The German Suitcase (32 page)

“And if they can’t, I have a way to convince them they should.”

Eva looked puzzled.

“The prosthetics. The ones we were developing at school. I have all the drawings with me.”

Eva’s eyes filled with hope. “Well, they’d convince me,” she said, smiling at a thought. “Though if you’re going to be working in a Jewish hospital, Dr. Epstein, there is one thing you might not want to have with you any longer; one little detail that could reveal you aren’t Jewish.”

“I’ve noticed it,” Jake said with a little wince. “I came within a hare’s breath of compulsory showers and physicals at a Displaced Persons Camp.”

“Well, as you may recall, I’m pretty good with a scalpel,” Eva said with a mischievous grin. “I might even reduce my fee; after all, I have a vested interest in seeing the procedure done properly.”

Later that day, after fetching a few items from the hospital, Eva employed the most basic of her vaunted surgical skills, and removed the last bit of evidence that could reveal Jacob Epstein wasn’t a Jew. That evening, while Jake was recovering on the sofa, Eva settled next to him with her sewing box and went about mending the bullet-torn bolster.

“Now, all we have to do is get to New York City,” Jake said, squirming in discomfort.

Eva paused in mid-stitch and raised a concerned brow. “Easier said than done. Everyone wants to go to America now. Berths have become quite expensive. It’ll be a while before we can save enough to replace that rug, let alone buy passage to New York.”

Jake looked off in thought. “Maybe not.” He walked across the room, gingerly, fetched the suitcase from a closet, and set it on the rug in the sleeping alcove.

“Ah, the proverbial suitcase full of money…”

“Not exactly.” Jake slipped the key from around his neck and showed it to Eva. “Traded my St. Thomas More medal for it,” he said with a wistful smile; then he unlocked the suitcase and raised the lid. The striped uniform had been thrown atop the other contents. Eva watched curiously as Jake reached beneath them, found what he wanted, and with a magician’s flourish, removed the protective pillowcase, revealing the Kandinsky. “Murnau With Church,” he announced holding it up. “It should fetch enough for a couple of tickets.”

“And a rug,” Eva said with a laugh, her eyes brightening at the sight of it. “It’s beautiful. I remember it from your room.”

Jake nodded, almost sadly.

“It’s my favorite, Jake. Don’t you even think of selling it. I’ll…I’ll…I’ll sell my body first.”

“You’ll have no shortage of buyers,” Jake said, pulling her into an embrace and nuzzling her.

Eva wiggled her brows, fetchingly, and slipped from his grasp, her hair sweeping across her shoulders as she spun away from him. “As your surgeon,” she said with a giggle, “I don’t think your little buddy there is up to what you’re contemplating.”

Jake winced. “How could I forget?”

“…and stop trying to change the subject,” Eva went on. “The painting goes back in the suitcase. I mean it. Put it back in there. Now.”

Jake nodded like a chastised child. He slipped the Kandinsky back into the pillowcase and did as instructed.

“Take good care of that,” Eva cautioned as Jake closed it and snapped the latches.

“I know, Eva, I know, it’s your favorite.”

Eva smiled, charmed by his naïveté. “I was referring to the suitcase. It’s your Jewish passport, Jake. That, and the number on your arm, are irrefutable, empirical, historical proof of who you are.”

Jake nodded, taken with her prescience.” I know, they’ve already served me well.”

“You might want to do something about that,” Eva said, pointing to the double-K monogram near the handle.

Jake nodded again, then fetched a kitchen knife and began scraping-off the tiny letters. The bits of hot-stamped gold fell onto the rug making the pile sparkle. When finished, Jake stared at the battered, whip-scarred suitcase for a long moment then, with a gentle touch of reassurance, ran his fingertips over the thickly-painted lettering that spelled out Jacob Epstein. “In your memory,” he said softly.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

After getting her marching orders from Tannen, Steinbach and Gunther, Stacey closed the door and crossed the office to where Adam was sitting. She came up behind his chair, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and, in a soft voice, said, “Between a rock and a hard place, aren’t you, Clive?”

Adam swiveled around to face her and nodded glumly.

“Well, welcome to the club.” There was nothing sassy in Stacey’s tone, now, just heartfelt empathy. “What are you going to do?”

Adam shrugged, then pushed up out of the chair and crossed to one of the tall, bronze-tinted windows that looked out across the city. The late afternoon sun was sitting above the Palisades, sending magenta rays streaming down the crosstown streets and across the avenues where vehicles were crawling in Manhattan’s rush hour gridlock. Thousands of workers were hurrying from office buildings and shops in the direction of Grand Central, streaming into subway entrances, hailing taxis, and heading for local watering holes while thumbing their cell phones and Blackberrys. Adam was watching them dragging long shadows across the pavement, their minds focused on their families, their lives, their friendships and love affairs, their newspapers and novels, the coming weekend, the state of the economy, of the Yankees and the Mets, when Stacey appeared beside him. She stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the street.

“Well?”

Adam turned to face her, and let out an uncertain breath. “I don’t know, Stace. Do me a favor, will you?”

“If I can…”

“Put your feelings for the old guy on hold, forget what’s at stake for your company and client, make believe I’m a stranger and, for a moment, just a moment, become one of them down there, okay?”

Stacey nodded dutifully.

“Now, knowing all that you know,” Adam said, softly, holding her eyes with his, “What would you do?”

EPILOGUE

As Adam requested, Stacey made a conscious effort to set aside her first hand knowledge and feelings, and make an objective assessment of the dilemma he faced. “Not an easy one,” she said after spending some time looking out the window to the street, wrestling with it. “But human nature being what it is, I figure half the folks down there would say, ‘Blow the whistle on that miserable Nazi. Write your story and let the chips fall where they may.’ The other half, like Sol and Gunther, would say, ‘Why destroy an obviously decent man? Spike it. And let the good doctor off the hook…’”

“And you?”

“Me? Come on, Clive, you know where I’m at on this,” Stacey replied with a wince. “For openers, I’d forget I ever noticed the same prisoner ID number was tattooed in different handwriting…”

Adam raised a brow and cocked his head evaluating it. “It sounds like you’re suggesting I dispense with my legendary certainty and professional detachment…”

“Sure am,” Stacey said, brightening at his compliant tone. “Then I’d delete all your computer files, erase the data chip in your recorder, and make a beeline for the nearest shredder with your notebook.”

Adam nodded, thoughtfully, digesting it; then he slipped the spiral bound pad from a pocket and handed it to her. “Here you go…”

Stacey took the notebook and studied Adam’s eyes. “You sure about that, Clive?”

Adam held her look unblinkingly and nodded.

Despite Adam’s decision to bury the story, Gunther, Tannen and Stacey subsequently determined it would be unethical, indeed unconscionable and professionally dangerous for the agency and for their client to proceed with the campaign as planned.

Sol Steinbach had little choice but to agree when they advised that the kick-off ads featuring him and Dr. Jacob Epstein be withdrawn; but he was heartbroken over losing the opportunity it had presented to keep the memory of the Holocaust alive. “Well kid,” he said to Stacey, half-heartedly. “You saved my ass more than once. I can’t imagine there’s anything left in that bag of tricks; but if there is, now’s the time.”

Stacey shrugged at the obvious impossibility of it, and then tilted her head in thought. A few moments passed before her eyes flashed with a mischievous twinkle at an idea that occurred to her. Tannen, Gunther, and Steinbach exchanged puzzled looks as she dashed across the office and fetched one of the discarded kick-off posters of Steinbach standing next to Dr. Jacob Epstein seated on his vintage suitcase. The three men became further mystified when Stacey tore it in half top to bottom and handed one of the pieces to Steinbach. It was the half that depicted him in his warrior-like pose with arms crossed against his chest, displaying his Auschwitz tattoo. “Roll up your sleeves Mr. S!” Stacey exclaimed with a grin. “Be a tough, proud Holocaust survivor. Roll up your sleeves and stick it to those Nazi bastards!”

The following week, full page ads with the copy line
SURVIVING HARROWING JOURNEYS
centered above a gritty black and white image of Steinbach with his own vintage suitcase ran in magazines and newspapers the world over.

Concurrently,
The New York Times
published a human interest story, under Adam’s byline, about a Holocaust survivor who was five years old when Auschwitz was liberated, escaped from Communist East Germany with his uncle, and came to America; and about how, more than sixty years after surviving that harrowing journey, and rebuilding the family business into an extremely successful manufacturer of high quality luggage, Solomon Steinbach had become not only the company’s CEO but also its advertising spokesman. He was especially proud that each advertisement carried the following secondary copy line:

A
PORTION OF THE PROFITS WILL BE CONTRIBUTED BY
S
TEINBACH
&
C
OMPANY TO THE
S
IMON
W
IESENTHAL
C
ENTER TO EXPLORE ISSUES
OF PREJUDICE, TEACH TOLERANCE, AND FIGHT ANTI
-S
EMITISM
.