The German Suitcase (21 page)

“Tonight, here, after roll-call and before the shift change meeting.”

Roll-call, a twice daily routine, required all prisoners to assemble in the Appelplatz, a large open area south of the barracks, regardless of the weather or the state of their health. Seriously ill prisoners often died where they stood while the lengthy roll was taken. Those too sick to respond were removed from the barracks and executed.

That evening, Jake, Hannah and the others gathered as instructed; but Max never showed up. Almost a week had passed before he finally reappeared. He looked bleary-eyed and gaunt as if he had lost weight. He apologized profusely for the delay and explained: There had been a massive influx of prisoners transferred from other camps. Emaciated, sick and exhausted, they had been arriving by train and on foot day and night by the thousands. He had been doing back-to-back tours with barely a few hours sleep between them; and, as Hannah had predicted he had no luck acquiring antibiotics for Jake; but he had left a prescription for penicillin in his own name at the SS hospital pharmacy, and had gotten Kruger to do the same. Unfortunately, even though the prescriptions had been written by SS doctors, the Nazi obsession for record-keeping and strict adherence to procedures meant it would take days, if not longer, for them to be filled—assuming penicillin was available.

“We’ve got work to do,” Max said, getting down to business as the hour for the shift-change meeting neared. He took his Leica from a pocket, then had Jake roll up his sleeve, and sit at the table, placing his forearm on it. Steadying the camera on the rough surface, Max crouched to the eyepiece, centered Jake’s image in the rangefinder and focused on his tattooed ID number in the foreground. The bare bulb overhead provided poor illumination, forcing Max to use a slow shutter speed and wide open aperture. The latter produced a shallow depth of field which, though not visible in the rangefinder, threw everything that wasn’t in the same plane as the tattooed numerals, including the subject’s features, completely out of focus. Max took several shots; then, as one of the nurses took Jake’s place at the table, Max looked about, and asked, “Where’s Hannah?”

“Probably still on rounds,” Jake replied, seeming more robust and energetic than when he arrived a week ago. “We have many patients in crisis. I’ll get her.”

About twenty minutes later, Max had just finished photographing the remaining members of the group when Jake returned without Hannah. “I can’t find her,” he said, riven with anxiety. “She’s not anywhere in the Revier. Where the hell could she be?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’ll find her,” Max said, taking command. He was crossing to the door when Captain Kruger came hurrying down the corridor into the room.

“There you are, Max,” Kruger gasped, sounding out of breath. “Dr. Bruckmann thought you might be here.”

“Why? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“We were in the Officer’s Club. I overheard Radek sending a couple of his goons to the Revier to fetch Hannah. I thought you’d want to know.”

Max looked alarmed. “Fetch her to where?”

“He didn’t say.”

Dr. Cohen and some members of the staff had begun assembling for the upcoming shift-change meeting. One of the nurses, who was about to go off-duty, overheard them and stuck her head in the door. “I was there when the SS men came. They told Dr. Friedman there was an emergency in Block Thirty-one.”

Jake looked puzzled. “Block thirty-one? That’s not part of the hospital, is it?”

“No, it’s what we call the Puff,” the nurse replied, using camp slang.

“The sonderbau,” Dr. Cohen said, knowing the word, which meant ‘special building,’ was nomenclature the prudish Himmler had assigned to the SS and prisoner brothels upon approving them. “But the prisoner brothel would come to us in an emergency. What’s Radek got to do with it? Why would he want her brought there?”

“Because he’s obsessed with Jewish women,” Max said, his worst fears confirmed.

“We’ve been wondering where he takes them,” Kruger said with disgust. “We knew, he’d be a fool to use his quarters or the SS brothel. Too easy to get caught.”

“Nazi bastard!” Jake exclaimed, lunging past Max. He darted between Dr. Cohen and the nurse in the doorway, and began running down the long corridor.

“Jake?! Wait!” Max shouted, going after him. “Wait! I’ll take care of it!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Moments ago, Ellen Rother typed the name Kleist in a search window on yadvashem.org, the website of Israel’s memorial to Jewish Victims of the Holocaust. It was among the databases she had been searching and government agencies she had contacted to determine if Dr. Maximilian Kleist SS might be a Nazi war criminal hiding out as a Holocaust survivor in the guise of Dr. Jacob Epstein. Now, she was staring in astonishment at the data on her screen. It was the one piece of information—of all she had gathered—that had really gotten her attention; and, though the German Military Archives had not yet responded, she decided to meet with Tannen, Stacey and Steinbach whom she knew were anxious to get the situation resolved. They dropped everything and assembled in her office that same afternoon. Tannen went so far as to reschedule the pitch meeting with Sergei Konkoff, Snorkle’s CEO. Again.

Ellen had organized the information in a tabbed binder. She knew it would raise as many questions as it answered, and wanted to get it out of the way before dealing with the Yad Vashem data.“Let’s start with Jewish-Gen…” Ellen began, using shorthand for Manhattan’s Museum of Jewish Heritage. “They’ve got more than fourteen million Holocaust records on their website…a hundred and fifty thousand from Dachau. They include inmate registers dating to the camp’s opening in 1933, and rosters of the SS personnel who staffed it. Captain Maximilian Kleist, M.D. Waffen-SS reported for duty there on Monday, January 9, 1945.”

“Dachau?” Stacey echoed with a puzzled frown. “But Dr. Epstein wasn’t at Dachau. He was at Auschwitz.”

“Yeah,” Steinbach chimed-in with a relieved smile. “Both of them being at Auschwitz is the connection.”

“And the fact that they weren’t blows our problem right out of the water, doesn’t it?” Tannen added, brightening. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“It does and it doesn’t,” Ellen cautioned, turning to another section in the binder. “Records found at Auschwitz reveal that Jacob Epstein, prisoner number A198841 was transferred to Dachau on February twenty-fourth of the same year, but there isn’t any—”

“That’s Dr. Epstein’s number. The one tattooed on his arm,” Stacey interrupted. “It’s also the one in the snapshot with different handwriting.”

Ellen nodded evenly. “Right on both counts. Every ID number in the snapshots that were in the suitcase is on the roster of prisoners transferred from Auschwitz with Dr. Epstein.”

Steinbach sighed and sagged in disappointment. “So that means Jake and this Nazi Kleist were at Dachau at the same time.”

Ellen waggled a hand. “Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tannen challenged, his eyes popping with impatience behind his glasses. “They were or they weren’t, no?”

“No,” Ellen replied, pointedly. “These matters aren’t always as clear cut as we’d like. Though Dr. Epstein’s name and number are on the transfer roster, there’s no record of him ever arriving at Dachau. It was a very chaotic time. Eastern Block camps were being evacuated to keep the prisoners from being liberated. Some trains never arrived at their destinations. Many that did were filled with dead prisoners. Again, from Jewish-Gen—” she flipped back to the first tab. “—Not only wasn’t Dr. Epstein listed as having arrived there, neither were all the other prisoners on the Auschwitz transfer roster, including those whose ID numbers were in the snapshots that were in the suitcase.”

Tannen groaned in frustration. “I’m confused. If he never got there, why are you telling us there’s a good chance he did?”

“Because at the time of the transfer record-keeping at Dachau had ceased. Which—assuming Dr. Epstein actually did get there—supports our theory that the snapshots were taken to make a record.”

“At the risk of sounding dumb and dumber,” Stacey said, “do we know for a fact there’s no record of Jacob Epstein having died there?”

“Not so dumb,” Ellen replied. “Prisoner deaths were recorded in separate log books with typical Nazi precision as to the date and time of death right down to the minute; but the last entries were made prior to Dr. Epstein’s transfer. One could argue, the man himself is evidence that he didn’t die there or anywhere.”

Stacey winced. “But…but if there’s no proof he ever got to Dachau—or died there—then, it’s back to square one.”

Steinbach hissed with frustration. “You keep giving us something with one hand and taking it away with the other. We need to know whether our guy is or isn’t some Nazi-war-criminal-imposter.”

“I know,” Ellen said, sounding apologetic. “But as I said, these things aren’t always clear cut.”

“Why don’t we just ask Dr. E,” Tannen prompted.

“Ask him what?” Stacey challenged with a facetious smirk. “If he died there?”

“Very funny. No, if he ever got there.”

“That only works if Dr. E really is Dr. E, right?” Stacey retorted. “What if he isn’t? What if he is this Nazi imposter?”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Tannen countered. “I thought you and what’s-his-face were over.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Forget I said it.”

Stacey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re the guy who said this is too important to take chances, boss. A tipping point. Remember? Now, if—”

“Whoa,” Ellen interrupted. “Let’s keep our eye on the target: Is Jacob Epstein really Maximilian Kleist? Is he a war criminal masquerading as a Holocaust survivor? Well, his name may have a nice Nazi ring; but all the evidence I’ve gathered seems to suggest, he isn’t.”

“Yesss!” Steinbach exclaimed, latching onto it. “Case closed.”

“Easy, Sol,” Tannen cautioned. “That’s just what we want to hear; and that’s always dangerous. Stacy’s right. We can’t risk launching the campaign and have the ugly truth hit the fan after the fact.” He shifted his look to Ellen and asked, “What evidence?”

“It’s all in here,” Ellen replied, referring to the binder. “Maximilian Kleist isn’t on the Wiesenthal Center’s list of seventy thousand war criminals, or on the one compiled by the European Consortium of Nations, nor does he appear on the United States Department of Justice watch list. I spoke to Eli Rosenbaum at OSI, myself,” she went on, referring to the Director of the Office of Special Investigations.

“But the Nazis destroyed many records, right?” Tannen prompted.

Ellen nodded. “Not to mention that vast troves of documents are still scattered in many countries. Much of it poorly indexed or still being processed—which is why the DOJ often acts against Nazis on immigration violations. By the way, there’s nothing on Max Kleist in their I.V. files, either.”

“But there wouldn’t be if he changed his name,” Stacey prompted sharply.

“And many Nazis did—along with their appearance. That’s why so many war criminals are still on the loose. Of course, many Jews changed their names, too. Some were immigrants who wanted to assimilate; others wanted more traditional Jewish names; a few, like those named on Nazi death warrants, wanted to just…disappear. By the way, records show Dr. Jacob Epstein immigrated with his wife Hannah Friedman on February 19, 1946. Mount Sinai Medical Center sponsored them.”

Stacey looked frustrated. “So, the bottom line is, Dr. Max Kleist SS could still be out there somewhere.”

Ellen nodded, resignedly. “But there’s no evidence he took anyone’s identity; is wanted by any nation; or is named by any Holocaust group as a war criminal.” She turned to another tab and, playing the card she had been holding, resumed, “All of which is supported by a document I came across on the Yad Vashem website regarding Captain Kleist’s family.”

“Yad Vashem?” Stacey echoed, sounding puzzled.

“Israel’s official Holocaust memorial. It was founded in Jerusalem in the mid-1950s, and has grown into a vast complex comprising archives, a research institute, an educational center, synagogue, library…”

“I’ve been giving them money for years, too,” Steinbach said. “My wife and I were over there when they dedicated the new museum. It was a very special—”

He was interrupted by a knock, “Sorry,” a bearded young man, sporting an embroidered yarmulke said as he entered. Ben Hertzberg, Ellen’s assistant was a studious fellow with gentle eyes, a degree in Jewish Literature, and an archivist’s reverence for things ancient. “Fax from GMA,” he said holding up a sheet of paper. “Thought you’d want to see it right away.”

“GMA?” Ellen echoed with intrigue. She propelled her tiny frame from the chair and met Ben halfway. Ellen was perusing the fax and drifting back to her desk when her eyes widened at something. “Well, you wanted a clear-cut answer. Now, you have it. According to German Military Archives, Captain Maximilian Kleist, M.D., Waffen-SS was killed in action on April 29, 1945.”

Her three visitors stiffened in stunned silence.

“He’s dead?” Steinbach finally blurted. “No kidding?”

Ellen nodded and, reading from the fax, said: “Killed in action along with other SS personnel when Dachau was liberated; cause of death multiple gunshot wounds; found in uniform; remains decomposed; military ID and Catholic medal on his person.”

“Well, it doesn’t get more clear cut than that. Does it?” Tannen enthused, setting his puppy tail to bouncing above his collar.

“Sure as hell doesn’t,” Steinbach exclaimed, with a little fist pump. “Looks like I’m going to have to double my donation to you guys.”

“I have the forms here, somewhere,” Ellen said, deadpan, searching beneath papers on her desk.

“I can always drop off a suitcase full of cash,” Steinbach joked. “This is fantastic. We’re on the verge of scrubbing the launch one minute; and all systems are go the next.”

“Yes, sounds like you have lift off,” Ellen said with a little smile. “Unless, of course, the name of another Nazi doctor who might be impersonating Dr. Epstein comes to mind.”

Steinbach shot a panicked look to Tannen. He cringed and fired a frantic look to Stacey. She shrugged, and said, “No, no, the only thing that comes to mind is the information you found about Captain Kleist’s family on that website, Vad…”

“Yad…Yad Vashem…”

Stacey nodded. “I think you said it supported the evidence that he wasn’t a war criminal.”

Ellen nodded smartly and flipped to a tab in her binder. “In 1995 Maximilian Kleist, his parents Konrad and Gisela Kleist and his sister Anika were posthumously honored by Yad Vashem with the prestigious Righteous Among Nations award. It’s been given since the mid-’50s to non-Jews who helped Jews during the Holocaust. The Kleists are among the more than twenty thousand recipients. The citation states: That they were very supportive of White Rose, Red Orchestra and other resistance groups. That they were a devout Catholic family who, at great risk to themselves, sheltered Jews in their home, provided them with false documents, personally transported them to safe houses, and arranged other means of escape.”

Steinbach nodded, his eyes moist with emotion. “That’s…that’s exactly what Jake said happened.” He stood and walked to where the photographs of the Nazi war criminals that the Center and its founder had brought to justice were displayed; and stared them down until he had regained his composure. “The Kleists saved Jake’s life, and, the lives of many other Jews as well.”

“They sure did,” Ellen said, equally moved. “And, as you might imagine, the person who nominated them for the award was none other than…” she let it trail off, suggesting they supply the answer.

“Dr. Jacob Epstein,” Stacey said rapid fire.

Ellen nodded. “He and his wife Dr. Hannah Friedman Epstein.” She closed the binder, suggesting, case closed.

“It doesn’t get any better than this,” Tannen said a short time later as they left Ellen’s office.

“Nope,” Stacey chirped. “The story just keeps getting better and better.”

“Yeah,” Steinbach grunted as they entered the elevator. “Except for our favorite cub reporter. Guess you’ll have to give him the bad news, huh?”

“Well,” Stacey mused, brightening at a thought. “It’s a good news-bad news kind of thing, actually.”

“It is?”

“Uh-huh. I mean, the bad news is Adam doesn’t have a story about a Nazi war criminal. The good news is he has one about a wealthy and prominent German family who put it all on the line to help Jews survive the Holocaust. I kinda like that one better, anyway.”

“Me too,” Tannen said with a wily smile. “And, since the suitcase originally belonged to the Kleists, I’m counting on that twisted little mind of yours to work that angle into the campaign.”

Stacey swung him a sly, sideways glance and, matching his smile, said, “I knew there was a catch to that dinner at the Four Seasons.”

They had exited the elevator and were walking through the building’s lobby when Stacey palmed her Blackberry and began scrolling through her emails. She smiled at a message from Adam which read: Breaking news! German Military Archives reports Kleist KIA 4/29/45. Mea culpas in order. Mea maxima culpas! Yes, I was an altar boy! Can I come crawling, later? Will kneel at your feet. Beg for forgiveness. Grovel for sex.