhaps; but not as of late. I vaguely recall overhearing some talk about a hotel. It escapes me. Something with an M, perhaps. Marco e Milano? Marin Pilsen? Metropoli? Yes, I think, maybe, Metropoli…a la laguna. You might try there.”

The thought of Eva escaping the Nazis, only to return home to find that her family had been arrested, that their apartment was occupied by strangers, that their belongings had been either confiscated by the SS, or sold-off by the landlord, forcing her to live in a hotel was troubling. But she was alive and in Venice, and Max had no doubt he would, soon, find her. His spirits soared as he made his way through the maze of narrow streets and over quaint bridges to the sun splashed Riva Degli Schiavoni where the Metropoli was located. The baroque, 18th Century hotel fronted on the Lagoon opposite the Island of San Maggiore, the Punta Della Dogana Customs House, and the Santa Maria Della Salute, a magnificent church that presided over the entrance to the Grand Canal. It was an extremely well-to-do neighborhood; the Metropoli was obviously a first class hotel, not the third rate pensione Max had imagined. How could Eva be staying there? he wondered. Had she come into money? Married a wealthy Venetian? Had his gut-wrenching fight to survive and exhausting journey all been for naught?!

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Jake and Hannah Epstein’s startling admissions and the old fellow’s quiet surrender had paralyzed their son with uncertainty. A long moment passed before Dan touched his father’s shoulder comfortingly, and then directed Adam aside to a corner of the library. “Well, you have what you came for,” he said, in a deflated whisper. “I hope you’ll take my father’s words to heart. As you can see, this has been emotionally draining for him and my mother, especially at their age…and for me even at mine. We need some time to ourselves. I hope you understand.”

Adam nodded, feeling more depressed than triumphant, now. He was gathering his things when Dan reacted to one of the computer-printed enlargements Adam had made from the negatives—the one his father had identified as his mother. “May I see that for a moment?”

“Sure,” Adam replied in a respectful murmur. He gave the print to Dan and slipped the others into his briefcase.

Dan studied the photo, then glanced from it to a framed snapshot displayed on a sideboard beneath the windows. Sepia-toned with age, it was of a young couple, their arms around each other’s waist, their faces alive with the enchanted glow that belongs to young lovers. Dan pointed to it, and said, “You know, I always wondered about that picture of you and Mom.”

“Why?” his father asked. “What do you mean?”

Dan splayed his hands. “There was just something about it. I didn’t know what until now.” He held up the computer-printed photo Adam had given him. “You said this is Mom, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Jake replied, with a loving smile. “And she’s as beautiful, now, as she was then, isn’t she?”

“She certainly is,” Dan replied. “And for as long as I can remember you’ve been telling this wonderful story of how you and Mom met and fell in love at Auschwitz; but that’s not true, is it?”

Jake squeezed Hannah’s hand and shook his head no.

“And Mom didn’t have her tattoo removed years ago, because she never had one, did she?”

“No, she didn’t,” Jake replied, softly. “That’s not true either. Thank God.”

“Because if it was,” Dan went on, “There’s no way you could’ve been together when either of these were taken.” He paused and pointed to the framed snapshot. “I mean, that one—judging from the background and book bags, and the way you’re looking at each other—is of a couple of college kids who are madly in love.”

Hannah glanced to her husband and smiled. “Yes, we were college kids and madly in love. Unfortunately, our friend Jake and I were about to be arrested because we were Jews. That snapshot was one of the few things I took with me when I went into hiding.”

Dr. Epstein pointed to the photo of Hannah in his son’s hand. “I took that one, and the one of Jake, too. People working for your grandparents, Konrad and Gisela Kleist, used them to forge papers for Jake and your mother who we’d taken into our home. She escaped. Jake was captured and sent to Auschwitz.”

“That’s…that’s incredible,” Dan said, overwhelmed, his mind jumping from one piece of the story to the next: His mother on the run! His grandparents Konrad and Gisela Kleist! Catholics! Hiding Jews! Working with document forgers! Executed by the Nazis! Honored by Yad Vashem! He was still processing them when his brow furrowed in confusion. “But you said Jake and some other prisoners saved your life at Dachau?”

“If I may,” Adam interjected, “There is documentation that suggests Jacob Epstein was transferred there from Auschwitz.”

Jake nodded. “But it was at Auschwitz where he, not I, fell in love with a wonderful young woman; and when they came to Dachau, I was able to save them from being executed—but not from typhus.” He grimaced at the irony, then resumed, “After the war, they were lynching SS men on sight. So, I became Jacob Epstein, and, soon after…” he paused, and prompted his wife with a look.

Hannah pursed her lips, making a decision, then said, “…and, soon after, also as a matter of survival, I took that wonderful young woman’s identity.”

“And…and her name was Hannah Friedman?” Dan prompted, barely able to comprehend it.

His mother nodded.

“
Doctor
Hannah Friedman,” his father said.

His mother nodded, again. “When those pictures were taken, my name was Eva Rosenberg.”

Dan sagged under the weight of it. “But you’ve been Hannah Friedman all my life,” he protested. “You
are
Hannah Friedman. You’ve been Hannah Friedman to your grandchildren, to your colleagues at the hospital, to all your friends, and the Rabbi at the synagogue. I can’t imagine you’re anyone else but Hannah Friedman.”

“I know, Daniel,” Hannah said, gently. “And at the time I couldn’t imagine I was anyone else but Eva Rosenberg; but my name was on a Nazi death warrant; and becoming someone else was better than being raped and executed by some vile monster.” She gave him a moment to process it, then added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m up to reliving the rest of it right now.”

Dan nodded like a puzzled child. “I’m not sure I am either, Mother,” he said, his mind racing through the sequence of incomprehensible events with a thousand questions that only led to a thousand more.

Conversely, his parents seemed strangely relieved. They sat side-by-side in sublime repose, shoulders touching, hands lightly clasped, as if a crushing burden had, at long last, been lifted. Like a breakthrough after years of therapy, the unnerving interview seemed to have served as a liberating catharsis.

Adam was both inspired and troubled by all that he had heard and recorded. There were no more questions to be asked, no more mysteries to be probed. He didn’t need to know what happened to Hannah next. He had his story. He just wanted to get out of there and write it.

Dan sensed Adam’s anxious presence and collected himself. They were about to take their leave when Dan remembered the letter that he’d brought from his office. “I’ll be right with you,” he said to Adam as he unfolded the sparkling white page and showed it to his parents. “From the Guggenheim. A thank you for loaning them the Kandinsky.”

Hannah smiled and glanced to a bare space on a wall across the room where a pale, ghost-like outline was visible on the white paint. She shifted her look to Adam, and said, “Murnau With Church. It’s always been my favorite. I miss it already.”

Jake was distracted by something in the letter, and responded with a preoccupied nod; then indicating the signature, he looked up at Dan with a curious expression, and prompted, “Grace Gunther. Isn’t she…?

“Yes…married to the head of our favorite ad agency,” Dan said, completing the sentence.

“Small world,” Jake said with a reflective smile; then, turning to Adam, he added, “A lovely little painting. It’s been in our family since I was a child.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Max was staring at the elegant facade of the Metropoli Hotel, trying to fathom how Eva could afford to be living there when an ambulance boat came racing across the Lagoon. It slowed on entering a nearby canal and tied-up at the hotel’s dock, calling Max’s attention to the Red Cross banner hanging above it. To his profound relief, Max realized that wherever Eva was living, it wasn’t in the Metropoli. It had been taken over as a military hospital; and, with luck, what the Rabbi had overheard had something to do with her working there. Several partisans who had been wounded while rooting out recalcitrant German troops in Mestre, the industrial area on the mainland, were unloaded from the ambulance boat and carried on stretchers into the hotel’s canal side entrance.

Max hurried along the footpath that bordered the canal to the dock, and followed them inside, the dog tailing after him. The stretcher-bearers strode swiftly down an ornately decorated corridor and through a set of double doors into what had been the hotel’s main dining room. Each of the carved wooden doors had a beveled glass window, through which Max could see the richly textured space that had been turned into an Emergency Room. Teams of nurses in pale blue uniforms and doctors in white lab coats converged on the two wounded partisans as they were rolled into curtained cubicles and transferred to examining tables.

Max was on the verge of following them inside, his physician’s instincts driving him to get involved, to offer his assistance; but how would the medical staff react to someone who looked like a death camp survivor? That, and his uncertain sense of identity, stopped him. Instead, Max remained where he stood, peering through the glass, anxiously, his eyes darting from one white-coated doctor to the next in search of Eva. His heart leapt at the sight of a long thatch of raven-black hair held in a clasp. It swayed back and forth across Eva’s shoulders as she went about assessing one of the men’s injuries. Max was aching to burst through the doors and call out her name; but under the circumstances, he didn’t dare. Better to wait and reveal his presence to her, and her alone, when he could brief her on recent events. He stepped aside, and dropped with exhaustion into one of the baroque chairs that lined the corridor to wait for her. The dog padded after him and settled on the floor at his feet.

Under normal operations, the corridor would be bustling with guests and bellman pushing luggage carts. Now, it was used to take water-borne casualties to the Emergency Room and saw little other activity, except the occasional delivery. About a half hour later, Max was on the verge of nodding off, when the doors creaked open, propelling him to his feet. A group of nurses emerged from the E.R. and walked down the corridor in the opposite direction. Max caught an enticing glimpse of a physician’s white lab coat amongst their pale blue uniforms; but the nurses soon dispersed, revealing the doctor in their midst to be a portly, balding fellow. Max sighed, forlornly, and returned to his chair. Fifteen minutes later, though it seemed as if hours had passed, he had lost patience and was about to go into the E.R. in search of her when the doors opened again, and a woman wearing a white lab coat exited. She went in the same direction as the others, and hadn’t seen Max. He hadn’t seen her, either; not her face, anyway; but her long thatch of hair, willowy figure and confident stride left no doubt Max’s vigil was over. He took several quick steps after her, then called out, “Dr. Rosenberg? Dr. Eva Rosenberg?”

“Max! Max it’s you!” Eva exclaimed as she whirled and came running back down the corridor. She rushed into his arms, hugging him as if she would never let go. Her eyes welled and sent tears streaming down her cheeks.

The dog stood watching as if it understood.

A long moment passed before they leaned away from each other, their eyes glistening with joy. “You’re amazing,” Max finally whispered. “The professor didn’t recognize me at all. You did before you saw me.”

“Your voice, Max,” Eva explained softly, her blue-green eyes affirming the depth of her love for him. “Your voice…I hear it all the time.” Then, finally taking note of his brushcut hair, gaunt appearance, and prisoner uniform, she arched a puzzled brow and, only half-teasing said, “You…you look like a refugee from a death camp.”

“I am a refugee from a death camp,” Max said, brushing at a tear that rolled down his cheek.

A nurse pushed through the double doors and walked down the corridor. Eva sensed Max’s uneasiness and, taking his hand, began walking toward the canal side entrance. The dog followed as they went outside onto the dock. “You know,” she said, prompting, “I hear Jake’s voice once in a while, too.”

Max shook his head, no, sadly. “Typhus. At Dachau.” He pushed up his sleeve, revealing the number tattooed on his forearm. “I’m Jacob Epstein, now.”

Eva’s eyes widened in astonishment. She gasped, fighting to collect her thoughts.

“It’s a very long story,” Max went on. “Can we go someplace? I’m exhausted. I haven’t bathed in weeks.”

“Of course,” Eva replied. “I live nearby.” She led the way along the canal to Riva Degli Schiavoni. The broad fondamenta was bustling with fisherman, sailors from naval vessels anchored in the Lagoon, and British soldiers. “I love the Ghetto,” Eva went on as she and Max walked to a working class neighborhood in Castello not far from the hospital. “But I couldn’t bring myself to stay there. Not after what happened to my parents.”

Eva lived on the second floor of a row house on Calle Grimana. The narrow street angled off Via Garibaldi, the area’s main thoroughfare, and ended at a canal that ran behind the buildings. Brightly colored laundry fluttered on clotheslines overhead. Eva unlocked the door to a modest flat that had a main room with a kitchen area and a separate sleeping alcove. She dashed inside ahead of Max and the German shepherd, retrieving a small picture frame from a table. It was the snapshot of she and Max in medical school with their arms around each other’s waists—the one she had taken when fleeing her apartment in Munich. “Look! Remember those days?”

“Yes, every minute of every one,” Max replied, overwhelmed by the flood of memories it unleashed. “It seems so long ago.”

Eva nodded sadly; then, her eyes brightening, she pointed to a door and said, “The bathroom’s in there. Water’s usually ice cold, I’m afraid.” She sat on the bed and, with a seductive smile, began unbuttoning her blouse. “I’m sure we’ll think of a way to warm you up.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Eva’s bed, embracing, touching, kissing, caressing…satisfying their insatiable hunger for each other. Deliriously happy, barely able to believe they were alive and together, they affirmed it through tender lovemaking that seemed all but impossible only hours before.

That evening, while Eva prepared a dinner of pasta and fresh bronzino, the latter from a local fisherman who sold the day’s catch from the stern of his boat, Max briefed her on the events that had taken place at Dachau. She was in tears when he finished.

“I’m sorry,” Max said, holding her comfortingly. “I should’ve known it would upset you.”

“I’m not upset, Max. I’m frightened…for you,” Eva explained. “The partisans have been lynching informers and shooting German soldiers on sight. You won’t stand a chance if they find out you were in the SS. You’d never get to tell them of the people you saved, or of those who saved you.”

Max nodded glumly. “Who’d believe me if I did?”

Eva’s posture straightened. Her eyes widened. She studied Max as if seeing him for the first time. It was as if she’d had a sudden and powerful insight, a life-changing epiphany; and she had. “You are Jacob Epstein, now, aren’t you.”

Max nodded, then smiled at a thought. “And you’ll be Mrs. Jacob Epstein…”

“Yes,” Eva said spiritedly and without the slightest hesitation. “Yes, Jake, I will.”

And that was the moment Maximilian Kleist ceased to exist. As the weeks passed, his hair grew longer, his face filled out, his color returned, and he began looking more and more like the photograph on his passport; the one, Milton Glazer, the clever young graphic designer had transferred from his German passport to the Austrian one he had forged in the name Jacob Epstein. Eva called him Jake, spoke about him as Jake, introduced him as Jake; and soon, the neighbors, and the local vendors, and the waiters in the trattoria and the corner coffee bar were all calling him Jake, along with everyone on the medical staff at the Metropoli who came to know him as Dr. Jacob Epstein. Indeed, the hospital was overwhelmed and understaffed and, having already traded his striped prison uniform for civilian clothes, Jake donned a white lab coat and began working there with Eva; setting broken limbs, reassembling shattered people, and saving lives.

When not on duty, Eva and Jake spent time outdoors, went to the islands, bicycled along the Lido, swam in the Adriatic. And overcome with joy at having survived, at having found each other, and at the prospect of spending their lives together, they began to believe they just might be able to have that life in la bella Venezia.

One evening, they attended an outdoor concert in the Giardini Publicci, a broad expanse of trees and gardens in the heart of the Castello District. La Fenice, the city’s legendary opera house, which had been shut down throughout the First World War, had been kept open during this one by the German staff who prided themselves on being cultured; but their largesse hadn’t been extended to the Jewish musicians who, having been expelled from the orchestra, resorted to these public performances to earn a living; and they were still doing so despite the War’s end. When the concert was over, Eva and Jake walked home along the Laguna Veneta, the dog tailing after them in the darkness. They had just turned into Garibaldi, and were still humming the opening of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, when Eva stopped suddenly and emitted a loud, horrified shriek.

Jake had every reason to think she was either in cardiac arrest or had been shot. “Eva?! Eva, what is it? What’s wrong?!”

Eva was trembling, paralyzed with fear. A long moment passed before she pointed to a nearby building.

Jake gasped at the sight of a flyer taped to the wall. Large block letters proclaimed: FUGITIVE JEW. The name Eva Sarah Rosenberg was beneath her picture. It was a copy of the same Fugitive Alert that Major Steig had issued all those months ago in Munich. The same death warrant that he had left on the table in the Officer’s Club at Dachau the night he slyly informed Max that Jake had been arrested; that his ‘other Jewish friend’ was still at large and being hunted; and that her capture was just a matter of time.