“They’re onto us,” Anika said. She removed the forged papers from her handbag and put them on the table in front of her startled charges. “You have to sign these,” she went on with unwavering focus.
The travel passes, student visas, and passports—Italian for Eva, Austrian for Jake—had been made out in the pseudonym each had selected. Their photos had been fastened with official steel rivets procured by a resistance member who worked for the manufacturer; each had been stamped with the Reichsadler—the Imperial eagle clutching a swastika in its claws—and boldly endorsed with forged signatures. Jake and Eva were keenly aware that the passports lacked the large red J, for Jew that had been stamped on their real ones by the Gestapo.
“What happened?” Jake asked as they went about signing the documents.
“Someone spotted us,” Anika replied. “Probably at Starnberg. The SS must’ve gone to the chalet on Eibsee; and when you weren’t there, they decided to let me lead them to you; but I lost them in Murnau,” she said with a spirited laugh. “They may never get out of there!”
Eva’s eyes darkened with concern. “Then you’re in danger too.”
Anika shrugged, unfazed. “My father will think of something. We have to go. Now. They’re probably checking every hotel and ski lodge as we speak. Night trains are best, anyway. The Gestapo men are bored and groggy on schnapps.” She snapped her fingers and winced. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she went on, taking a glassine envelope from her handbag. Inside the long, narrow sleeve was a strip of 35mm film. Among the half-dozen negatives were the shots Max had taken of Eva and Jake for their passport photos. “This may come in handy.”
“Yeah, the next time we need forged papers,” Jake said with a laugh, taking it.
“It’s not funny,” Anika scolded. “Tuck it someplace safe. The Gestapo are always on the lookout for false papers. It could give you away.”
“I’ve got just the place for it,” Jake said, slipping it inside the pages of his book.
“That’s not good enough,” Anika said.
“It’ll do for now,” Jake said.
They gathered their belongings and packed the suitcase and rucksack, dividing up the foodstuffs they hadn’t consumed, and then hurried from the cabin.
Anika knew the military presence in Garmisch-Partenkirchen and its status as a winter sports Mecca meant Zugspitze Station would be under strict Gestapo surveillance; and decided to use Kainzenbad Station in nearby Mittenwald, instead. Once a teeming crossroads on medieval trade routes, it had since become a quiet hamlet of ski instructors and violin makers. Since it would be safer for Jake and Eva to appear to be traveling alone, Anika dropped them at different locations. After making their way through the town’s darkened streets, they took up positions from where they could observe the station and the polished rails that split the white landscape in a sweeping arc.
The quaint structure had a dormered roof and arched colonnades with glass-paneled doors and transoms. The light that spilled through them revealed nothing alarming. No guards were posted along the tracks or on the platform; and there were no staff cars in sight. Despite this, Mittenwald was close to the German-Austrian border, and documents were routinely inspected by the Gestapo before passengers were allowed to board trains to Innsbruck, Vienna, Verona and points as far south as Venice.
The two Gestapo agents, posted here, passed the time between trains, playing cards and drinking schnapps in the station master’s office. Due to the unpredictable schedules, they donned their trench coats and left its warmth to take-up their posts as each train arrived. This evening they had been joined by an SS major from Munich who declined their entreaties to join them and glowered at their undisciplined behavior.
Having lost Anika in Murnau, just hours ago, Steig still had no idea where Jake and Eva were hiding; but he had every reason to believe they were in this area. Furthermore, he knew Jake was from Vienna and Eva from Venice; and bet that if they were taking the train south, they would avoid Zugspitze Station and depart from Kainzenbad, instead. As Anika knew, it had a small Gestapo presence; and the major kept it that way, sequestering his entourage in the station’s baggage room to avoid scaring-off his prey. Steig also knew that the Gestapo had a habit of horning-in on SS operations, and was determined to keep them out of this one. It was an SS operation, his operation; and he hadn’t briefed them on it. For all the Gestapo knew, the SS major, cooling his heels in the station master’s office, was catching the next train.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Dr. Jacob Epstein may not be Dr. Jacob Epstein?! What the hell does that mean?!” Tannen erupted after Stacey briefed him on her meeting with Adam. He was standing on the putting green that ran beneath the windows and struck the ball in anger. It skimmed across the AstroTurf and ricocheted off the baseboard.
“It’s killing me too, boss,” Stacey replied, eyes widening as the ball flew past her. “I’ve got a huge soft spot for the old guy; but I’m playing devil’s advocate, now, okay? I mean, something isn’t right, here. Like Adam said, it’s weird.”
“He’s weird!” Tannen erupted again, tossing the putter aside. “He has no proof of anything. How do we know the other guy, with the same number tattooed on his arm, isn’t the imposter? If there is one!”
“That’s exactly what I said; but we can’t just ignore this.”
Tannen’s eyes were popping behind his tortoiseshell frames. “Why not? We’re on the verge of launching a hot ad campaign for an important client and your boyfriend’s going to fuck it up!”
“Not if it turns out he’s wrong. But if we launch, and it turns out he’s right, we’re screwed…big time.” She picked up the golf ball that had rolled to a stop, nearby, and deftly placed it in Tannen’s outstretched hand. “…Quadruple bogie for sure.”
“Damn,” Tannen mumbled, seething with frustration. “As much as I’m amazed by, and count on, every little twist and turn that quirky brain of yours takes, this is infuriating beyond words.”
“I know. I’m sorry. If I hadn’t spotted the suitcase in the—”
“Furthermore,” Tannen charged on, “Your degree and boyfriend notwithstanding, you work for an ad agency not The New York fucking Times!”
“You’re right; and I don’t need to be reminded,” Stacey replied contritely. “But it doesn’t mean we aren’t morally obligated to find out the truth.”
“Morally obligated? Who do you think you are, Beate Klarsfeld?”
“Who?”
“She’s a Nazi hunter. She and her husband. I’m pretty sure they’re the one’s who blew the whistle on Kurt Waldheim.”
“The U.N. guy?”
“Yeah, not to mention former President of Austria,” Tannen replied in condemnation. “The slightest hint of scandal—this kind of scandal—has the power to destroy not only Dr. Epstein, but Sol and his company, not to mention this one. The campaign is the least of it.”
“That’s why we need to get into it. We can’t just blow it off.”
Tannen conceded the point with a grudging nod. “Just remember, as the gang in legal would say, ‘You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.”
“I know. Adam wants to get it right too. I know he does; but he smells a story, here—a hot one; and he’s digging. He’s not just going to roll over and—”
The intercom buzzed, interrupting her. Tannen stabbed at a button on his console. “What is it Astrid?” he asked, sounding annoyed. He groaned at the reply, then glanced to Stacey and, with a sarcastic cackle, said, “The devil’s advocate and the devil…”
Stacey looked puzzled. “Adam? What’s he doing here?”
“I’ve no doubt he’ll tell us,” Tannen retorted, pressing the intercom button again.“Send him in.”
The door half-opened. Adam slipped through it into the office. “Sorry, but as Stacey knows, no phones, no emails, this story is mano-a-mano only.”
Tannen nodded. “No problem. We were just into a little mano ourselves.”
“Tell me abou
t it,” Stacey chimed-in. “What’s up?”
“I took your advice. Soon as you left, I started digging deeper into that CD. Much deeper.”
Stacey winced. “Why am I getting the feeling this is about to get worse instead of better?”
“Do I look like I’m delivering take-out?”
“Shit,” Stacey groaned. “Now what?”
“The luggage tag,” Adam said, sounding vindicated. “According to the archivist’s report, it has an address in Vienna written on it, along with what seems to be a passport number, and Dr. Epstein’s prisoner ID number.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Stacey said, going to work on Tannen’s keyboard. “Give me a minute…”
“I saved you the trouble.” Adam handed her two printouts. One was a close-up of the prisoner ID number, A198841, tattooed on Dr. Epstein’s forearm; the other was a close-up of the luggage tag. Creased, and darkened with age, it had a metal grommet at one end through which a twisted wire that secured it to the handle of the suitcase was threaded. “Look at how the numbers are written. They’re the same on both.”
Stacey swept her eyes over the printouts, then handed them to Tannen. “He’s right, boss. Look at those sevens, they’re exactly the same…”
“And the eights,” Adam prompted. “Like you said, they’re infinity symbols turned on end.”
“Those aren’t sevens, they’re ones,” Tannen said, unimpressed. He uncapped a pen and jotted the numeral seven on the printout. He used three strokes, not two, and emphasized the last one. “That’s a seven. The Europeans make that little crossbar to differentiate between sevens and ones. Take it from me. I lived there for five years. The bottom line is there’s nothing unique about that handwriting. Could be one person, then again it could be two or even three.”
“Let me see if I have this right,” Stacey said, assembling the pieces. “Not only do we have the same number tattooed in different handwriting on two Auschwitz prisoners, one of whom we’re certain is Dr. Epstein; but, if Adam’s right, we also have numbers written on Dr. E’s luggage tag in the same handwriting as his tattoo. I get that right?”
Adam nodded. “Looks that way to me.”
“Whoever wrote out the tag also tattooed Dr. E?” Tannen challenged.
Adam nodded again. “Yeah, I know it’s weird, but it—”
“No it isn’t,” Stacey interrupted. “The Nazi freak at Auschwitz who tattooed the ID number probably had a pile of blank luggage tags on his desk and filled it out at the same time.”
Tannen pondered it for a moment, then nodded in concession. “Not bad, smarty pants; but in fairness to Adam, and leaving no stone unturned now that he’s set off this earthquake, didn’t Dan Epstein say the writing on the tag looked like his father’s?”
“Yeah, but he also said that he wasn’t sure. That it changes over time, and…”
“Yeah, yeah he did, and it does,” Tannen conceded.
“Going with it for a minute,” Stacey went on, her eyes narrowed in thought. “If it is Dr. E’s handwriting on the tag. We’re saying…what? He tattooed himself?”
The furrows in Tannen’s forehead deepened. “Why the hell would he do that?”
“I can think of a reason,” Adam replied. “He did it because he wasn’t Dr. Jacob Epstein…but wanted to be.”
Adam’s remark struck them all with surprising force. Even he hadn’t realized the implication until he said it; and the three of them were stunned to silence, trying to come to grips with it.
“He’s some kind of Holocaust wannabe?” Stacey finally said with a skeptical frown, snapping them out of the trance. “I don’t get it, Clive. I mean—”
Tannen’s cell phone rang, interrupting her. He plucked it from his desk and glanced at the display. “Hold that thought. It’s the boss.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Military Garrison at KZ-Dachau was staffed by more than twelve hundred SS officers and enlisted men. Four times the size of the prison camp, its acres of barracks also housed the troops who were constantly rotating through the SS Training Center. Its stately houses with fine lawns and picket fences—along with its shops, post office, movie theater, restaurants and community center—gave it the look of a quaint village. It even had its own, professionally run, highly discrete, and extremely active SS brothel.
Captain Max Kleist, M.D. knew of the large number of military personnel stationed at Dachau; and when he first saw his orders, he thought he was being assigned to its military hospital; but the commandant’s ruthless briefing and Lieutenant Radek’s horrific orientation made it clear that the Jew-lover’s assignment would be—as Major Steig had threatened—cruel punishment; and Max knew, that he would soon be on the ramp making Selections.
Radek’s tour had concluded in an Officers Housing Unit where Max’s quarters were located. Officers were assigned to individual rooms with pictures of the Führer and Reichsführer above the desk that was opposite the bed and wardrobe. Max wasted no time emptying his duffel and storing his things. His 35mm Leica was among them. When finished, Max ignored the commandant’s decree, and went in search of a telephone to call his parents and, perhaps, get some news of Eva and Jake; but camp personnel with access to phones refused to violate the restriction, warning him, sternly, against doing so.
Haunted by the inhumane prison conditions and cruelty he had witnessed, Max went to the camp’s library and took out a book on medical ethics he had read as a student. It was written a hundred years earlier by Christoph Wilhelm Hufeland, one of Germany’s great physician-humanists. Max spent the next few days immersed in its essays on the sanctity of life, and began writing a letter to his parents about his unnerving experience. His appetite had waned, and he went to the Mess Hall during off-hours, avoiding contact with Radek and other officers. As instructed, he checked the duty roster, often. Each time, the space next to Hauptmann M. Kleist had been blank; but this afternoon, written in a precise hand, Max saw: On The Ramp. 18:00.
The rest of the day was filled with gut-churning anxiety which was exacerbated by his concern for Eva and Jake. The image of Eva’s face, there-and-gone between metronomic sweeps of the Volkswagen’s wiper stayed with him as he donned his winter gear and left the barracks to take-up his post. The Luger he had been issued felt out of place on his hip as did the riding crop clutched in his gloved fist.
Searchlights atop the guard towers swept in wide arcs sending shadows across the grounds. The temperature had dropped and each bootstep ended with the crunch of frozen snow. Max exited the Main Gate and trudged up the ramp onto the platform that ran between the railroad tracks and the rear of the administration buildings. An incandescent glow came from their curtained windows warming the winter light. Max looked to the horizon where the streaks of polished steel converged, still thinking about Eva and Jake who, while Max was waiting in frigid darkness for a train to arrive at Dachau, were doing the same at Kaizenbad Station in Mittenwald.
Another SS officer came trudging up the ramp onto the platform, pulling Max from the reverie. Like Max’s, his uniform had captain’s insignia and a caduceus. He made no effort to acknowledge Max and, chin raised to the wind, stood at his selection station, waiting for the train. Soon, the shriek of a whistle broke the wintry silence. The two men turned, making eye contact. The other officer broke it off, quickly. Max thought he looked familiar; but his face had been masked in shadow, making it hard to be certain. Max hesitated for a moment, then crossed the platform. “Otto? Otto Kruger is that you?”
The officer turned to Max and glared at him.
“Otto!” Max exclaimed. He was so relieved to see a familiar face, that he was oblivious to the painful intensity in Kruger’s eyes. “It’s been a couple of years, hasn’t it? The day after graduation, we were—”
“Max,” Kruger hissed through clenched teeth. “You know what we do here?”
Max took a step back and nodded grimly.
“Then shut up and do it,” Kruger said in a tense whisper as the headlight of a thun
dering locomotive, pulling a line of freight cars, sent shadows streaking the length of the platform. The massive engine came to a stop with the painful screech of grinding steel. It was still belching smoke and hissing steam when the spotlights began slicing the night in narrow, blue-edged shafts.
With drill team precision, a squad of SS guards, armed with rifles and truncheons, marched a group of prisoners onto the platform. The Sonderkommando as these groups were called—literally, special command—were made up of prisoners who knew how to wheel and deal within the camp system to survive, and were deemed trustworthy by their slave masters. During Selections, the Kommando, in their striped prison uniforms, did the actual dirty-work under the direction of the guards who were loath to have physical contact with the arriving prisoners. On the Sergeant’s order, two of them unlocked the door of the first freight car and rolled it back revealing the human cargo packed inside.
The prisoners burst forth in a frenzy. The frail and those who had died or passed out en route were trampled by those who surged into the frigid darkness, gasping for air. Blinded by the spotlights, the disoriented prisoners stumbled about, some bundled in heavy coats, others in shirtsleeves. Among them were elegantly dressed women in fine jewelry and furs, farmers in tattered mackinaws and bibbed coveralls, businessmen in suits and ties with natty fedoras. Some collapsed from exhaustion. A few protested their inhumane treatment. All were begging for water. Many clutched pieces of luggage on which personal data had been painted.
Loudspeakers atop the guard towers crackled to life. “There is no need to panic. Follow instructions. Go to the line to which you are assigned,” a soothing voice instructed. “You will be given hot meals, soap and towels for showering, and assigned to heated barracks. If you are a doctor, a nurse, or have other medical training, raise your hand or make this known to your processing officer. There is no need to panic. Follow instructions and go to the line to which you are assigned…”
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