The German Suitcase Read online

  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.”

  “It’s a moot point, anyway, Mr. Steinbach,” Stacey said, getting into it gently.

  Steinbach stiffened and kicked back in his chair. “Don’t sugarcoat it. He’s dead? He’s dying? What?”

  “No, we found him and he’s fine,” Stacey replied. “But we got turned down. He’s not going to sign on.”

  Steinbach’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “The good doctor said no?”

  “His son did,” Tannen replied.

  “Just like that?” Steinbach said, sounding incredulous. “Who the hell is this guy?”

  Tannen gave him the data Stacey had printed-out from Google. As Steinbach scanned the pages, Tannen briefed him on Dan Epstein’s refusal, mentioning his daughter’s wedding, and his intention to acquire the suitcase and its contents.

  “It’s on me. I blew it,” Steinbach said, shaking the pages in frustration. “This is the Jake Epstein I was on those charity boards with. Haven’t seen him for years.” He emitted a deflated sigh before his busy eyes came alive and he cocked his head at a thought. “Did you say his granddaughter’s getting married?”

  “Yeah. In a couple of weeks. Temple of Dendur yet.”

  Steinbach’s expression brightened. His eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “Don’t let that suitcase out of your sight, Bart. This isn’t over.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nope,” Steinbach replied, stabbing a finger at his intercom. “Yeah, I need Bernice.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At about the same time Professor Gerhard was taking evasive measures on Munich’s snowy streets, Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain, Waffen SS was with his parents in the library of the family’s 19th Century townhouse. The walls, crafted of Bavarian black walnut, were inlaid with rosettes as were the coffers between the finely detailed ceiling beams. A circular staircase led to a cast iron balcony, making the upper tier of volumes accessible. Blackout drapes, drawn at night to ward off Allied airstrikes, and a book entitled German War Christmas—published by the Nazi Propaganda Office and distributed at home and at the front—were the only evidence of the War.

  Konrad Kleist, a tall man with a strong profile and steel-gray hair that swept back in perfect waves, stood next to a marble fireplace. ‘Concert,’ a large canvas by the expatriate Russian, and one-time Munich resident, Wassily Kandinsky, who had recently died in Paris, hung above the mantle. Konrad’s wife, Gisela, an elegant, fine-boned woman who favored Chanel suits, was seated on an Art Nouveau sofa. A black German Shepherd lay at her feet. Max, who had changed from his uniform into a tweed hunting jacket and corduroy trousers, leaned against the piano, smoking a cigarette. A cello that dated to the mid-18th Century stood nearby.

  “What were you thinking, Max?” the elder Kleist demanded. “How could you have been so careless? For years I’ve been walking a tightrope. Not once have I teetered let alone fallen. And now…” He sighed and slipped a pack of North States from a pocket. Konrad favored the Finnish brand not only for their heady flavor, but also because the twelve-pack’s slim profile didn’t ruin the line of his bespoke suits. His gold lighter was engraved with a double-K monogram as were his cufflinks. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as if this would give him the strength to deal with the situation.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Max said, meeting his father’s gaze. His tone was respectful, not remorseful, and made it clear he wouldn’t be cowed. “I’ve done my best to live an exemplary life in the spirit of this family. I took every precaution, believe me.”

  “Yes, we’re sure you did,” his mother said softly admonishing her husband with a glance. “Perhaps, it would have been wise to share this with us before today.”

  “It wasn’t an oversight, Mother,” Max explained, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Eva and I thought it best to wait until the war was over and we knew what kind of a world we’d be living in before committing our hearts to it, or asking for your blessing.”

  Gisela Kleist’s eyes were moist with empathy. “Of course, but with these…these sociopaths committing such unimaginable atrocities, it behooved you and this young lady to be more discrete.”

  “Believe me, Mother, we were. I’m not even sure Professor Gerhard knew.”

  “Then how?” his father asked.

  “An informer,” Max replied. “Someone must’ve gone to the SS.”

  “How many times have I said, trust no one but family,” his father said, dragging on his cigarette to contain his anger. “You didn’t see fit to take us into your confidence; but you shared this with someone else?”

  Max no
dded. “With Jake. Jake Epstein. But he would never…”

  “You’re sure of that?” his father challenged. “No jealousy? No anger at a German aristocrat romancing a lovely Jewish girl—one he secretly covets?”

  “Jake’s my best friend for God sake,” Max protested. “He is family to me.” He crossed to the fireplace, contemplating his father’s words; then flicked his cigarette into the flames. “Eva’s beautiful and smart. Every guy in school’s interested in her. But would Jake sacrifice himself and Eva too? Does that make sense? He’s got more personal integrity than anyone I know. It had to be someone else, someone at school, someone who saw us in a cafe, someone in Eva’s building.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Konrad Kleist conceded, softly. “Someone who was in trouble with the SS; who traded you for themselves or a family member. The problem is, our support for the resistance has been possible only because it’s been anonymous. We survived the White Rose tragedy, and so far so good with Red Orchestra; but this…” he paused, taking a moment to assess the consequences.

  Red Orchestra was a network of anti-Nazi citizens from across Germany’s social, political and religious spectrum who helped to rescue Jews and others marked for death; and sought ways to turn the depressed German populace against the Führer whose raging propaganda speeches had restored their self-esteem and convinced them Germany had reclaimed its rightful place in the hierarchy of nations.

  “…but this—” the elder Kleist resumed, deciding brutal honesty would serve him best, “—this endangers everything!”

  Max was visibly stung. “I’m sorry. As I said, I did everything possible to protect you, and this family; and I’ll continue to do so.”

  “It’s not that simple, Max. You see, I’m not one person. I’m three,” his father said enigmatically. “Yes, there are three Konrad Kleists: A German patriot who was horrified when this evil fanatic came to power; a traitor who is doing all he can to destroy him; and a war profiteer whose company the Führer holds in high regard.” He gestured to a wall of framed photographs. Among them were: Konrad Kleist with German business executives and industrialists. Kleist with European political leaders. The Kleists and their two young children at the Vatican with Pius XI and Munich’s Cardinal von Faulhaber an ardent supporter of the Führer. The Pontiff—who abhorred the Nazis but thought Communism to be a greater evil—was presenting the Kleists with medals commemorating the martyrdom of St. Thomas More, the English statesman and humanist whom he had canonized four centuries after his beheading in 1535 by order of Henry VIII.