The German Suitcase Page 7

  The photograph Max was staring at, now, was of two men shaking hands in front of a blast furnace from which molten steel was pouring. One of them was his father. The other was Adolph Hitler. “I’ve always been proud of you, Dad,” Max said with an impish grin. “Almost every last one of you.”

  Konrad Kleist raised an amused brow. “You’d be wise to keep your pride in check. Though your ancestors began as humble blacksmiths, the company they founded manufactures armor plate, weapons-grade bar stock, and steel sheeting able to withstand crushing ocean depths, not to mention the finest barbed-wire made in Germany. You see the dichotomy here?”

  Max nodded grimly, then broke into an amused smile. “Though I do vaguely recall rumors that the armor plate seems a little less impenetrable as of late; the bar stock not quite weapons grade; the steel sheeting not up to crush depth specifications…”

  A Cheshire grin tugged at the corners of Konrad Kleist’s mouth. “Really? And lo and behold the war will soon be lost; after which, all three of me plan to live a long and happy life with your mother, your sister and you…and your families, of course.”

  “I’ve no doubt of it,” his wife said with heartfelt conviction. “Germany will once again become a humane and civilized nation where science, music, literature and art flourish.” She stood and touched her son’s cheek, tenderly. “You’re in love with this girl, Eva?”

  “Yes, Mother, I am. Deeply. She’s a very special person, not to mention a bright and caring doctor.”

  “And what of her family?” his mother asked.

  “They’re Galician but they live in Venice, now. In the Jewish ghetto. Ever since Mussolini fell and our troops occupied Italy, many of their neighbors have been arrested and sent to concentration camps.” Max paused, overcome by a sense of hopelessness. “We…We want to spend our lives together, raise a family, like you and dad.”

  “That’s wonderful,” his mother said. “We’re very happy for you.” She glanced to her husband and prompted, “Aren’t we Konrad?”

  “Of course we are,” Konrad replied, dutifully. He knew his wife was doing more than eliciting his support, and knew exactly what she wanted. His eyes drifted for a moment then, with an anxious drag of his cigarette, he said, “What I’m about to say, Max, must stay in this room. Though the records seem to have ‘somehow’ been lost, according to family lore, my great-grandmother on my father’s side was Jewish.”

  Max felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He and his younger sister, Anika, were cared for by a Jewish nanny as children. Tovah Klausner was a nurturing woman who loved them as she would her own. By the time they had grown, she had become a member of the family and stayed on to run the household. Thanks to her, Max’s Yiddish was more than passable—a fact that deepened his friendship with Jake beyond their interest in orthopedic surgery which had initiated it—but this—this was shocking news. He looked to his mother, gauging her reaction. Her composed smile left no doubt it was neither shocking nor news to her.

  “Of course, being one-eighth Jewish is the secret to my success in business!” his father went on laughing at the absurdity of the stereotype. “And to my demise if that weasel Himmler found out.”

  “It’s Eva’s demise I’m worried about,” Max said his voice hoarse with anxiety. “Eva’s and Jake’s. They need a place to stay. They need false papers. We have to help them.”

  “I don’t see how we can get involved,” his father said with finality. “Not directly. As you know, we do have certain connections that might be useful.”

  Max scowled. “The resistance? Headquarters has been giddy over reports it’s been infiltrated. Besides, as a very bright person once said, trust no one but family,” Max added, smartly. “What about the lake house?” he went on, referring to the family’s chalet on Eibsee at the foot of the German Alps.

  The lake country on the Austrian border north of Innsbruck was a year-round playground for the wealthy. Tennis, golf or water sports in the morning; skiing in Garmisch Partenkirchen, where the 1936 Winter Olympics were held, in the afternoon. Free of defense plants and military installations—other than border checkpoints and a contingent of mountain troops housed in what had been Olympic dormitories—the area wasn’t on the Allies’ target list.

  “Eva and Jake could stay there,” Max concluded. “Until new passports and travel passes can be—”

  “No,” his father said, sharply. “If they’re found there we’re all finished.”

  “We have to do something,” Max protested. “We can’t just allow the SS to cart them off to a death camp. There must be—”

  “No, Max. No. I don’t need any more phone calls in the middle of the night. You’re lucky I was able to keep you from being arrested. Major Steig came this close to charging you with violating the Nuremberg Laws, racial defilement, and bringing disgrace on the SS! Charges for which you could face a firing squad.”

  Max shuddered visibly, then nodded. “Steig is an attack dog. A true believer. You can imagine my relief when he said I was being reassigned.”

  “Reassigned to what?” his father asked.

  Max shrugged. “My orders are being cut. I have to report to headquarters early tomorrow.”

  “Some form of punishment,” his father speculated, grimly. “The front most likely.”

  “The front…” his mother echoed with concern.

  “Don’t worry, the war will be over before I ever get there.” Max hugged her, reassuringly, then smiled at a thought. “What about that cabin at the bottom of the gorge? It’s miles from our place; and it’s been abandoned for years.”

  The elder Kleist grimaced. “No. No, that’s still too close for comfort.”

  “Konrad, please,” Gisela Kleist implored. “Just for a short time, until my people can prepare their documents.”

  Her husband winced, then nodded. “All right, but I don’t want to know which room they’re sleeping in,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I have to preserve some degree of plausible deniability.”

  Max was smiling at his father’s joke when the doorbell rang. Anxious looks darted between them as the sound reverberated through the house. The dog got to its feet, and took up a position in the doorway that led to the corridor.

  The housekeeper was replacing Christmas candles in the small chapel adjacent to the library. The perfectly scaled space with its straight-backed wooden pews and solemn stained glass windows was where Max and his sister Anika were baptized. A crucifixion by Cranach The Elder hung above the altar. A Madonna and child by Michael Pacher, and an Annunciation by Mathias Grunewald hung on the sidewalls. When the doorbell rang, Tovah left the chapel and hurried down the corridor toward the foyer.

  The elder Kleist caught sight of her through the open doors of the library. “One moment, Tovah,” he called out with a glance to his wife. “Are we expecting anyone, Gisela?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Max?”

  “It could be Eva and Jake. Professor Gerhard said he’d bring them here if he could.”

  “You told them to come here?”

  “Of course,” Max replied, angry at being chastised. “For obvious reasons, I’ve avoided inviting them to my home; but today I had no choice. They’re lives are in danger! They’ve nowhere else to go!”

  “What if they’ve been caught?” his father asked, suddenly unnerved. “What if they were caught coming here, and talked?”

  You really think it’s the Gestapo, his wife asked calmly.

  “I’ve no idea,” Konrad replied as the doorbell rang again. “Sometimes they ring. Sometimes they knock. Sometimes they knock the door down.”

  Gisela Kleist nodded resolutely, determining her strategy. If it was Himmler’s henchmen, she would remind them of Germany’s greatness, of its depth of character, of its soulful humanity; she would force them to acknowledge it; and dare them to destroy it. With quiet confidence, she went to the Bechstein, sat on the upholstered bench, and began to play. The room filled with the dream-
like Adagio sostenuto of Beethoven’s Sonata #14 in C sharp minor, the Mondschein Sonate.

  Konrad Kleist took a deep breath and went to see who was at the door.

  The German Shepherd followed.

  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 philosophize
d. “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.”