The German Suitcase (7 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Since the mid-1990s when the last wedding reception in the Temple of Dendur was held, private functions at The Metropolitan Museum of Art had been limited to corporate events. A fifty thousand dollar sponsorship entitled a company to one event, annually. Held in the evenings when the museum was closed, they had proved to be an effective fund raising tool. Now, in these difficult financial times, and in recognition of Dr. Epstein’s generosity and longtime service as a trustee, the Museum agreed to make the Temple available for his granddaughter’s reception; and on this sunny Sunday evening in June, the limousines and town cars were depositing guests at the Museum’s rarely used north entrance that afforded them direct access to the Sackler Wing.

This magnificent extension to the Museum had been designed specifically to house the Temple which would have been lost beneath the rising waters of the Nile River when the Aswan Dam was completed in 1965. Commissioned by the Emperor Augustus the Temple deified two Nubian princes who, ironically, had suffered the same drowning fate it had been spared. Having been stored in crates for more than a decade, the massive sandstone blocks that comprised the Temple and its towering Gate were reassembled in this enormous pavilion beneath a slanted glass wall that ran its entire length, giving the space an ethereal glow.

The nearly four hundred wedding guests were seated alongside reflecting pools that formed a moat around the raised granite plain on which the Temple and its Gate stood. The dais, where the bride and groom, and members of the wedding party were seated, was situated between the two stone structures.

At this moment, Dr. Jacob Epstein, in a finely tailored tuxedo, was striding to a podium. Like many men, Jake had become more distinguished-looking with age; and other than a slight forward lean, he had the appearance and vitality of a man decades younger. His features had softened, and his once dark, unruly hair had settled into gentle off-white waves, but his eyes still had their intelligent sparkle. More than six decades after leaving his homeland, he still spoke with a slight accent which further enhanced his charm and his role as family patriarch.

“Hello, my name is Jake Epstein, proud grandpa of Melissa, our lovely bride,” he began in a cheery voice. “On behalf of our son Dan and daughter-in-law Sarah, my wife Hannah and I welcome you to this special occasion. The other day, while drafting my remarks, I recalled that somebody famous once said: Irony is the art of becoming what we most detest. It brought to mind an incident in Israel, years ago, when half the audience walked out of a performance of Wagner’s Ring in protest. Having made their point, they all went outside and got into their Mercedes Benz limousines and Mercedes Benz sports cars and Mercedes Benz taxis and went home.”

A ripple of laughter spread though the guests.

“I mention that because some of you may be asking: Why would a devout Jewish family hold a wedding reception in an Egyptian temple? Weren’t they the guys who conspired to have Moses and his scrappy tribe of Israelites slaughtered? Where would we all be today if Charlton Heston hadn’t parted the Red Sea and saved their kosher
tuchas
?”

Those in attendance roared with laughter.

“Well, coward that I am,” Jake went on in his endearing way, “I’m going to let my co-conspirator-for-life explain. Hannah?” he prompted, gesturing to the dais. Elegant in a silver-gray sheath, Dr. Hannah Friedman Epstein strode to the podium and embraced her husband. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Jake said, beaming as applause rose.

Slender and secure with intense eyes beneath a cap of white hair, Hannah Epstein was, indeed, a striking woman. “Thank you, thank you so much,” she said, as Jake stepped aside. “You know, for years people have said: Dr. Epstein has such a charming bedside manner; and I would ask: Which Dr. Epstein? And they’d always say: Dr. Jacob Epstein. Well, that’s because, he always gets this Dr. Epstein to do the dirty work.”

A wave of laughter broke across the room.

“So, why are we here in enemy territory?” Hannah asked rhetorically. “Well, Jake and I chose this Temple not only for its serene beauty; not only because of our respect for the Sackler brothers, distinguished physicians and philanthropists, for whom this magnificent wing is named, but most importantly because of the ecumenical spirit that being here symbolizes—the very same spirit that guided Jake and I when naming our Foundation. We didn’t call it the Epstein Foundation. No, we named it the Epstein Family Foundation because we are really all one family on this earth; and we know that our extended family will Never Forget…” Hannah paused, letting the Holocaust slogan resonate. “…that though so many were lost in the Shoah, many were saved, as were my husband and I, by families who opened their hearts and homes when it would’ve been convenient to have kept them shuttered. We gather here in deep appreciation of all families who are committed to leaving the world a better place than they found it, not only for the Jewish people, but for all people. Thank you, and, now, please, enjoy!”

The vast space echoed with deafening applause.

Sol Steinbach, sitting at Table 23, couldn’t believe his luck. The Epsteins’ eloquent affirmation of their support for Jewish causes had more than paved the way for the sales pitch he would soon be making.

His wife, Bernice, sat next to him, networking, which for her was a subconscious act; more in the realm of exuding pheromones than, say, sending emails; and that’s what made her the Upper East Side’s networker extraordinaire. Indeed, she knew anyone worth knowing, because, for some inexplicable reason, anyone worth knowing wanted to know her; and, though Sol and Jake had been out of touch, and the Steinbachs weren’t on the guest list, once given the task, Bernice had pulled it off as her husband knew she would.

Just an hour in the Museum’s Trustees Dining Room with a few of the ladies-who-lunch from the Fifth Avenue Synagogue was all it took; that and the fact that the wedding happened to be mentioned in the same breath with certain charities the Epsteins and Steinbachs had in common. By the time the glasses of Pinot Grigio and salads Niçoise had been consumed, they all knew—without a word from Bernice—that the Steinbachs hadn’t been invited to the wedding. A post office screw-up? A guest list computer glitch? Benign oversight? By the time dessert arrived, the word was spreading, via twitter and text, through the Synagogue’s grapevine, to the, by then, burning ears of Dr. Hannah Epstein; and the next day an invitation, with a lovely note attached, appeared on the Steinbachs’ doorstep.

Sol waited for a break between courses—when the exhibitionists were dancing, and the stock brokers and insurance agents were table hopping—before approaching Jake who had left the dais and was moving amongst the tables, chatting with guests.

“Sol! Sol Steinbach, of course I remember,” Jake exclaimed, raising his voice above the music. “If it wasn’t for you we’d have never caught that shyster embezzeling from The UJA’s cancer fund.”

“A minor leaguer compared to that son-of-a-bitch Madoff,” Steinbach growled, guiding him aside. “Listen, Jake, I know you have to circulate, but if you can spare another minute, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Your company’s new ad campaign,” Jake stated with a mischievous cackle. “You know, I can’t believe I left that suitcase behind in The Apthorp.”

Steinbach looked stunned. “How…how did you know? I mean, the people at my agency told me your boy was totally against the idea; swore that under no circumstances would he even raise it with you.”

Jake nodded sagely. “Oh, I’m sure Daniel meant it when he said it,” he explained with a proud glance to the dance floor where the father of the bride was dancing with his radiant daughter. “He’s very protective of his parents; but, in good conscience, he knew he couldn’t keep it from me.”

“It must be some kind of role reversal thing that happens over time,” Steinbach philosophized. “Children can’t quite imagine their parents living the lives they’ve lived.”

“They can’t imagine them having sex, either,” Jake said, with a lascivious chortle.

“Yeah,” Steinbach said, laughing along with him, “I mean, all we asked him to imagine was you sitting on your long lost suitcase.”

“Shocking!” Jake exclaimed. “Evidently Dan wasn’t going to bring it up until after the wedding; but, when I showed him a draft of the remarks Hannah and I would be making today, he realized there was no point in waiting.” He smiled at a thought, and added, “Not to mention he would have had to explain it to his mother.”

“Well, we can all identify with that,” Steinbach said with an amused chuckle.

“So…where are we with this, Jake?” he prompted gently. “Are you going to sign on? Can I count on you for an endorsement?”

Jake’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Of course. It sounds like fun!”

“Bet your
tuchas
! Two old Jews sticking it to those Nazi bastards!”

“Two old Jews?” Jake echoed. “Come on, Sol, how old are you?”

“Seventy, next month.”

“Seventy? You’re a kid. A little
pisher
.”

“I’m old enough to have a number on my arm,” Steinbach said, stone faced.

Jake nodded grimly. “That makes two of us. Dan mentioned you were in Auschwitz. I think that weighed heavily on his decision as well.”

“Good, because we’re going to help make sure the world Never Forgets…and maybe sell a little luggage at the same time.”

Jake’s eyes had hardened with commitment. He took a moment to process it, then brightening, said, “So, lights, camera, action! When do we start?”

“First things, first, Jake,” Steinbach cautioned. “You happen to recall what’s in the suitcase?”

Jake shrugged and splayed his hands. “Who knows. I mean, my neurons are still hooking-up on a regular basis; but it’s been sixty years. A lot of old stuff, I guess. What else?”

“Well, at your earliest convenience,” Steinbach said, smartly, “We’re going to open it and find out .”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The doorbell rang again as Konrad Kleist crossed the foyer and approached the entrance of the townhouse. The sound was much more piercing, here, than in the distant library, and it made him shiver as if chilled. If it was the SS or Gestapo, he’d be the one to deal with them, not the housekeeper who was standing off to one side with the German Shepherd. Kleist took a moment to compose himself, then reached for the polished brass latch and forced an expansive smile.

The door opened to reveal the snow-dotted figures and reddened faces of Eva Rosenberg and Jacob Epstein—two faces Konrad Kleist had never seen before; but he had no doubt who they were; and was relieved they weren’t henchmen from either of Himmler’s dreaded organizations. Still, he was painfully aware that hiding two Jews from the SS and helping them get out of the country was extremely dangerous; and his apprehension hadn’t eased.

“I’m Konrad Kleist, Max’s father,” he said, his cordial demeanor belied by an anxious glance to the street. “Please come in.”

The two young doctors hesitated and looked back at the Opel that was parked at the curb, engine running. Professor Gerhard responded with a little wave, and drove off into the swirling snow as Eva and Jake stepped into the inviting warmth of the townhouse.

Konrad Kleist glanced once more to the street before closing the door. He wasn’t looking for a black Mercedes with SS insignia and men in black military uniforms inside. No, he was in search of an unmarked car with men in leather trench coats and wide-brimmed hats that kept their faces in shadow—Gestapo men; but if they were there, neither he nor the Professor had seen them.

Tovah greeted Eva and Jake with a smile and took their coats along with Jake’s briefcase and Eva’s rucksack and physician’s bag. The elder Kleist led the way down the corridor that was lined with canvases: Klimt, Kirchner, Schiele; Cezanne, Degas, Lautrec, Van Gogh; Kandinsky, Klee, Marc, Munter, among them. The sound of the piano rose as they approached the library. Relieved her guests weren’t vile men in trench coats, Gisela played the final passage of the Mondschien Sonate with joyful abandon, then got up from the piano, and said, “Welcome to our home.”

Jake nodded awkwardly, rubbing his palms together to warm them before shaking her hand.

Eva broke into a shy smile, then sighed with exhilaration at the sight of Max, and ran into his arms. She held him tightly, with crushing force, as if this might somehow, miraculously, prevent the psychotic Jew-hunters from tearing them apart forever.

Indeed, the Reichsführer was right. How could it have gone on for so long? How?! How could they have lived in denial for so many months and years? How could they have allowed themselves to believe it would last when in their darkest moments they knew it would come to this unnerving end? It wasn’t the Critical Skills Exemptions that had made them feel so falsely secure. No, it wasn’t a few pages of bureaucratic boilerplate that they had taken to heart, but rather the exciting and deeply satisfying routine of life, of healing the sick, treating the wounded, comforting the dying, and doing so together, that had lulled the three of them into believing it would go on forever; that had caused them to believe that Himmler’s bloodhounds wouldn’t pick up their scent.

“Max has told us how proud he is to call you both his friends,” Gisela said, as Max and Eva separated, the tips of their fingers lingering in contact. “And we were especially pleased when he told us of his strong feelings for you, Eva.”

“We’re very lucky to have found each other, Madam Kleist,” Eva said her eyes aglow with the love and admiration she felt for her son.

“And we’re both very fortunate to have you and your husband offer to help us,” Jake said. “We’re aware of the chance you’re all taking.”

“It won’t be the first,” the elder Kleist replied, his eyes brightening. “Perhaps it will be the last. Yes? Well, there’s much to do and little time to do it. If you will excuse us, Max will get you settled and explain what happens next.” The dog sensed he was about to leave and began drifting toward the door. “Kunst. Stay,” Konrad commanded, guiding his wife from the Library.

The dog stopped in mid-stride, crossed the room and settled next to Eva, nuzzling her hand.

“Where’s Professor Gerhard?” Max asked as his parents departed.

“He went back to school,” Jake replied as the three of them gathered in front of the fireplace. “He can’t be seen with us; let alone be seen here, now.”

“You’re right. He’s taken enough chances,” Max said, lighting a cigarette. “You’ll spend the night. In the morning you’ll be taken to an abandoned cabin in Partnach Gorge. I was hoping the professor could drive you; but we’ll find someone else. You’ll be safe there for a while.”

“For a while?” Eva echoed incredulously. “No. No, I have to get out of here, now. Out of Germany. Back to Venice. I’d feel much safer there. Not to mention I’m worried sick about my family.”

“I’ve stopped worrying about mine,” Jake said, disconsolately. He didn’t have to explain. Eva and Max knew he had gone home to Vienna on semester break only to learn that his family had been arrested by the Gestapo. The Leopoldstadt District, the city’s Jewish quarter where Jacob Epstein grew up, was on a large island surrounded by the Danube River and its canal. Hebrew and Yiddish were the languages most often heard on its shop-lined streets. Jake’s father operated a small apothecary on Grosse Schiffgasse just a few doors down from Schiff Shul, the main Orthodox synagogue; and Jake helped out in his spare time until he went off to medical school. “Eva’s right,” Jake concluded. “We should get out of Germany as quickly as possible.”

“You should come with me,” Eva said with her characteristic decisiveness. “Unlike the Austrians, and the French for that matter, few Italians have become collaborators, and many families, good people like Max’s parents, are sheltering Jews.”

Max nodded in agreement. “But you’ll have to cross the Alps, all of Austria and half of northern Italy to get there. More than three hundred kilometers in the dead of winter. That would be challenging for the Wermacht’s ski troops let alone two Jews on the run from the SS.”

“We’ll take the train,” Eva said, undaunted. “That’s what I always do. Six hours and we’re there.”

“Not without false documents,” Max fired back, using a quick drag of his cigarette for emphasis. “The Gestapo board every train at every stop and check everyone’s papers. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“We’ll walk if we have to,” Jake said resolutely.

“No, you’ll take the train,” Max said, smartly. “With new passports and travel passes. My parents have connections.”

“Good,” Jake said with a grin. “Because I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

“It comes with the room, powder too, and a square of chocolate on the pillow,” Max said with a laugh. “I’ll take care of the passport photos. Mom and Dad’ll take care of the rest.” He flicked his cigarette into the fireplace, then glanced to the dog, and said, “Come on, Kunst, we’ve got work to do.” Max led the way to the entry hall where the elevator was located. The ornate cage-like car ran in an open shaft that was encircled by the four-story staircase.

Moments earlier, after leaving the library, Max’s parents had gone directly to the chapel just across the corridor. Heads bowed, the Kleists crossed themselves and genuflected in front of the altar; then, as Gisela knelt in prayer, Konrad went up a few steps to the tabernacle.

Carved from a single block of marble, the small, mausoleum-like cabinet was centered atop the altar between two baroque candlesticks. Each seemed to be growing from within an exuberant spray of evergreen ferns and Christmas holly dotted with bright red berries.

Kleist slid the finely embroidered curtain, which cloaked the tabernacle’s door, aside. Instead of the usual bronze casting with the Latin abbreviation IHS—Iesus Hominum Salvator, Jesus Savior of Men—and a keyed lock, this tabernacle had the case-hardened steel door and combination lock of a safe. He spun the dial several times, then grasped the handle and opened the door, revealing a chalice in which consecrated Hosts were kept. With deliberate reverence he set the vessel aside, reached deep into the tabernacle between banded packs of currency piled against the side walls, and removed a metal strongbox. It contained a supply of blank passports, identity cards and travel passes. He slipped two of each into a pocket, returned the strongbox and chalice to the tabernacle, and locked it; then joined his wife at the foot of the altar. They genuflected together and hurried from the chapel to her office at the other end of the corridor.

The spacious room was filled with works of art. Racks of canvases ran along one wall. Shallow drawers beneath the worktable held reams of etchings, drawings, and lithographs. Rows of bookcases were crammed with oversized art volumes. The desk was piled with artists’ profiles, provenance reports, transaction folders, and a ledger in which Gisela made meticulous annotations on the works she represented.

She went to the telephone, put a professionally manicured fingertip in the rotary, and dialed the number of a young graphic designer named Glazer who was one of her Red Orchestra operatives. After two rings, she hung up, waited a moment, and then dialed the same number again.

“D-K-G…” Glazer answered in a guarded voice. The initials stood for Druck-Knopfe-Grafik, the name of his studio. It was a wordplay on his clever idea to sew
druckknopfes
—literally, snap fasteners—on the sleeves of his shirts and coats and on his yellow star, so he could easily remove it on entering establishments that barred Jews, or when engaging in clandestine activities.

“This is the curator,” Gisela Kleist said, cryptically. “We’ve just acquired two new pieces that need authenticating.”

“You have everything I’ll need to establish their provenance?” Glazer asked matter-of-factly.

“Yes, everything…” Gisela replied with a glance to her husband whose hand, in a subconscious gesture, was pressed against his jacket pocket. “…as always. All necessary documents and photographs. We can drop them off this evening if that’s convenient—Excellent.” She hung up and said, “The newsstand at the Hauptbahnhof after dark.”