The German Suitcase (28 page)

The next morning, the dog tailing after him, Max went to the chapel and knelt in prayer next to the shrouded bodies of his family; then, bidding them a tearful farewell, he went downstairs to the garage with the suitcase. The front fender of the bicycle easily supported its weight. Max nestled it snugly between the arched handlebars and secured it with a canvas belt. When finished, he coasted down the driveway and, knowing it would be unsettling, resisted the temptation to take one last look at the house in which he’d grown up. The dog had no such compunction and paused, briefly, before bounding after Max who headed for the Prinzregentenbrucke that would take him across the Isar into the heart of Munich where American combat troops were on patrol.

The University District had been heavily bombed. Carcasses of burned-out vehicles lined the streets and University parking areas. Some had been flipped upside-down by exploding bombs, others crushed beneath debris. The Medical school was in ruins. Sections of the staircase to the mezzanine where Professor Gerhard’s office was located had fallen into the lobby, filling it with massive chunks of concrete and slabs of jagged marble. Debris blocked the corridors that led to the hospital wing. The building appeared desolate. Not a person, neither student nor teacher was in evidence.

Max was about to leave when Kunst’s ears perked up. The animal started climbing the broken staircase, then paused and looked back at Max, as if waiting for him to follow. Max set the bike aside, then made his way up to the mezzanine where he found the Professor picking through the wreckage of his office.

“Professor?” Max called out from the doorway. Several weeks had passed since Hannah had shaved his head, and he now sported a half-inch brushcut; though he still had the gaunt and grimy look of a long-unwashed death camp survivor. “Professor Gerhard?”

The Professor looked up and squinted through his glasses. Though unable to recognize his former pupil, he knew a death camp uniform when he saw one. “Yes?” he said solicitously. “Can I be of help to you, sir?”

“It’s me, professor. It’s Max. Max Kleist.”

Gerhard gasped in astonishment and dropped the books he was cradling, then got to his feet and embraced him. “Max! My God, Max. I knew they’d arrest you. I always knew you were in danger.”

“I still am,” Max replied and, gesturing to his prison uniform, explained, “It’s not wise to be seen in an SS uniform these days. I need your help.”

“Gladly. Whatever I can do.”

Max handed him an envelope. “The deed to the family plot in Ostlicher Friedhof,” he said, going on to explain his horrific discovery and how circumstances prevented him from arranging for his family’s burial. “I was hoping you could see to it.”

The Professor was visibly shaken and took a moment to compose himself. “As…as you know, the city is in chaos. Nothing is functioning…but of course…as soon as it becomes possible…” Gerhard let it trail-off and tilted his head curiously. “Dare I ask about Eva?”

“With luck, she’s safe in Venice with her family.”

“Let’s hope so. And Jake?”

Max shook his head, no, sadly. “Auschwitz. Dachau. Typhus. I did everything I could to save him.” Max indicated his striped prison uniform, again. “He ended up saving me instead.”

Gerhard sagged with despair. “And you, Max?”

“I’m going to Venice.”

“Getting there won’t be easy,” Gerhard warned. “You’d best take your sister’s car. The Mercedes is much too conspicuous.”

“They’re gone. Looted along with everything else.”

Gerhard groaned. “Train travel is impossible. I can get you to the Austrian border, after that…”

“I’ve got a bicycle.”

“Good, we’ll tie it to the roof of my car.”

“I’m surprised it wasn’t blown to bits.”

“I wasn’t here. I was making a house call. A favor to a neighbor. I care for his arthritic mother and he keeps my car running. I don’t know where he gets the petrol, but he tops up the tank on occasion too. It was pure luck.” Gerhard offered Max a cigarette, took one himself, and lit them. “You know…” he went on with a thoughtful exhale, “…after liberating Dachau, the Americans came through Munich en route to Salzburg. It might be smart to cross the border there.”

“No, Brenner’s much faster,” Max said, decisively, referring to the Brenner Pass. Barely thirty-five miles long, it was the shortest route through the Austrian Alps to Italy and, at the lowest altitude, the warmest. “I have to get out of here as fast as possible.”

Gerhard grunted in concession. “You have documents?”

“No, I’m taking care of that next.”

“Your parents’ contacts are still in business?”

Max shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

“They’d better be,” the Professor said. “The Allies wasted no time setting-up checkpoints at every border crossing.” He was referring to the fact that as soon as Germany surrendered, the Allies—despite being at odds over just how Germany and the liberated Eastern European nations would be occupied and administered—had swiftly established Prohibited Frontier Zones to prevent Nazi officials, German intelligence personnel, Gestapo agents and members of Himmler’s SS from escaping. “You’re exactly who they’re looking for Max,” Gerhard concluded, gravely. “You’re not going anywhere without forged papers except a prison cell or worse.”

Max left the dog and suitcase with the Professor and headed for the train station on his bicycle. With luck, his mother’s contact at the newsstand would still be in business. He was pedaling down Lenblachstrasse on the southern edge of the Museum District when the sound of cheering rose in the distance. It came from a crowd of civilians on a street corner. They were all looking upward, shouting derisively, and shaking their fists at a uniformed SS officer who, to Max’s horror, had just been lynched. The young man’s lifeless corpse was swaying from the end of a rope that been tossed over the limb of a scorched tree. Its fire-blackened trunk was a perfect match to the color of his greatcoat.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Dan Epstein was waiting for Adam when he arrived at the townhouse on East 79th Street to conduct his interview. Slipping a letter from some correspondence on his desk, he led the way to the elevator that took them to the Epstein residence above the Foundation offices. Jake and Hannah were on the sofa in the art-filled library, sipping tea. Wafer-thin slices of Baumkuchen were arranged in a serving dish on a Mies van der Rohe coffee table. All but extinct, the moist, subtly flavored cake had been made in Munich since the mid-1820s by Konditorei Kreutzkamm; and the Epsteins had had a standing order for decades.

The trappings of wealth, professional excellence, cultural depth, New York’s Jewish elite, Adam thought as a round of handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged.

“Good to see you again,” Jake said, gesturing to the stainless and leather Bauhaus chairs opposite the sofa. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks, I’ll just put this here,” Adam said, setting his recorder, notebook, and several
New York Times
business cards on the table. “For starters, I brought those photos as your son suggested.” He took a sheaf of computer-printouts from his briefcase and set two on the table in front of Jake. Both were of the tattooed identification number: A198841. “This one is from the campaign ad. This is the snapshot taken at Dachau. See? Same number. Different handwriting.”

Jake set his cup aside, then glanced from one print to the other and nodded.

“Can you explain that, Dr. Epstein?”

Jake shrugged. “No, I’m afraid I can’t. As I said, there must be some mistake.”

“Well, no need to belabor it,” Adam said, deciding to play his next card which he expected would more than trump the first. “I have some other photos I’d like you to take a look at. Would that be okay?”

“Of course,” Jake replied, amiably in his soft accent.

Adam showed him the four enlargements he had printed-out from the negatives Ellen Rother had emailed him. “Do you know who these people are, Dr. Epstein?”

Jake leaned forward examining them, then winced and glanced to Hannah who looked troubled.

“Maybe I can jog your memory a little,” Adam said, sensing the photos had struck an unsettling chord as he thought they might. “We don’t know who these three are, but we know that this man, wearing the religious medal—it’s a St. Thomas More by the way—is you, Dr. Epstein.”

Jake flinched and stared at the image in silence.

Dan was standing next to Adam, looking confused. “I’m sorry, but what you just said makes no sense.”

Adam nodded in agreement. “That was
my
reaction when I saw the FRT analysis. By the way, FRT stands for Facial Recognition Technology. It’s a process that—”

“Yes, yes, I’m familiar with it,” Dan interrupted, setting aside the letter he’d brought with him, as he took the photograph from Adam. “You’re saying this man, wearing a Catholic medal, is my father?”

Adam nodded.

“That’s ridiculous. Not only doesn’t he resemble him. My father is Jewish.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” Adam countered. “The point is, whatever his religious affiliation, we know from the analysis, with ninety-six, percent certainty, that the face in this photo is your father’s.”

“Don’t discount that four percent,” Dan retorted, resplendent in his custom-made shirt, power tie, and suspenders. “I spend my day analyzing investment opportunities. Believe me, the anomaly you ignore is the one that comes back to bite you on the ass.”

“Where did you get those?” Hannah asked, calmly.

“From the original negatives.” Adam reached into his briefcase and removed the copy of
All Quiet on the Western Front
with the
Mein Kampf
dust jacket that he had borrowed from Ellen Rother. “They were hidden in the spine of this book,” he went on, offering it to Hannah. “It was one of the items in the suitcase.”

Hannah set aside the wafer-thin slice of cake she had been eating and cleaned the tips of her fingers on a napkin; then she took the book, holding it as if it were fragile, and handed it to her husband with an apprehensive glance.

Jake turned the pages, reflectively; then his eyes drifted back to the four photographs on the table as a flood of memories washed over him. A tear rolled down his cheek. He shuddered slightly and began to cry.

Dan wasn’t sure what was happening; but, whatever it was, he knew it was serious and meaningful. “What’s this about? What…what are you suggesting?”

“That your father isn’t who he says he is,” Adam replied, evenly. “That he’s a man with something to hide; a war criminal who’s been impersonating someone named Dr. Jacob Epstein who died in the Holocaust.”

Jake stiffened and stifled a gasp.

Hannah grasped his hand, tightly.

Adam noticed and added, “And from your parents’ reaction, I’m starting to think I’m right.”

Dan’s eyes flared with anger behind his rimless lenses. “A war criminal?! That’s absurd. That Catholic fellow in your picture may be a war criminal, but he certainly isn’t my father. As I said, my father has been an observant Jew all his life. He spoke Yiddish to me when I was a child. We went to temple together. We showered together, went skinny dipping. To put it bluntly, the man is circumcised. I assure you, even in the Roaring Twenties, the Bris wasn’t part of the Catholic rite. My father is a Jew.”

“He’s also a surgeon,” Adam countered.

“You’re suggesting, what?” Dan said, sounding incredulous. “That he…he circumcised himself?”

Adam shrugged and smiled at what he was about to say. “Not to make a pun, but wouldn’t you under the…well…circumstances?”

“What you’re suggesting is an outrageous lie! An insult to my father and his family. You said you were writing a human interest story. You’ve misrepresented yourself and your newspaper; and I promise you—”

“Daniel?” Hannah interrupted forcefully. “Daniel, your father isn’t the only surgeon in the family.”

Dan looked baffled. “What? What do you mean by that?”

“
I
circumcised him,” Hannah replied. “He formally converted to Judaism shortly thereafter.”

Dan gasped as if he’d been punched. “I…I don’t understand. Are you saying what this…this
reporter
says is true? That dad was some…some Nazi or something?”

“No, I’m not,” Hannah replied. “You’re father was anything but a Nazi, let alone a war criminal; but this has been going on much too long. It’s time you knew your father isn’t Jacob Epstein. His real name is Maximilian Kleist.”

Dan’s posture slackened. The color drained from his face. “Then who…who was Jacob Epstein?”

“He was your father’s closest friend and medical school colleague,” Hannah replied, going on to explain how Max and the Kleist family had tried to save Jake’s life, and those of many others who had been targeted for extermination by the Nazis.

“You see, son…” Jake said, struggling to keep his composure, “…the stories I’ve told you are all true; and they actually happened to someone named Jacob Epstein. My dear friend, the real Jacob Epstein.”

Dan shook his head as if trying to clear it. “So, that man wearing the Catholic medal really is you?”

“Yes,” Jake replied, pointing to the photographs with an arthritic finger that seemed to be trembling. “That’s me. That’s your mother. That’s Jake. And that lovely young woman is my sister, Anika.” His glistening eyes shifted and captured Adam’s. “Have…have you any idea what it’s like to…” He paused, his voice breaking with emotion. “…to discover your entire family’s been executed?! To come upon their bodies in your own home?! To find your sister lying on the floor dead, half-naked and raped?! All because…because they…” he shuddered, unable to go on, and began to weep. Hannah comforted him. Dan hovered over them, feeling helpless and confused.

Adam had what he wanted, but needed more, needed to confirm it, and gave Jake time to collect himself before proceeding. “I’m very sorry about what happened to your family,” he said, his voice quavering. “It makes what I’m about to say all the more awkward; but according to records found at Dachau and in German Military Archives, you were in the SS. You were Captain Maximilian Kleist, M.D., Waffen-SS. Is that true?”

Jake nodded, his eyes pained with anguish. “I had no choice. They threatened to kill my family. Why? Because they were humane and caring; because they helped people to escape from these monsters!”

“Those records suggest you were one of those monsters, Dr. Epstein, or should I call you Dr. Kleist?” Adam said, maintaining his professional demeanor.

“I’ve been Dr. Epstein for sixty-five years, a lot longer than I was Dr. Kleist,” Jake replied, his voice rising, his accent intensifying as it always did when he became angry. “And while we’re at it, you’ve heard the saying, the uniform doesn’t make the man?! Well, it doesn’t make the monster either!”

“Those records also state that you worked the ramp; you made selections; sent people to their deaths,” Adam went on, evenly. “Is that also true?”

Jake flinched, then bit a lip and nodded solemnly.

Dan’s eyes narrowed with disturbing insight. “My God, of course…I recall you saying your friend Max Kleist was in the SS; but all along you were talking about yourself. You…
you
were in the SS.”

Jake nodded again. “You may also recall I said he took no pride in it; and was disciplined for having a Jewish lover—” He paused, and smiled at Hannah, lovingly, in reflection. “—all of which is also true.”

Dan felt helpless, adrift. This wasn’t a matter of guiding the Foundation through a financial crisis. He couldn’t analyze this catastrophic threat to his family with a spread sheet. There were no algorithms he could use to forecast the outcome or hedge against it.

“I saved as many of those poor souls who’d been sent to Dachau as I could,” Jake went on. “It was horrific and gut wrenching. The knowledge that they would’ve died, if I hadn’t been on the ramp, is what got me through it. I told myself I was
saving
lives, doing what doctors are sworn to do.”

Adam didn’t know whether he felt triumphant or depressed; but he knew the importance of what he had just heard and what his Sony D-50 had just recorded. “Dr. Epstein, do you understand that what you’ve just said is an admission that you committed war crimes?”

Jake stiffened as if offended. “You’re entitled to your opinion; but be advised when Dachau was liberated, my friend Jake, with the help of other Jewish prisoners saved me from angry inmates and outraged Americans who were killing SS men on sight. Would they have risked their lives to save a Nazi monster? A war criminal?” The old fellow took a moment to settle; then in conclusion, said, “You have the power to demean their sacrifice; but, first, ask yourself: Will it be justice? And if so, for whom? What I did, I did to protect my family, and the Nazis executed them anyway. Yes, they’ve been honored by Yad Vashem; but where is their
justice
? Where is
mine
?”

“I can’t answer that,” Adam replied, shaken by Jake’s challenge. “I mean, it’s not for me to decide how justice is best served.”

“Perhaps not,” Jake conceded. “But you do have a decision to make, don’t you? I hope you’ll consider that I’ve lived my life in Jake’s memory and in his honor. Whatever I’ve achieved as a physician, as a philanthropist, as a person, and, yes, as a Jew, I’ve done in his name.” He took a moment to catch his breath; then, his watery eyes engaging Adam’s, he added, “You are young and ambitious and determined to find the truth. I’ve always admired that about journalists. You’re the check on society’s worst impulses; the ones who give us pause when we think no one is watching; who call us to account when we cross that unethical or illegal line. Considering our current state of affairs, I would think your time could be better spent elsewhere.”

“I’d be hard pressed to disagree,” Adam conceded. “But I didn’t pursue this story. It came to me; and I can’t make believe it didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m old and I’m tired,” Jake said with a weary sigh; then he smiled at Hannah, and added, “And I’ve had a wonderful life. Do with me what you will.”