The German Suitcase (5 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Snow was falling as Professor Gerhard’s car pulled away from the morgue entrance at the rear of Munich University Hospital. The two-door Opel Olympia, first produced in 1935 in honor of the upcoming Olympic Games in Berlin, had more than 100,000 kilometers on it. After ten harsh winters, its heater was no match for the below freezing weather.

Just moments ago, Dr. Jacob Epstein was in an operating room trying to save the bomb-shattered arm of a young woman. He had repaired the torn musculature and circulatory vessels, and was reassembling the broken pieces of her humerus, prior to literally screwing them back together, when Dr. Eva Rosenberg entered with the shocking news that their exemptions had been revoked and SS warrants issued for their arrest.

Now, his head still filled with the medicinal odor of the O.R., the collar of his trench coat turned up against the cold, Jake slouched in the back seat of the professor’s car, staring numbly out the frosty window. “Bastards,” he grunted through clenched teeth. Despite his current distemper, he had an engaging smile, when he needed it, and dark, unruly hair that tumbled over his ears and forehead, softening his sharp features and eyes that sparkled with intelligence. “We should’ve known this was going to happen.”

“We did know,” Eva said. Bundled in winter clothing, she was sitting next to the Professor with her knees up against the dash, and her physician’s bag nestled in her lap. “We just didn’t want to believe it. We just wouldn’t accept—”

“Enough,” the Professor interrupted, squinting to see through the windshield where a single wiper was streaking across the frosty glass. “That’s neither here nor there, now. You’ll both have to go into hiding. You have no choice.”

“Hiding?!” Jake erupted in frustration. “People are being blown to bits, torn to shreds, incinerated. We can help them. Why are we going into hiding?!”

“To stay alive long enough to help them later,” the Professor answered gently. “I’m hoping you can spend a few nights at Max’s. After that, we’ll have to find a place where you’ll be safe.”

“What about our things?” Jake asked.

“Yes,” Eva chimed-in. “Everything I own is in my room. Can we stop along the way?”

“I’d say it’s up to the SS, wouldn’t you?” the Professor replied.

Jake Epstein had a one room flat in a building on Augustenstrasse that catered to students. The non-descript structure was situated just off the corner of Ziebland in easy walking distance of the University. “I’m going to drive past,” the Professor said as they approached. “If it’s safe we’ll come back around. Tell me what you see.”

“I see trouble,” Eva said, as the car rolled through the intersection.

“SS trouble,” Jake added. “Two staff cars blocking the street and a personnel carrier. Which means all I’ve got are the clothes on my back and my briefcase.” The latter doubled as a doctor’s bag and, along with medical instruments, contained a worn copy of
All Quiet on the Western Front
which Jake had read as a teenager and was, now, rereading. Published in Germany in 1929, Erich Maria Remarque’s anti-war novel was in Group 1 on the Führer’s list of banned books: All Copies To Be Destroyed. This accounted for the
Mein Kampf
dust jacket with which Jake had shrewdly camouflaged his copy.

The professor detoured south in the direction of Eva’s apartment, a third floor walkup on Koenigstrasse a few blocks from the Hauptbahnof, the main railway station. The working class neighborhood was across town from the Medical School; but rents were much lower than in the University District; and it was convenient whenever she wanted to take the train to Venice to visit her family. The street appeared to be clear of SS vehicles as they approached.

“Go around back,” Eva said, removing her gloves. She tossed them atop the dash and fished her keys from her purse. “There’s less chance of running into a neighbor.”

Moments later, the car turned into a narrow alley. An icy veneer sheathed the cobblestones. The Professor drove through an obstacle course of parked vehicles, overflowing trash receptacles, and debris from air raids that had been bulldozed into mountainous piles. The rear of Eva’s building was covered by black wrought iron staircases that zigzagged back and forth from landing to landing.

“As quickly as you can, Eva,” the Professor said as the car lurched to a stop.

Eva was out the door before he finished and didn’t stop to close it. She ran up the icy steps to the third floor landing, crept to the door, and wiped the frost from the small wire-glass window with a cuff. The corridor beyond appeared clear. The staircase was the building’s emergency egress and the doors on the landings weren’t locked. She slipped inside, then let herself into her room, and pulled a canvas rucksack from beneath the bed.

Minutes later, the bag was filled with clothing, toiletries, and a few treasured books. A framed snapshot of she and Max—arms around each other’s waists, their faces alive with the enchanted glow that belongs to young lovers—stood on a table between the windows. She had just slipped it into the bag when the crunch of tires on snow got her attention. Two SS staff cars were approaching. One stopped in front of her building. Several SS men got out and trudged toward the entrance. The other vehicle circled a tenement that had collapsed during one of the bombings, and headed for the alley.

Eva slung the rucksack over her shoulder, took one last look around the room, scooped a bracelet from atop the dresser, and dashed into the corridor. Men’s voices and the pounding of jackboots and clattering of military gear came from below, propelling her toward the exit. Once outside, she clambered down the icy staircases until she reached the alley and ran to the car. Without breaking stride, she threw the rucksack through the open door and jumped in after it. “They’re here, Professor! They’re here!”

Gerhard jammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The Opel rumbled off, skidding on the snow-slick cobblestones, and turned into the cross street just as the second SS car entered the opposite end of the alley. A short time later, they were heading east on Luitpoldstrasse toward the Prinzregentenbrucke, one of three bridges that arched with Neo-Romanesque grace across the Isar River. The latter—which flowed south through Munich to Upper Bavaria and the lake country north of Innsbruck at the foot of the Alps—was completely frozen over, its steep banks encrusted with crystalline splashes of ice that rose to the adjacent roadways.

The Professor’s car came off the bridge into the ellipse that circles the Friedensengel, a grand monument to Germany’s victory in the Franco-Prussian War. Atop its towering Corinthian column, a gilded statue of an angel with flared wings, soared high above the trees.

“The Angel of Peace,” Jake said with bitter sarcasm. “Who do they think they’re kidding?!”

“She’s still standing,” the Professor countered. “The way things are going for Hitler these days, she may yet prevail.”

“If we ever live to see it,” Eva said, curled up in her seat against the cold.

“I always thought cynicism was an affliction that came with age,” the Professor said, attempting to lighten the mood. “How come I’m the optimist and you two are the gloom-and-doomers?”

“Because we are Jews,” Eva retorted.

“We are the ones with targets on our backs,” Jake chimed-in. “Bright, yellow, six-pointed ones.”

“And I’m the one keeping you out of the crosshairs,” the Professor said, “Jew or not, if I’m not careful, I’m next. Steig will stop at nothing,” Gerhard went on, taking Moulstrasse that ran north to Bogenhausen, the city’s most aristocratic residential district.

This was an area of stately mansions and imposing townhouses where royal barons mixed with the barons of industry and finance; where upper-class families—many untouched by the catastrophic collapse of the German economy, though not by the air raids that had destroyed a number of their grand dwellings—lived amid the very trappings of privilege against which Adolph Hitler railed. Indeed, the mentally and economically depressed working class—having little connection to the cradle of culture that had produced the likes of Beethoven and Mozart; Schopenhauer and Nietzsche; Goethe, Brecht, and Mann; Durer, Holbein and Cranach—found the Führer’s fanaticism and policies of racial superiority compelling.

The Kleists lived on Possartplatz, a stately Square that enclosed an oasis of mature trees. Their bare branches, sheathed with ice, sent sparkling canopies arching above the streets. The art-filled townhouse had a quiet, neo-classic grandness befitting its owner’s social standing and business prominence. It was one of several that still had Christmas decorations in the windows and on the door. Despite the constant threat of airstrikes the Kleists had decided against consigning their priceless collection to underground bunkers, preferring to live with it and, if need be, die with it. Indeed, despite Hitler’s ban on modern art, many top-ranking Nazis, Hermann Goering among them, collected it with a passion, using the Führer’s decree as an excuse to confiscate it from wealthy Jewish businessmen, bankers and art dealers, and keeping it for themselves.

From the moment the Opel left the alley behind Eva’s flat, the Professor’s eyes had been darting to the rearview mirror which was, now, blurred with condensation. “Jake. That car behind us,” he said as they neared Possartplatz. “Can you tell if it’s SS?”

Jake twisted around to the tiny window behind him. He wiped it with a glove and squinted to see through the streaked glass. “Looks like a black Mercedes…”

“That’s what worries me,” the Professor said, his suspicion all but confirmed.

“…but it isn’t flying SS flags,” Jake added.

The Professor winced. “Sometimes they take them off when they don’t want to be spotted.”

“Either that or Himmler sicced the Gestapo onto us,” Eva said, referring to the Reichführer’s iron-fisted control not only of the SS but also the state police. The Geheimes Staatspolizei, his plainclothes sociopaths who drove unmarked cars and operated without the constraints of a military code of ethics, were as inhumanely ruthless as their SS counterparts, only more so.

“We can’t go anywhere near Max’s place until we’re certain it’s neither of them,” the Professor said. Instead of turning into Possartplatz, he continued along Holbstrasse for several blocks, then made a left into Muhlbaur, angling across the eastern-most section of Bogenhausen that had been turned to rubble by Allied warplanes. The snow had intensified making it even more difficult to see the car they feared was tailing them. If it was the SS or Gestapo, the snow might also make it more difficult for them to maintain contact with their prey; but when Jake peered out the window again, the black Mercedes was still behind them.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bart Tannen didn’t go nuts as Stacey had predicted when she briefed him on her Google search, but he took immediate action. From the data she had downloaded, he knew that Dr. Jacob Epstein lived in a townhouse on East 78th Street off Fifth Avenue. He and his wife, Hannah, occupied the upper duplex while the lower three floors housed The Epstein Family Foundation. When his contact information turned out to be unlisted, Tannen called the Foundation and explained he was trying to reach Dr. Epstein about an extremely important personal matter.

“Well…” the receptionist mused. “The doctor’s son is the Foundation’s Director. He handles all family matters. Perhaps if you explained it to him…”

“Be glad to,” Tannen said, prompting her to put him on hold and transfer the call.

“This is Dan Epstein,” a polished voice said after a brief interval.

After identifying himself and his position at Gunther Global, Tannen explained that in the course of working on an assignment, the agency had come into possession of a discarded suitcase. It appeared to be Holocaust memorabilia. There were reasons to believe it had belonged to his father.

“You have my attention,” Epstein, said, intrigued. “What’s this about?”

“I’ll be more than happy to explain; but it’d be a waste of time, if it isn’t your father’s suitcase. We just need him to take a look at it and say yea or nay.”

“I couldn’t get my father involved without meeting with you, first. I might even be able to make the determination myself.”

“Fine,” Tannen prompted smartly, seizing on the offer. “Where and when?”

Mid-morning the following day, Tannen and Stacey got out of a taxi in front of an imposing townhouse. A bronze plaque proclaimed: The Epstein Family Foundation. The limestone mansion—one of a dozen or so that lined East 78th Street between Fifth and Madison just off Central Park—would have sold for forty million at the height of the market. They checked in at the security desk in the reception hall where an exuberant spray of fresh flowers stood framed by tall windows that overlooked a garden. On one wall Dr. Jacob Epstein’s many awards, honorary degrees, and memberships in professional societies were displayed; on another were brass plaques with photo-engraved diagrams of the many patents for prosthetic devices he had been awarded.

The Director’s office had a quiet grandness due to its generous 19th Century proportions and fine period antiques. The historical illusion was broken only by the computer screens and Bloomberg terminals on the desk and the man who made the Foundation’s investment decisions based on the data they provided. Dan Epstein always greeted his guests in shirtsleeves—the de facto, if misleading, symbol of Wall Street transparency—and looked resplendent in suspenders, striped shirt with solid collar and cuffs, and boldly patterned tie.

A competitive man in his mid-fifties, he played tennis on weekends, poker on Wednesday nights, and conducted investment seminars at the 92nd Street Y. Thirty years ago, he completed the combined JD/MBA program at New York University’s Schools of Law and Business and joined Goldman Sachs. Two decades later, having become partner and General Counsel, he left to run the Family Foundation and had increased its endowment, substantially.

While Tannen made the introductory small talk, Stacey slipped a laptop from her shoulder bag and set it on the conference table. Now, she began stepping through a series of high-resolution images of the suitcase she had prepared with an agency photographer the previous day. Dan Epstein’s eyes narrowed behind his frameless lenses as an image of the battered suitcase filled the screen. It was followed by close-ups of: the name Jacob Epstein crudely painted on the underside, its worn latches, and its sweat-darkened handle to which a makeshift luggage tag with handwritten data was affixed by a twisted wire. “You said it was found on the street?” he finally said, sounding incredulous and emotionally moved at the same time.

“Uh-huh…” Stacey replied in her brisk way. “I live on West Eightieth across from The Apthorp…the renaissance knock-off with the iron gates and garden? It was in the trash outside the service entrance.”

“Oh, yes I know The Apthorp,” Epstein replied with a wry smile. “I know it quite well. I grew up there.”

“Oh-oh,” Stacey said, flustered by her faux pas. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be so flip.”

“I couldn’t have described it better myself,” Epstein said, absolving her.

“Excuse me, would you mind if we cut to the chase, here?” Tannen said, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Is that your father’s suitcase, or isn’t it?”

Epstein nodded. “I recall seeing it as a child. The writing on the tag could be his; but handwriting changes over time so it’s hard to be sure.” He paused in reflection and prompted, “As I recall, it has something to do with an assignment you’re working on.”

Tannen nodded. “Steinbach, a high quality luggage manufacturer is the client; and now that we know the suitcase is your father’s, we’d like to feature him and his suitcase in the ads that’ll kick-off the campaign.”

Epstein removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well, he either left the suitcase behind on purpose or just plain forgot about it, which leads me to believe he wanted to rid himself of the horrible memories it brings to mind.” He slipped the glasses back on, and then concluded, “I’m not inclined to overrule that decision, subconscious though it may have been.”

“If I may,” Stacey said, her mind racing to find a counter argument. “Your theory doesn’t seem to be in keeping with your father’s commitment to Jewish causes…with the mission of this Foundation. Does it?”

“A valid point,” Epstein conceded. “But one might also conclude establishing the Foundation was his way of depersonalizing the Holocaust, of making it about others instead of himself. If my father had his fill of it then, he certainly isn’t up to dealing with it, now. No, as healthy as he may be, and he’s quite spry for his age, thank God, I’m afraid the answer is no.”

“But you haven’t heard the idea yet,” Stacey said, launching into a sales pitch. “The theme of the campaign is: Traveling Companions For Life, and will feature vintage Steinbachs and their owners who’ve shared meaningful experiences—like your father did with this one. You recall Irving—”

“Young lady,” Epstein said, trying to interrupt.

“—Irving Penn’s photographs of cigarette butts?” Stacey went on. “We’re planning to use the same kind of character-enriched black-and-white photographs to evoke a sense of the past, of history, of people who have—”

“Young lady, please?” Epstein said, more sharply.

Stacey winced and shot an anxious glance in Tannen’s direction.

“That slogan doesn’t really reflect my father’s experience, now, does it?” Epstein challenged. “Frankly, I’m not sure what you’re proposing is appropriate or ethically acceptable. Furthermore, risk analysis is at the heart of my work, and I don’t see the upside, here. Personally, I find it distasteful, disturbing…”

“We had similar concerns, Mr. Epstein…” Tannen said, deciding candor and a strategic pause would serve him best. “…until the company’s CEO informed us he was a survivor of Auschwitz.”

Epstein’s brows went up, his indignation tempered by Tannen’s reply. “I see…”

“And though Mr. Steinbach believes your father’s endorsement will sell luggage,” Tannen went on, sensing the tide had turned, “he even more fervently believes, that at a time when anti-Semitism is on the rise, it’ll keep the memory of the Holocaust alive.”

“He may very well be right,” Epstein said, seeming to be reconsidering his decision. “As you know, my father has been in the forefront of that issue for decades.” He paused and pursed his lips in thought. “You know, it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask if the suitcase is empty. Is it? Is there anything in it?”

“Yes there is,” Tannen replied, explaining that: the suitcase was locked; and the agency had decided to obtain permission from its owner, if possible, before having it opened by an archivist to insure the contents were properly handled and catalogued.

“That’s very commendable, Mr. Tannen. They might have more sentimental value, even more historical value, than the suitcase itself.” Epstein looked off for a moment. “Well, my decision may have been a bit hasty. I mean—” The intercom buzzed. He smiled in apology, circled his desk and lifted the phone. “Sure, put her on — Hi, what’s up?” he said, his eyes drifting to a data-filled Bloomberg terminal. “Uh-huh, uh-huh — Honey, it’s her day — Yes, from the minute she was born. So, why stop now? — Yes, yes it’s fine with me — Love you too.” He hung up, and with empathy, said, “My long suffering wife. Our daughter Melissa is getting married in two weeks. My father, who’s a trustee at the Metropolitan Museum, has arranged for the reception to be held in the Temple of Dendur. His wedding gift to his granddaughter.” Epstein laughed and added, “You’d think we were planning a presidential inaugural.”

“I can imagine,” Tannen said, laughing along with him. “Congratulations.”

“Sounds fantastic,” Stacey chimed-in.

Epstein nodded, enjoying the sense of fulfillment that accompanies such milestones. Even more enjoyable was the sense of relief that comes from suddenly seeing the key to making a difficult decision so clearly that it becomes easy. “I shared that with you because my wife’s call reminded me these are very happy times for my family; and, seeing your proposal in that context… well, despite the potential for keeping the memory of the Holocaust alive, and fighting anti-Semitism that it offers, I’ve decided against my father’s participation. I can’t in good conscience ask him to relive it at this time in his life. I just can’t. I hope you understand.”

“Couldn’t you at least mention it to him?’ Stacey said, unwilling to concede defeat. I mean it was his life. He lived it. Don’t you think he has the right to decide whether or not he wants to participate?”

“No,” Epstein said, sounding offended. “No one is more protective of my father’s rights than I am, young lady.” He paused, his eyes narrowing in suspicion; then, diagramming his thoughts with lawyerly precision, said, “Are you people suggesting—because the suitcase had been discarded—and is now in your possession—that my family’s access to it and its contents—is predicated on my father’s participation in this advertising campaign?”

“Absolutely not,” Tannen said without hesitation.

“Good. Because I’d take legal action if you were. We have nothing more to discuss. I’ll be in contact with your legal department to make arrangements to acquire the suitcase and its contents.”

“Of course,” Tannen said, having little choice but to accept defeat.

Stacey’s posture stiffened, her characteristic tenacity driving her to try just one more time to get Dan Epstein to change his mind. Tannen’s eyes were sending frantic signals to the contrary. A tension-filled moment passed before Stacey bit a lip, and shut-down the computer.

“Well, that went well,” Tannen said as they left Dan Epstein’s office and hurried from the townhouse.

“Sorry if I screwed up, boss. Sometimes my mouth gets in the way of my mind.”

“There’s nothing either of us coulda, woulda, or shoulda said that would’ve made a difference.”

“Thanks,” Stacey replied. “I’m really glad you said that. Now what?”

“You remember the Sopranos?”

Stacey nodded. “Who doesn’t?”

“Well, as Tony said before whacking Big Pussy, ‘Never sit on bad news. Always deliver it in person.”

They hailed a cab that was headed south on Fifth Avenue. Tannen called Steinbach’s office and said they’d be there in ten minutes. The taxi was in a traffic snarl in front of the main branch of the New York Public Library on 42nd Street when Stacey’s cellphone rang. The word Mom was blinking in the display. She thought about it, then slipped the Blackberry back into her handbag. The news line on the taxi’s TV screen read:
AHMADINEJAD REITERATES CALL FOR DESTRUCTION OF ISRAEL.

Steinbach & Company’s offices were located on West 38th Street in what was left of Manhattan’s Garment District. The building, clad in textured brown brick, was around the corner from the Garment Center Synagogue and the two-story tall Button-And-Needle sculpture on 7th Avenue. The outsourcing of manufacturing to countries with cheap labor had been the death knell of the needle trades; and for twenty years Sol had been running his operation out of what had once been a thriving coat factory. Leather samples were stacked on tables along with spools of waxed twine and plastic boxes filled with hardware. The only high-tech equipment in sight were computer monitors that displayed inventory-control and billing data, and the $12,000 Trek Equinox TTX SS1 Giro d’Italia racing bike in Steinbach’s office. It was the same model Lance Armstrong used to win his seventh Tour De France. Sol used it to ride back and forth to work every day from his Upper East Side apartment.

“Excuse the outfit,” Steinbach said, referring to the black polyurthene leggings and pullover slashed with bright yellow racing stripes that he was wearing. All hell broke loose soon as I got in, and I haven’t had a minute to jump in the shower.”

“No thanks to us,” Tannen said.

Steinbach dismissed it with a wave of his hand, and settled behind a gray Steelcase desk that dated to the seventies. “Listen, before we get to your stuff, the serial number search hit a snag. In the old days, the company was based in Leipzig which ended up in East Germany. Getting out of there in one piece let alone with records was…” he let it trail off and splayed his hands in frustration.

“Yeah, the client database doesn’t make the punch list when you’re running for your life, does it?”

“Exactly. Fucking Communists were taking over everything. My uncle grabbed the patterns and records with one hand and me with the other, and got the hell out of there. It was amazing how many old world craftsmen ended up here. He hired every one he could find who had worked for a European trunk maker. It wasn’t easy but—”

“Sol? Sol?” Tannen said, interrupting. “The records? The serial number?”

“Sorry, once I get started. Anyway, all the old records are in storage…somewhere in New Jersey. It’s going to take a while.”