The German Suitcase Read online

  The precise click of the Leica’s shutter came in response. Max advanced the film, taking several shots, then called out “Next!” Eva took Jake’s place and glanced up at Max with a haunting sadness, as if the photograph he was about to take would soon be the only thing he’d have of her for the rest of his life.

  The wistful moment was broken by the snap of the shutter and the arrival of a striking young woman who rapped on the open door as she strode swiftly through it. She set aside her schoolbag and a violin case and bent to the German shepherd who came from the alcove to greet her. “Hey boy,” she said scruffing his ears. “How you doing?” At 22, Anika Kleist was three years younger than her brother; and, with her slender frame, long, blond hair, and sparkling cerulean eyes, was as classically attractive as he was handsome. “Hi, what’s going on?”

  “Plenty,” Max replied, setting the camera aside. “I need to get this film processed before tonight.”

  “I can take care of it,” Anika said; then, with the sassy bravado of someone who enjoyed taking risks, prompted, “I hear you’re looking for a driver, too.”

  “They’re not going sightseeing, Anika.”

  “Neither am I,” Anika countered matching his tone. “Enough Mozart for one week. I’m going skiing with my friends.” She whirled to Jake and Eva, and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Anika. Max’s little sister. He thinks I spend too much time worrying if my seams are straight. I’m afraid he isn’t much for introductions.”

  “May I present the other half of the Kleist Choix du Roi,” Max said, facetiously. The French phrase meant Choice of Kings, and referred to the royal preference for having both a male and female heir. “I shall one day rule the Kleist family empire; while Anika, playing romantic adagios on her violin, will win the heart of the dashing young ruler of another, thereby forming a strategic alliance.” Max forced a smile, and added, “I’ve little time for social graces today, Anika.”

  “Well you should find some,” Eva said, scolding him with a smile as she shook Anika’s hand. “I’m Eva, this is Jake.”

  “Of course you are,” Anika said with a perky flip of her hair, shifting her eyes back to Max. “Mom and Dad just briefed me. Since, I’m driving to the lake tomorrow, anyway, I could easily drop Eva and Jake at the Gorge.”

  Max winced. “No. No, it’s too dangerous.”

  “What isn’t these days?” Anika challenged. “I go almost every weekend, right? It’s part of my routine. So there’s less chance I’d attract attention. Besides, I know all the guards at the Starnberger checkpoint. They always wave me right through.”

  “Really?” Max said, smiling at what he was about to say. “I thought they threatened to arrest you if you didn’t give them your phone number.”

  “That’s why I always take, Kunst, along,” Anika said, referring to the dog whose ears went up, his head tilting left then right. “He intimidates them. Right boy?! Right?”

  Kunst responded with several crisp barks.

  Max’s head tilted from side to side as if he was considering something. He looked like he was mimicking the dog. “You know, I hate to admit it,” he said, sheepishly. “But she’s right.”

  “At last!” Anika exclaimed. “In front of two witnesses no less; and all I have to do to prove it, is drive them to Partnach Gorge without getting caught by the Gestapo or the SS.”

  The others all laughed nervously.

  Jake picked up the camera. “Come on. You two are next!” he said spiritedly to Max and Anika. “Eva and I aren’t going to be the only ones in your rogues’ gallery.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A pin drop silence had descended over Gunther Global’s conference room by the time Mark Gunther returned from escorting his wife and the archivist to the reception area. Jake had covered the entire sequence of events that had brought him and Eva Rosenberg to the Kleist family’s townhouse, ending with Max giving him the suitcase, taking the passport photographs, and agreeing to allow his sister, Anika, to drive them to a hiding place the next day.

  Now, gathered around the old fellow, they were all trying to comprehend the enormity of it. Not to mention the absurd and evil stupidity of it. Jake didn’t have to point out that the modern day equivalent would be two students at Mount Sinai Hospital Medical School being hunted by agents of the U.S. Government with warrants for their arrest and deportation to a death camp because they were Jews. The staggering incomprehensibility was soon replaced by breathless amazement that Jake was actually alive, there, with them; and, then, by burning curiosity to find out what happened next.

  Jake sensed it and shifted in his chair, self-consciously. “You know, I couldn’t have afforded that suitcase, then,” he said with a laugh, nudging Steinbach with an elbow. “I’m not even sure I could afford it now!”

  “You can have as many as you want. No charge!” Steinbach said, laughing along with him. “I couldn’t buy the media coverage this is going to generate.”

  “Well, GG is still billing by the hour,” Tannen teased; then caught up in the moment, he added, “Talk about traveling companions for life…”

  “Let’s keep our focus, people,” Gunther cautioned with professional aplomb.

  “The kick-off line is: Surviving Harrowing Journeys.”

  “Harrowing as hell,” Steinbach chimed-in. “This is everything we hoped for and more!”

  “Much more,” Jake said pointedly. “This is the fuel that has kept my engine running all these years.”

  Stacey’s eyes were aglow with quiet reverence. It was as if she was in the presence of royalty or the Pope. She didn’t even know people like Jake Epstein existed when she was growing up in Lubbock, let alone could she have ever hoped to be privy to a first hand account of his struggle to survive such atrocities. “You’ve lived through some incredible times, haven’t you, Dr. Epstein?” she prompted, her voice trembling. “I mean, like, my life’s a total bore in comparison.”

  “Well, I had a psychopath named Adolph to thank for it,” Jake replied in his soft accent. “You know, in 1920 when I was born, Germany was paralyzed by the psychological and economic impact of the War. The First World War. By the early thirties, things were improving. The motion picture business was thriving; a community of artists had formed: Kirchner in Berlin, Kandinsky in Munich; technical innovation had resumed; and the auto industry was expanding: Daimler Benz, BMW and…and…” He paused, feigning he couldn’t recall. “…ah yes, a little company called Volkswagen started by a man named Porsche. Did you know, Josef Ganz, a Jew, came up with the original design and called it the Beetle? Yes, years before Hitler championed it and had him arrested on trumped-up charges. By the time I began medical school in the early forties, the Führer had been in power for a decade and had already invaded Poland, starting the Second World War…”

  “Nothing like a World War to juice the economy,” Gunther interjected, savoring the sarcasm.

  “…which destroyed the nation,” Jake resumed, pointedly, finishing his thought. “As I said, there’s more. Much, much more.”

  “Well if you’ve got the time, we’ve got the time,” Tannen said brightly. “It’s your harrowing journey, Dr. Epstein; your story; and we need to hear it.”

  “Yeah, we’re all ears,” Stacey said, eager for more.

  “We sure are,” Adam chimed in. Until now, he had recorded it all, said little, and written a lot in his notebook. The more Jake talked the more enriched the piece he was writing became. “So, Dr. Epstein, did you and…and Eva, Eva Rosenberg, is it? Make it to Venice? I mean, what happened next?”

  “Well, things didn’t go quite according to plan. The Nazis saw to that; and, and we, well…” Jake emitted a weary sigh and took a sip of water from his glass. “As I said, there’s so much more to tell…”

  “I think maybe Dr. Epstein needs a break, boss,” Stacey said, her maternal instincts, prevailing.

  “A long one,” Dan said, decisively. “I think we’ve had enough for one day. What do you say, Dad?”

&nb
sp; Jake grimaced as if he wanted to continue, then nodded weakly. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid, I’ve run out of gas. I hope you all understand.”

  “Of course,” Gunther said. “We can always pick up where we left off. I’ll have Bart schedule something at your convenience.”

  “I’ll need to schedule some time too,” Adam said, closing his pad and turning off his recorder.

  Dan nodded and handed him one of his Foundation business cards. “Call me. We’ll work something out as soon as my father feels up to it.”

  Several days later, the same group, minus Gunther, reconvened for the photo shoot at Zach Bolden’s Chelsea studio. A brisk fellow with close-set eyes and shaved head, Bolden had an air of authority and thoughtful decisiveness that paid-off in a world overrun with massive egos and fragile psyches.

  The cavernous space was painted a soft white and bathed in shadowless light that came from rows of saw-toothed skylights. The vintage suitcase, returned as promised, stood on a massive sheet of gray backdrop paper that rolled across the floor and up the wall to the ceiling. Bolden and several assistants—along with a white-haired stand-in who was sitting on the suitcase as Jake Epstein would soon be doing—were fine-tuning the lighting.

  Despite her initial misgivings, Hannah Epstein had gotten caught-up in her husband’s contagious enthusiasm for the project. She regretted not being with him when the suitcase was opened, and insisted on accompanying him this time. At the moment, they were sitting in lounge chairs in a corner of the studio where hair and make-up stylists were preparing Jake for the session.

  “Do they do your Botox injections too?” Hannah teased as they hovered about her husband.

  “You’re just jealous because no one’s fussing over you,” Jake countered with a self-satisfied cackle.

  “I’m crushed,” Hannah said, hand over her heart. “I thought fussing over me was your reason for getting out of bed in the morning.”

  Adam overheard the charming banter and made a notation on his pad. He had been questioning Bolden, along with his assistants and stylists on technical matters, while the low-profile Times photographer worked with her camera. When the stand-in got up from the suitcase and went to retrieve Jake, Adam’s eyes darted to the white, hand painted lettering that had been made almost luminescent by the high-key lighting. There was something curious about the data but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and the thought evaporated as Jake arrived and Bolden tended to his camera signaling the session was about to begin.

  The old fellow paused before taking his seat. The scene was powerfully reminiscent of that day in Munich when Max Kleist gave him the suitcase and photographed him and Eva sitting on it. Jake stared at it for a long moment; then, as he had done all those years ago, he sat on it and folded his arms across his chest.

  Bolden worked with a Mamiya single-lens reflex digital camera. Favored by top professionals for its high-resolution and technical virtuosity, the RZ67 Pro IID, with its 6X7cm format, provided four times the pixel area of a 35mm camera. Over the next few hours, Bolden shot several sequences which required hair and make-up touch-ups, and many wardrobe changes: Jake in suit and tie; in a sport jacket; in a lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck; with a sampling of the prosthetics he had designed and patented arranged in the foreground; Jake standing next to the suitcase; holding it by the handle. For someone of his years, the process was wearying. The stress was intensified by the blinding strobe flashes that had him, and everyone else, blinking and seeing circles in front of their eyes. Despite the enthusiasm, advance planning and attention to detail, it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

  “I’m worried about Papa,” Hannah said to Dan who had taken Jake’s seat next to her. She shielded her eyes as the strobes fired yet again, then added, “I think he looks exhausted.”

  Dan splayed his hands in frustration. “I know, but there’s no stopping him, Mom. God knows I tried.”

  “He seems to have lost that zest he always has,” Hannah went on with a concerned frown.

  Dan nodded, then caught Tannen’s eye and waved him over. “I don’t know about you, but it’s obvious to us this isn’t going very well.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Tannen replied, playing down his concern which, for other reasons, exceeded theirs. “It’s important to keep in mind that it takes—”

  “Please, Mr. Tannen,” Dan interrupted. “I warned you this could be emotionally draining for him. I think we should call it off.”

  “Let’s not overreact. I was about to say, it takes time for photographer and subject to develop a rapport. To make the kind of connection that—”

  “I’m not overreacting. They’ve been at it for hours. If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will.”

  “Have faith,” Tannen said; then, in an attempt to appeal to Dan’s Wall Street mind-set, he added, “There’s a lot of money on the line here. We can’t come away from this with nothing. We’ve all made too big an investment.”

  Dan’s eyes burned with disdain behind his frameless lenses. “You’re worried about losing money?! I’m worried about my father losing his zest for life!”

  “Dan, please,” Hannah said, regretting her concern had stirred her son’s antagonism. “Mr. Tannen is the expert here. Considering how excited daddy’s been about this, the least we can do is give it a fair chance.”

  “We already have, Mom,” Dan replied. “But if you feel that strongly about it…”

  “I do,” Hannah said with a crisp nod.

  Dan locked his eyes onto Tannen’s and, in a commanding voice, said, “The ball’s in your court. Come up with a game plan, or the game is over.”

  Tannen had screwed up badly; and he knew it. The investment angle had backfired and allowed Dan Epstein to claim the moral high ground. Tannen wanted to cut him down to size and was on the verge of replying: It’s not your call, kid, it’s your mommy’s! But embarrassing him in front of her might pressure Hannah into letting him pull the plug to save face, and Tannen didn’t dare risk it. Instead, he held Dan’s look and, in an equally authoritative tone, said, “Give me a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Konrad Kleist didn’t have to wait long to make his clandestine delivery. Darkness fell early this time of year. As he always did on such missions, he dispensed with his chauffeured Mercedes and, accompanied by his daughter, used her Volkswagen instead. The black, beetle-shaped People’s Car was a no-frills vehicle which didn’t attract attention. Despite being championed by the Führer, few were manufactured during the war; and none of the more than 335,000 Germans who signed up to buy a KdF-Wagen, as they were called, ever got one. KdF stood for Kraft durch Freude—Strength through Joy; and those Strength through Joy cars that were built went to the Nazi elite, the Kleists among them.

  Konrad didn’t tell Kunst to “Stay” this time; and the dog, sitting behind them in front of the Volkswagen’s split rear window, seemed fascinated by the falling snow as they drove along the Isar to the Ludwigsbrucke. The bridge arched across the river to a boulevard that—despite changing names several times and detouring around debris from buildings struck by Allied bombs—was the most direct route to the Hauptbahnhof.

  Designed by Freidrich Bürklein, Maximilian II’s court architect, Munich’s main train station was constructed in the mid-1800s. Thanks to Allied air raids, it was under constant reconstruction, now. Despite them, the Deutsche Bundesbahn still managed to operate, more or less, daily, if not on the published schedule which had been further disrupted by the unusually harsh weather. Indeed, thanks to the latter, there hadn’t been any air raid sirens wailing on this night, not yet anyway.

  Traffic around the station was light, as it was throughout the city, due to the severe gasoline shortage. Kleist guided the Volkswagen into Bahnhofplatz the broad street that swept past the main entrance. The newsstand was just beyond the taxi line where passengers, stung by the biting cold, queued for the few available taxis. Its forest green kiosk was topped by a snow-covered cu
pola and festooned with copies of newspapers and magazines clipped beneath the overhanging roofline.

  “Coast looks clear,” Anika said.

  “It always does until it’s too late,” her father cautioned. “Keep looking.” He slowed his approach, then pulled to the curb before reaching the newsstand so he could keep it under surveillance.

  Anika slipped a magazine from her handbag and opened it to a section from which a half dozen pages had been torn out. Her father took a business envelope from inside his jacket and placed it in the fold. In it were the two blank travel passes and blank passports—one Italian, the other Austrian—that he’d taken from the tabernacle, and the passport photos of Jake and Eva, that Max had taken, and which Anika had processed by one of her mother’s operatives. The pseudonyms they had chosen had been written on the back of their respective photographs.

  “Take no chances, Anika,” her father warned as he secured the envelope to the pages of the magazine with two steel clips. “Remember, if the dealer doesn’t say: ‘Why do you ask?’ just purchase a newspaper and leave.”

  Anika nodded, slipped the magazine in her handbag, and left the car. Her father watched as she walked toward the newsstand. Without taking his eyes from her, he tapped a North State from a pack and lit it.

  The news dealer had an ink-smudged apron tied at the waist of his bulky mackinaw, and a wool watch cap pulled down over his ears. The fingertips of his gloves had been cut off enabling him to make change more easily while making small talk with customers.

  “Excuse me?” Anika said brightly when he finished chatting with the woman ahead of her. “Do you have any copies of Gallery Arts Magazine left?”

  The news dealer took a moment to slip some coins into a pocket in his apron, then glanced over at her and said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I bought this one from you this morning,” she replied, removing it from her handbag. “But some pages seem to be missing. I’d like another.”