The German Suitcase

by Dinallo, Greg

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” the news dealer said. He pulled a copy from the rack and gave it to her in exchange for the one that concealed the envelope.

  “Thank you so much,” Anika said, slipping it into her handbag as she started walking back to the car. She had gone a short distance when three men in black SS greatcoats confronted her.

  “Fraulein Kleist, isn’t it?” the officer said.

  “Yes that’s right,” Anika replied, feeling the hair on the nape of her neck rising.

  “Ah, I thought that was you. I’m Major Steig,” he said with a bow that caused the silver death’s head on his cap to catch the light of a masked street lamp, one of the few outside the station that were illuminated due to the nightly blackout.

  “I’m sorry, Major,” Anika replied, trying to stay calm. “If we’ve met somewhere, I’m embarrassed to say I can’t recall having had the pleasure.”

  “No need to apologize. I’m taking over for your brother at the University, and it fell to me to review the Kleist family file.” Steig let an insipid grin turn the corners of his mouth; then swept his eyes over her. “I’m afraid the photos don’t do you justice.”

  “Thank you. I imagine you’ll have reason to include others. Let’s hope they’re more flattering,” she said, forcing a flirtatious giggle. “I really have to be getting along. So unless there’s something else I can do for you, it’s been—”

  “On the contrary,” Steig interrupted. “Perhaps I could be of service to you,” he went on, trying to sound chivalrous. “I was passing by and couldn’t help notice your problem with the news dealer.”

  “Oh, no, it’s fine,” Anika replied, searching for a way to delay him long enough to allow the news dealer to pass the envelope. “Just a few pages missing from a magazine I purchased this morning. He exchanged it for another without any fuss.”

  “I see. Which magazine was that?”

  “Oh, I doubt it’s one you’d be interested in.”

  “But you’re wrong, fraulein. I’m very interested in it. You see, it’s against the law to sell defective merchandise; and I intend to confiscate it before he sells it to another unsuspecting victim. The name of the magazine, please?”

  “It’s called Gallery Arts,” she said, removing her copy from her handbag so he could see it.

  “Of course,” Steig replied, smugly. “Even I’ve heard of the Kleist Collection.” He nodded smartly, and had just started walking toward the newsstand when a voice called out, “Major? Major Steig?!” He glanced over his shoulder to see Konrad Kleist, in a tailored lodencoat and fur hat, walking swiftly toward him with the dog.

  The news dealer had been anxiously monitoring Anika’s encounter with the SS men, and was relieved that Steig had been intercepted. Milton Glazer, Gisela Kleist’s operative who would produce the forged papers, was due to pick up the envelope at any moment. It seemed an eternity passed before the bearded young man appeared. With the choreographed precision that comes from repetition, the news dealer removed the envelope from the magazine and slid it onto the corner of the counter just as Glaser strode past. He took it without breaking stride and soon vanished in a knot of darkened streets, nearby. There was no yellow star snap-fastened to the sleeve of his coat.

  “I thought I recognized you,” Kleist said, keeping the German Shepherd on a tight leash as he reached the Major and his SS entourage. “What’s going on here?”

  “Just having a friendly chat,” Steig replied with a glance to the dog. “There was no need to bring reinforcements.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Major,” Kleist retorted. “My son may be under your command and subject to your harassment, but my daughter isn’t.”

  “Daddy, it’s okay,” Anika said, warding him off with her eyes. “The Major was just being helpful.”

  “Thank you fraulein,” Steig said, shifting his piercing eyes to her father. “With all due respect, Herr Kleist, your son is neither under my command nor subject to my harassment. But you Jew-lovers will wish he was when he gets his new orders. Heil Hitler!” He bent his elbow in a Nazi salute, then whirled, and marched toward the newsstand, the two SS men in tow.

  The dog watched warily, straining at the leash, and growled after them.

  The news dealer was still holding the magazine from which he had removed the envelope. He knew what would happen next, and slipped it into a trash basket as the Major shoved several customers aside to reach him.

  “A young lady just returned a defective magazine,” Steig said, holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

  “I discarded it,” the news dealer said.

  “I said, give it here!” Steig bellowed.

  The news dealer responded with a compliant shrug, then fished the magazine out of the trash and held it in front of the Major’s face. It was dripping with the greasy remains of a meal he had consumed earlier. Steig backhanded the magazine out of the fellow’s hand and marched off. The two SS men followed.

  Konrad and Anika Kleist stood stone faced as the trio went lumbering past in their black greatcoats. The dog was still growling and straining at the leash as father and daughter hurried to their car, bursting into laughter the instant they were inside. The moment of levity came to an abrupt end as the unnerving implications of what had just happened struck with sobering impact.

  “What was he doing here?” Anika wondered with a shiver as her father pulled away from the curb. “He gives me the creeps.”

  “Psychopaths tend to have that effect on normal people,” Kleist replied, his eyes narrowed in concern. “There are two possibilities: He was here because he followed us; or because someone tipped him off. Either way, this could be a big problem.”

  “Unless…unless, it was neither,” Anika said.

  “Neither? What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, for what its worth, the Major said it was a coincidence. Maybe it was?”

  “And maybe he’s onto you. I’m not so sure you should be driving Max’s friends to the Gorge tomorrow.”

  “Yes, but if he is onto me…why tip his hand?” Anika prompted, her eyes brightening with insight. “I mean, he could have caught all three of us red-handed tomorrow. Right?”

  Her father’s brows went up in tribute. “You know, Anika, you’re a very smart young woman. Yes, you’re very, very smart and you have guts.”

  “I can’t imagine who I take after,” she said, with a proud glance to her father.

  “Your mother,” Konrad said without missing a beat. “Whoever coined the phrase, grace under pressure, not to mention, strength of character, had her in mind, not me.”

  “That’s what she says about you, papa.”

  “I rest my case,” her father said. He shifted up a gear, and headed across the bomb-altered landscape in the direction of the Ludwigsbruke.

  Anika stared into the darkened streets, hypnotized by the movement of the wipers as the jagged silhouettes of broken buildings paraded past. “I’m worried about Max, papa,” she finally said, breaking the silence.

  “So am I. The SS isn’t in the habit of making hollow threats.”

  Anika nodded grimly. “Can’t you do something? I know you’ve already interceded, once, but—”

  “No, I can’t,” her father interrupted, bristling with frustration. “Thing’s have changed. My influence has been blunted. Whatever Max’s orders are, all we can do is pray the war ends before anything happens to him.”

  “Pray?” Anika challenged, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “You really think God gives a damn about us? About Germany? How could He have let this happen if He does? How could He have turned these monsters loose?”

  “I don’t know. I lay awake nights asking myself the same question, and keep coming up with the same answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s testing our faith.”

  “Well, it’s an unfair test. Our family has done enough to get a perfect grade. He can’t ask us to give up Max too. He can’t.”

  The dog bark
ed as if it understood.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  Having resisted the impulse to cut Dan Epstein down to size, Tannen took Stacey and Steinbach aside to deal with his ultimatum. They were huddled in a corner of Zach Bolden’s studio around a console that was outfitted with digital photo-editing and printing equipment. Indeed, the technical aspects of commercial photography had changed dramatically since Tannen had his studio twenty years ago. Developing negatives and making contact sheets from which the best shots were selected for enlargement had gone the way of carbon paper and typewriters—as had darkrooms with their macabre glow, tyrannosaurus-like enlargers, trays of pungent chemicals and tedious procedures. The results of a session could be evaluated immediately, now; and Bolden was sitting in front of two 40-inch flat-screen monitors, scrolling through the shots he had just taken. Like the cigarette butt photographs Stacey had extolled, these were gritty, textured, high-resolution black and white images that on first glance were exactly what she, and the others, had envisioned; but as Bolden mouse-clicked through them, they could all see that the key element was missing.

  “Not what we were hoping for, are they, Zach?” Tannen prompted.

  “Not even close,” Bolden replied grimly. “They’re flat, staged, without personality. It’s as if we hired an actor to play the part…a bad actor.”

  “Yeah, Jake’s the guy who lived it but you’d never know it,” Steinbach said clearly distraught. “It’s just not coming through.”

  Tannen nodded emphatically. “He’s not engaged. His eyes don’t have that—that Jake sparkle, that mischievous twinkle, do they Stace?”

  Stacey responded with a preoccupied nod. She had been watching Jake from afar and, once again, felt responsible for the old fellow’s plight. He sensed what was going on, but wasn’t quite sure what it meant, and appeared bewildered. “I think he looks terribly lonely,” Stacey said thinking out loud as she wracked her brain for a solution.

  “Whatever, this is a disaster,” Steinbach growled through clenched teeth. He fired a challenging look at Stacey. “Well, here’s where the rubber meets the road, kid. Got any brilliant ideas?”

  “Yup,” Stacey replied without missing a beat. “You’re the one who promised him it was going to be fun, right?”

  “Yeah, so?” Steinbach fired-back.

  “Well it’s obvious it isn’t. Look at him, all by himself out there. I think it’s time you—”

  “No shit Sherlock,” Steinbach snapped. “Don’t give me psychobabble. Give me an idea!”

  Stacey’s eyes flashed with anger then, resisting the temptation to retaliate, she said, “Hey, you’re the client, Mr. Steinbach; and the client’s always right, but…” She paused and held up her hands defensively, as if anticipating an onslaught of blows. “…with all due respect, you’re wrong on this one, dead wrong.”

  “Me? Wrong? Why?” Steinbach challenged, rapid-fire.

  “Because you didn’t let me finish.”

  “I’m listening,” Steinbach muttered grudgingly.

  “Good. I was about to say, it’s time to roll up your sleeves and make good on that promise. Your sleeves, Mr. S. Roll them up. You know what I mean?”

  Steinbach’s eyes narrowed in confusion. He was on the verge of unleashing another scathing rejoinder when they brightened with understanding. “Yeah, I do, I sure as hell do.” His wiry frame sprang into action as he removed his jacket and tie, and rolled his sleeves up above his elbows, revealing the Auschwitz tattoo on his forearm. “Come on Jake, loosen up. It’s time to have some fun,” he said, striding across the backdrop paper to where the old fellow was sitting on the suitcase in a weary slouch. “You remember I said two old Jews sticking it to the Nazis? Well, that’s exactly what this damn near seventy year-old Jew and this damn near ninety-year-old Jew are going to do! A hundred and sixty years of old Jews are going to roll up their sleeves and stick it to ‘em! Don’t just sit there, Jake. Come on! Roll ‘em up!”

  Jake looked a little uncertain at first; then, his eyes came to life. He got to his feet and, with Steinbach’s assistance, removed his jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing that he, too, had a number, preceded by the letter A, tattooed on his forearm.

  Steinbach caught Stacey’s eye and nodded smartly in tribute, getting an affirming fist-pump in return. “We didn’t just tour the continent on the fucking Orient Express, did we, Jake?!” he went on, rhetorically. “No, we just survived a harrowing journey; and that’s how we should look! Like tough, proud, Holocaust survivors!” he exclaimed, mussing Jake’s neatly combed hair into windblown thatches. “Are we having fun yet?”

  “We sure as hell are!” Jake replied, erupting with laughter. He looked across the studio to where Hannah was seated with Dan and blew her a kiss; then he sat on the suitcase, folding his arms across his chest. The Auschwitz tattoo was clearly visible.

  Steinbach had stepped behind him and, standing just off to one side, assumed a defiant, warrior-like posture with his arms folded across his chest in a way that displayed his tattoo. “How’s this?!” he called out to Bolden who, anxious to capture this electrifying moment, had just affixed a fresh digital back to his camera. “Hope you’ve got some film left in that thing.”

  As the strobes began flashing again, Adam, who had been quietly observing it all, tilted his head as if trying to recall something. He squinted at the suitcase, staring at the white lettering that was visible between Jake’s legs; and, as if cued by a strobe flash, made the connection that had eluded him earlier. His fingers began flipping the pages of his notepad. “Help me out here, will you?” he said, drifting to Stacey who was clearly delighted by what her exchange with Steinbach had instigated. “I’m confused.”

  “What about?”

  “Dr. Epstein’s age. I’m pretty sure Google had his DOB as 1920. I think that’s what he said the other day, too, isn’t it?”

  “I guess. I don’t know. I just heard Steinbach say he was damn-near ninety…”

  “Yeah, me too,” Adam said, still checking his notes. “Here it is: Born…1920.”

  “Well, that computes…”

  “I know, but the DOB painted on the suitcase is nineteen twenty-two.”

  “Oh.” Stacey shrugged. “So? What’s the big deal?”

  “It’s called fact-checking, remember? You’ve spent too much time in the ad game making them up. I don’t have that luxury.”

  “Come on, according to my daddy, Grandpa Dutton wasn’t sure which side of the Rio Grande he was born on, let alone in what year. These old-timers didn’t pop out of the womb stamped with a bar code that got logged into a computer.”

  “Yeah, but you know the Times. Ever since Jason Blair…” Adam said, referring to the reporter who just a few years ago had fabricated dozens of news stories, “…they’re back to fact-checking whether the earth orbits the sun or vice-versa.”

  Stacey laughed. “Hey it’s a dirty job, Clive, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After passing the envelope to her mother’s contact at the train station and returning to the townhouse in Bogenhausen with her father, Anika Kleist turned her attention to what Jake and Eva would need while in hiding at the abandoned cabin in Partnach Gorge. Giving Max and Eva as much time together as possible, Anika, Jake, and Tovah, the housekeeper, went about gathering blankets, quilts, canned foodstuffs, tins of biscuits, and bottles of water, along with a box of candles and a flashlight—all of which they carried down to the garage and began loading into Anika’s Volkswagen.

  “I’ve never gotten a flat,” Anika said in her spirited way, as she removed the spare tire and hardboard liner from the car’s forward trunk to maximize space. “And I’ve just decided I never will.”

  “Good,” Jake said with a nervous laugh. “Because I’ve never changed one.”

  “And you won’t have to…at least not tomorrow.”

  Tovah found a small electric heater in one of the storage lockers at the rear of the garage. It fit
snugly in the foot-well behind the driver’s seat.

  The next morning, Anika put the German Shepherd in the back seat and pulled the car out into the driveway where Eva, Jake, and Max—a jarring presence amidst the falling snow in his black SS uniform—were waiting. He would be leaving to report for duty as soon as the others departed, and had dressed accordingly. Jake shoe-horned his newly acquired suitcase into the trunk and got in the back seat next to the dog. The time Max and Eva had long dreaded had come, and they were standing aside, clinging to this last moment.

  “This wasn’t how I wanted you to remember me,” Max said, referring to the uniform.

  Eva set her rucksack on the ground and removed the framed snapshot of them that she had taken from her flat. “This is how I will remember you,” she said handing it to him. “How I will remember us…always…”

  “I…I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Max said softly. “God how I wish we—“

  “Enough…” Eva said, eyes welling with emotion. She hugged him tightly, then got in the car next to Anika. Max put the picture in the rucksack, then stuffed it into the trunk. He forced the lid closed and looked up at Eva who smiled wistfully as the wipers swept across the windshield in front of her. “Please go,” she said to Anika, overcome by the sense of finality. “I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Please…”

  Max watched them drive off, wondering if he would ever see Eva again. When the car was gone, he adopted a more erect, military posture and shook the snow from his greatcoat; then, Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain, Waffen-SS strode back into the house and went to the chapel where his parents were waiting. They spent a few moments, kneeling in prayer, then crossed themselves and went downstairs to the garage, joining Tovah and the chauffeur who was stowing Max’s duffel bag in the trunk of the Mercedes.

  “Let us know where you are,” Gisela Kleist said, her voice quavering with emotion.

  “Soon as I can,” Max replied, forcing a smile. “I’ll send you all postcards from the Riviera!”