The German Suitcase Read online

  “You’re incorrigible,” Hannah said, with a girlish giggle, squirming in his embrace. “I’m sorry. I suppose you’re right. I’ll come along if you like.”

  “I thought you had a luncheon?”

  “I can always beg-off and send a check.”

  “No. No, go. It’s important. Besides, Dan insisted on coming. I’ll be fine.” He smiled and kissed her forehead, tenderly. “Ich liebe dich…”

  “Oh, yes,” Hannah said, burrowing into him. “I love you, too, Jake Epstein.”

  Mid-morning the next day, Dr. Jacob Epstein and his son arrived at Gunther Global’s reception area. Tannen and Stacey, and Steinbach, accompanied by his technical consultant, had already assembled in the conference room along with Adam Stevens who was making notes while a New York Times photographer moved about quietly with her camera. The small talk had waned and an anxious silence had fallen by the time Jake and Dan Epstein were shown in by a receptionist.

  Jake’s eyes darted to the conference table. Wide in the middle, narrow at the ends, its forced perspective focused his attention on the suitcase that was perched atop the polished rosewood. Dramatically illuminated by a spotlight, the battered piece of luggage, with the worn, hand-painted lettering, could have been the featured work in an exhibition of found art. Jake stood there, transfixed, unable to take his eyes from it.

  Stacey’s heart was captured by the old fellow the moment she saw him. Despite her hardball lobbying, she suddenly felt almost maternally protective of him—and with good reason. She was responsible for reuniting him with his suitcase, for stirring up the horrific past it represented, for forcing him to relive it; and, now, she was concerned about how it might affect him. Watching this genial octogenarian staring at the suitcase with his slight forward lean, which made him appear almost childlike, was heart-wrenching. She was trying to imagine what was going through his mind, and was feeling like a parent who, having encouraged her child to partake in an activity, suddenly realized it contained an element of danger she hadn’t anticipated.

  The moment was broken when Mark Gunther arrived accompanied by two women. He introduced the fashionable, artistic-looking one with high cheekbones and observant eyes as his wife, Grace; and the tiny taut one with the earnest smile and black attaché as Ellen Rother, lead investigator and archivist for the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s New York Office.

  Adam slipped an audio recorder from his pocket and turned it on. The voice-activated, digital Sony PCM-D50 was favored by journalists for its long battery life, ease of operation and downloading to computers. It freed them to participate in interviews while insuring the accuracy of quotations. Like most of them, Adam used a spiral pad to record observations about people and places, and make research notes.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gunther said. “Grace and I took a few minutes to bring Ellen up to speed.” He shook Dr. Epstein’s hand and said, “Welcome to Gunther Global, Doctor. We’re very pleased you’re going to be working with us.”

  “Work? Sol promised it would be fun!” Jake said, providing a much needed moment of levity.

  “Either way, it’s a privilege to be part of this special moment, Dr. Epstein,” Ellen said as if in the presence of royalty. “The Center is most appreciative of your generosity and many decades of support.”

  “The privilege has always been mine,” Jake said with a benevolent smile.

  Ellen returned it, then set her attaché on the table. It contained equipment to photograph, package, protect, and label the suitcase and its contents. She took several shots of it from various angles with her digital camera, then looked to Steinbach’s tech, and said, “Can we open it, please?”

  Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the precise fellow came forward. He tried several keys from a set of masters, found the one he wanted, and jiggled it in the lock to awaken the pins from their decades of hibernation. The tumbler made a crisp, metallic sound when he turned it as did the second.

  Ellen hesitated, feeling the weight of this solemn moment; then, as the others pressed-in around her, she thumbed the spring-loaded latches that popped open with startling German precision, and raised the lid. An odor of grime, sweat and death that had been festering for decades rose almost visibly into the air.

  It wasn’t pungent enough to stifle the gasp that came in reaction to what was inside the suitcase. Every pair of eyes was riveted to the bold gray and white stripes of a concentration camp uniform. The ragged garment obscured the other contents, but bits and pieces could be seen peeking from beneath it: A document stamped with a bright green seal of an Eagle clutching a swastika. The corner of a hardcover book. The cuff of a shirt. The tail of a necktie. A sheaf of snapshots—once bound by a now-disintegrated rubber band—in a side pocket of the silk lining.

  The group surged closer, expecting Ellen to remove the striped uniform, revealing the items below. Instead, she began photographing the open suitcase from multiple angles, zooming-in on various details. “This is going to take a few minutes. So if you’ll all please step back…”

  Stacey had been sticking close to Dr. Epstein and, as the group moved aside, she noticed the old fellow’s eyes were glistening with emotion. “Why don’t you take a seat, Dr. Epstein?” she said, guiding him to a chair.

  Dan noticed and joined them. “Dad? You okay?”

  Jake nodded and wiped a tear from his eye.

  Despite her act of kindness, Dan Epstein was glaring at Stacey whom he blamed, along with Tannen, for his father’s distress. “This is what I meant,” he said in a taut whisper to Tannen. “I knew it was a mistake to force him to relive it. I knew he’d be shaken.”

  Tannen nodded sadly. “We’re all shaken.”

  “Enough of that talk,” Jake called out, overhearing. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” Steinbach chimed-in, his voice breaking as he turned away. He was trying to regain his composure when his cell phone rang. He pulled a sleeve over his watery eyes and flipped it open. A text message was crawling across the screen: Serial # match. Herr Konrad Kleist. Munich. Steinbach stared at it in confusion, then showed it to Tannen.

  Tannen looked puzzled. “What?” he whispered, his overgrown brows arching like caterpillars. “The suitcase belongs to some guy named, Konrad Kleist?”

  “Yeah, whoever he is,” Steinbach replied clearly puzzled. “He bought it. Maybe as a gift? Who knows?”

  “Maybe,” Tannen said, unsatisfied. “I’d rather be safe than sorry, Sol. Soon as this is over we’ll take the good doctor aside and ask him.”

  Stacey saw the whispered exchange and expressions of concern. She also saw Adam jotting in his notebook. “What’s going on boss? I’m getting a bad feeling, here.”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll get into it, later.”

  “Remember…there’s a reporter in the room.”

  A few minutes later, Ellen put the camera in her attaché, and motioned the Gunthers aside. After a brief conversation, Ellen returned to the table, then closed the suitcase and snapped the latches. “Will you lock them, please?” she said to the tech. “This is much more involved than I expected,” she explained, addressing the puzzled group. “It really should be done in a controlled environment. With Dr. Epstein’s permission, I’d like to have the suitcase picked-up and taken to the Center’s lab.”

  A disappointed groan rose in response.

  “I hasten to point out we’ve got a photo session at the end of the week,” Tannen said. Irving Penn was in long term retirement as he had thought; and though the search for other owners of vintage Steinbachs was ongoing, A-list photographer Zach Bolden had a rare cancellation; and Tannen had accelerated the schedule to take advantage of it. “We won’t need the contents; but we’re out of business without the suitcase.”

  “I understand,” Ellen said, asking rhetorically, “Could it be done here? Yes. Could it be done in the subway in rush hour? Sure. But the lab is better. Much better. I guarantee you’ll have the suitcase bac
k in time. The contents, on the other hand, will take at least several weeks to process, properly.

  “It’s Dr. Epstein’s call,” Gunther said.

  “As a man of science I’m always in favor of scientific methods,” Jake said with a nod to Ellen.

  “Good,” Ellen said. “When I’m finished, each of you will receive a CD with a photographic record of every item, and written analysis that place each in historical context. Dr. Epstein will be given custody of the suitcase and its contents. It’s my hope they’ll be donated to one of the many worthy Holocaust museums. I’ll arrange for it to be picked up. Make sure to give the key to the courier. In the meantime, the temptation to open the suitcase will be overwhelming. Please don’t give in to it.”

  Grace Gunther leaned to her husband and whispered something. He nodded and, addressing the group, said, “Perhaps, it would be wise to give Ellen the key, now.” It sounded like a suggestion but his eyes made it clear he wasn’t offering them a choice. After a brief chat with Dr. Epstein, Ellen took the key, left the suitcase, and departed with the Gunthers.

  “If you can spare another moment, Dr. Epstein,” Tannen said, guiding father and son to a seating area where a pitcher of water and glasses stood atop a side table. “One thing I’d like to cover before we adjourn,” he explained as the others gathered around them. “Does the name Konrad Kleist mean anything to you?”

  Jake stiffened slightly, then seemed to brighten in reflection. “Konrad Kleist. My goodness. Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “No big deal, Jake,” Steinbach said, sensing the old fellow’s discomfort. “According to company records, the serial number on the suitcase is registered to a Herr Konrad Kleist.”

  Jake nodded taking a moment to process it. “Yes, well, Herr Kleist’s son was my best friend in medical school. A German Catholic who spoke fluent Yiddish,” he said, savoring the irony. “His name was Max. If it wasn’t for him, well…” He paused and bit a lip, shaken by the reverie. “Max Kleist and his family saved my life…and that of another student.” He paused again, took a deep breath, and sighed.

  Stacey poured some water into one of the glasses and handed it to him. After a few sips, Jake set it aside, and looked up with a mischievous twinkle. “So, I imagine you’d all like to know just how I came to be in possession of this suitcase.”

  His audience nodded in unison and leaned forward with rapt attention.

  “Well, the other student and I, Eva Rosenberg was her name, were the only Jewish students remaining in the Medical School,” Jake began in a low voice that made them lean in even more closely. “We had been granted special exemptions because surgeons were in such demand. When it became obvious the war was lost, the SS began cracking down, threatening everyone, even Max whom they had conscripted and thought was a loyal Nazi—until they found out he and Eva were lovers.” He splayed his hands and shrugged. “Suddenly, Eva and I were being hunted. Two terrified students on the run in the dead of winter. Despite his own desperate straits, Max offered us refuge in his family’s home. All we had to do was elude the Gestapo and get there. Don’t ask me how, but we did. That afternoon I acquired the suitcase.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Max Kleist’s living quarters were at one end of the third floor, his sister Anika’s at the other. The German shepherd was the first one out of the elevator when the door opened. Kunst knew where Max, Eva and Jake were going. He bounded down the hallway and went straight to a windowed alcove, settling on the Persian rug beneath a drafting table. Drawing instruments were aligned on a sheet of vellum on which a prosthetic device had been rendered. Sketches of mechanical joints: elbows, ankles, shoulders, and hip structures, were tacked to a wall beneath shelves that held three-dimensional mock-ups. The living area of the bachelor-like suite was cluttered with tennis racquets, golf clubs, and ski equipment; and decorated with Bauhaus furniture and modern art.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Max said; then, feeling self-conscious about his palatial quarters, he joked, “It isn’t much, but it’s home.” He was focused on Jake’s need for clothing, and didn’t notice that neither Jake nor Eva had laughed; nor that they had been stopped in their tracks by the sight of his SS uniform, hanging on a clothes rack between the closets. Their eyes, wide with the terror it always created, were sweeping over it from top to bottom: the silver Death’s Head on the cap which was perched above the perfectly pressed jacket; the neatly bloused jodhpurs just below; and the jackboots, with their mirror-polished toe caps, standing on the floor. Eva and Jake had often seen Max in his uniform, but coming upon it like this was staggering.

  Max was blithely rummaging in dresser drawers, sorting through armoires, and pulling things out of closets. He and Jake were both about the same height and build; and it didn’t take Max very long to assemble a wardrobe for his friend. When finished, he went into a walk-in closet and came out with a suitcase.

  The finely crafted piece of luggage was made of pebble-grained leather. A Steinbach hallmark. A secret tanning process, invented in 1846 by Israel Steinbach the company’s founder, produced the unique texture. The company name and a serial number were engraved on a brass plate on the bottom. Based in Leipzig, Steinbach was one of four, high quality, European malletiers—literally trunk-makers—along with La Maison Goyard, Hermes, and Louis Vuitton. The leather had been saddle-stitched by hand with waxed linen twine and articulated with cast brass hinges and machined latches with keyed locks. Its corners were protected by brass fittings affixed with rivets. The interior, lined with paisley-patterned silk, had rows of neatly arranged pockets and compartments in the lid and on the sidewalls. This one was monogrammed with the initials KK which were hot-stamped in gold on the fascia above the handle.

  “This ought to get you through a couple of days,” Max joked, setting it on the bed next to the clothing. “The key should be in one of the inside pockets.”

  Jake almost whistled at the sight of it. “Are you sure you want to part with this?”

  Max opened the door to the walk-in closet again, revealing several identical suitcases on a shelf with other equally well-crafted Steinbach pieces in various sizes. “I don’t think it will be missed.”

  Eva had sought refuge from the SS uniform in a small Kandinsky on the wall next to the closet. The whimsical painting was alive with tumbling forms and vibrating colors from which the steeple of a red-roofed church thrust into a blue-coral sky. She had just moved into the drafting alcove, which had a view of the treed square and the surrounding streets, when Max joined her. “So, what do you think?”

  “He’s a genius. I’ve always loved Kandinsky. I’ve just decided that one’s my favorite.”

  “Mine too. It’s called Murnau With Church,” Max said with a grin before pointing to the drawing on the drafting table. “I meant the prosthetic.”

  “I think you’re a genius, too,” Eva replied with an endearing smile that left no doubt she meant it.

  “Thanks, but this is Jake’s stroke of genius not mine,” Max said humbly. “Combining metal and plastic was his idea. I just volunteered to refine the details.”

  “And whose idea was that one, and that one?” Eva prompted, pointing to the drawings on the wall. “Don’t be so modest. We’re a great team. Each of us has made valuable contributions to—” she paused, suddenly, her eyes darting to the windows.

  “What is it?” Max asked. “You see something?”

  “A black sedan. It looked like a Mercedes but I can’t be sure. We thought we were being followed. We drove around for almost an hour.” Eva sagged, defeatedly. Talk of paintings and prosthetics, which had been perfectly normal yesterday, were meaningless in the light of today’s chilling reality. She brightened at a thought, and said, “Why don’t you drive us tomorrow?”

  Max shook his head no, sadly. “I wish I could; but I have to report first thing in the morning.”

  “And then?”

  “Who knows? It’s as if they gave me a day to get my affairs in order…” He let it trail-o
ff, then took her into his arms. “We’ll be together one day, Eva. We will. I’ve no doubt of it, but, for now…” His eyes drifted to the SS uniform hanging across the room.

  Eva’s filled with emotion. “Yes, yes we will. I should’ve known better than to ask. I recall how upset you were when your conscription notice came. I know how much you hate putting that—that—” She paused, the words sticking in her throat. “—that thing on every morning.”

  Max nodded grimly. “I didn’t want to report then; and I don’t want to report, now; but I’ve no choice. If I don’t show up tomorrow—if I’m listed as a deserter—my family will pay the price; and I don’t need to tell you what it will be.”

  Eva leaned her head on his shoulder and hugged him. They stood clinging to one another, wondering about the future, if there even was a future—for them, for Germany, for the world for that matter.

  “Okay!” Jake exclaimed, startling them. He had been packing the suitcase and had no idea what was going on across the room. He closed the lid and swept it off the bed. “Are we ready to go on holiday?”

  “Not so fast,” Max said as he and Eva disengaged. “There’s one thing you two have to do before you run off together.”

  “Get married?” Jake teased.

  Max laughed and fetched a 35mm Leica from a drawer. The precision, pocket-sized camera had revolutionized photography when introduced in 1930. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you the handsomest man and most beautiful woman I have ever photographed.”

  “For the false papers,” Eva said.

  “Precisely. False papers with false names,” Max said, pointedly. “Make sure you choose pseudonyms that are familiar, that you’re comfortable with. The Gestapo has a knack for spotting people who haven’t spent their entire lives answering to the name on their documents.”

  Jake set the suitcase in front of a blank wall, and sat on it, arms crossed, head turned sideways, chin raised slightly. “How’s this?” he asked, making fun of his regal pose. “Do I look like an aristocratic German doctor or a low class Jewish one from Leopoldstadt?”