Max’s eyes widened in horror as the SS guards, in mindless contradiction to the announcement, set upon the prisoners with their truncheons and rifle butts. “Raus! Raus! Auf die Rampe! Form eine enzigen zeile!” they shouted, beating them into silence and submission, and, in some cases, comas. “Schnell! Schnell! Bilden eine linie!” they went on, forcing the prisoners to form a line in front of Captain Kruger’s station.
Members of the Kommando descended on their fellow prisoners and began stripping them of their belongings: prized articles of clothing were peeled from their backs, rings were pulled from their fingers, pockets were rifled, and suitcases were emptied and tossed aside onto a growing pile, their contents sorted into other growing piles. All personal belongings, jewelry, cash and other valuables—except for food, which Kommando members were allowed to keep—had been decreed property of the Third Reich by the Führer and were, therefore, confiscated.
With the dispassionate efficiency of a robot, Kruger went about making his selections, directing the confused and terrified prisoners to one of two lines which led to the camp’s entrance gate: The elderly, the infirm, frail-looking women, and children to one that could have been labeled: Short-Lived Anxiety. Little Torture. Immediate Execution. The healthy-looking men, teenagers, and robust women to the other that could have been labeled: Delayed Execution. Be Tortured, Worked And/Or Starved To Death.
As Kruger went about his work, Max noticed that the prisoners who had responded to the call for doctors and medical professionals were treated more humanely than the others. They hadn’t been beaten and stripped of their belongings, and were being escorted into the camp, suitcases in hand. Max’s curiosity turned to concern when he realized that neither he nor Kruger, nor anyone else, had been issued clipboards. Names and ID numbers weren’t being taken. Arrival records weren’t being kept. Perhaps, those selected for work would be processed once inside. But what of the others? Would they be executed and disposed of as if they had never existed? Would there be no record of what had happened to them? Would they, as Radek had so crudely put it, just go up in smoke?
Any thought Max had of raising the issue vanished when the Kommando rolled back the door to the second freight car and the same violent scene was played out. This time, the prisoners were forced to queue in front of his station. Max was on the verge of retching as the clusters of frightened and confused people came toward him, clinging to each other, carrying infants and exhausted children, dragging pieces of luggage and bundles tied with rope, their faces wracked with fear, their eyes pleading for them to be spared, to be treated humanely.
Despite the soothing assurances being broadcast, humane treatment had nothing to do with it. Max’s job was to make selections. To pick and choose and separate members of families, some of whom would soon be executed. Once again he could hear the commandant’s voice: Be ruthless. Avoid ambiguity. Let nothing cloud your fealty to the Führer. Now Max really knew why the colonel, who seemed to despise him, had offered this almost fatherly advice. Max was trying to convince himself that if he didn’t make Selections, Captain Kruger or the fanatic Radek or some other rabid Nazi would and these people would die anyway. Max was losing the argument, and on the verge of leaving his post, when he imagined the terrified faces and pleading eyes were those of his family: his father, his mother and his sister. Indeed, the commandant had left no doubt that Max would be signing their death warrants if he refused to carry out his orders.
And that was the moment Captain Maximilian Kleist, M.D. Waffen-SS made his first selection; and as he stood in the searchlight-slashed darkness, and the line of anxiety-ridden humanity kept coming toward him, Max made another selection, and then another. Individuals of every age, young couples, elderly couples, and entire families. Now, a strapping farmer, his robust wife, their lethargic teenage son and elderly grandparents came trudging toward him. Like all the others, their eyes pleading, their hands reaching out in supplication.
“How old is he?” Max asked of the boy.
“Fifteen,” the father replied.
Max lifted the young man’s face to the light and examined his eyes, then pulled gently at the skin on his neck that stretched like putty. “He’s malnourished and severely dehydrated.”
“We’ve had no food or water for days,” the father explained. He had seen what happened to those who had preceded them; he knew what was being decided here, and quickly added, “He’s a good, strong worker.”
Max nodded and directed the parents and son to the workers line, but restrained the grandparents. Anguished by their separation, they all began calling out, and pressing forward, arms outstretched until their fingertips touched in one last desperate moment of contact. Max was devastated by their forlorn glances and, though the elderly couple’s age dictated they be sent to the execution line, he was about to grant them a reprieve when two SS guards came running over.
“Zuruck in die linie!” they shouted at the younger three. “Zuruck! Zuruck eine linie!” One drove the butt of his rifle into the farmer’s chest, knocking him to the ground where he lay writhing in pain. His wife and son screamed in fright, then rushed to his side. The SS guards set upon them with their truncheons, driving all three back toward the workers line; then, remaining at Max’s station, they turned on the elderly couple and began driving them toward the execution line.
The painful scenario was tearing Max apart. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He was swallowing hard, trying to collect himself, when the door of the next freight car was rolled back. Scores of prisoners surged into the frigid darkness and blinding searchlights in an air-gasping frenzy. The commotion caused the SS guards to hurry from Max’s station to Kruger’s, at the other end of the platform. Max saw his chance and jerked his head toward the workers line, sending the terrified grandparents rushing into the arms of their overjoyed family; then, preempting any expressions of gratitude that might call attention to his act of kindness, Max threatened them with his riding crop, and began shouting, “Idiots! Stupid idiots! Back in line! Follow instructions! Remain in line!”
The deafening cacophony that prevailed was suddenly penetrated by the sharp crack of a pistol shot. It was followed by another and then another. Max winced at each of the evenly spaced reports that came from the courtyard Lieutenant Radek had pointed out during his orientation tour; and where Max knew many of the prisoners he had just selected, were being executed. And between each shot, the soothing voice kept coming from the loudspeakers in mocking reassurance: “There is no need to panic. Follow instructions. Go to the line to which you are assigned. You will be given hot meals, soap and towels for showering, and assigned to heated barracks. There is no need to panic. Follow instructions. Go to the…”
Once again, Max was on the verge of retching and leaving his post—on the verge of deserting; but the steady crack of pistol shots that were driving him to run were what ultimately stopped him. It wasn’t the thought of them being fired into the back of his head—he didn’t care about the consequences he would suffer should he refuse to carry out his orders—but the thought of them being fired into the back of his father’s head, and that of his mother’s and sister’s; and, tormented by this unnerving vision, Captain Maximilian Kleist, M.D. Waffen-SS remained on the ramp, continuing to make selections; and by the time the fifteenth and the sixteenth and seventeenth freight cars had been unloaded, he, too, was making them like a dispassionate robot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Sounds like he’s out of the country,” Stacey said after Tannen finished the call with Gunther.
“Paris. His wife’s running down acquisitions. Our European operation’s awash in red ink. The boss decided to tag along and shake things up. Not a happy camper.”
“His wife’s with the Guggenheim, isn’t she?”
“Uh-huh, working on a Kandinsky show.”
“I was waiting for you to get into this with him,” Adam said, referring to the questions he had just raised.
“No way. Bad timing. Besides, i
t’s still too iffy. So, where’re we at here?” Tannen prompted, rhetorically. “Two tattoos. Same number. Different handwriting. Ergo, different people—one of whom is Dr. Epstein. And, now, numbers on a luggage tag—possibly in his handwriting that seems to match his tattoo; which gets us back to Adam’s idea that he tattooed himself because…”
“…he wasn’t Dr. Jacob Epstein, but wanted to be,” Adam said, finishing it.
“Yeah, I mean, what? He’s a Holocaust wannabe?” Stacey prompted, picking-up where she had left off when Gunther called. “Why would he make believe he was in a concentration camp when he wasn’t?”
“Survivor guilt?” Tannen ventured. “A lot of Holocaust survivors spent their lives feeling guilty about it; and/or about what they did to stay alive.”
Adam nodded. “Like things they weren’t proud of.”
“Whatever,” Tannen said, dismissing it; then his tone sharpening, he added, “The point is that Dr. E wanted to be a member of the club.”
“That’s one explanation,” Adam conceded, implying he had another. “Let’s not forget he’s Doctor Epstein. And we all know about Nazi doctors.”
“You mean Mengele and his ilk?” Tannen prompted.
“Mengele?” Stacey echoed with disdain. “I can’t believe that’s where you’re at. It’s ridiculous.”
“Really?” Adam said, smugly, stepping to Tannen’s computer. “May I?”
“Sure,” Tannen grunted.
“If you think it’s so ridiculous…” Adam said, accessing a story on the Times website that included a photo of a man with an aquiline profile, dimpled chin and arched eyebrows, “…check out this piece the paper did back in January on a Nazi doc named Heim. Ran some pretty ugly experiments on concentration camp victims. Never got caught. Matter of fact he practiced in Germany for a while after the war; but somebody blew the whistle on him and he fled to Cairo; lived there for thirty-what years before kicking the bucket in the early nineties. We know this because someone cleaning out a storage room in his building came across his briefcase. Sound familiar?”
Stacey’s eyes flared with anger. “That’s where all this is coming from, isn’t it?! It’s pure speculation, Clive. You don’t know for a fact that Dr. Epstein’s a Nazi. You have no reason to even suspect it, do you?!”
Adam was caught off guard and took a moment to collect himself. “No, no I don’t,” he replied, evenly. “I’ve just got this gnawing feeling in my gut that—”
“Then why even say it?!” Stacey challenged. “Are you that terrified of getting laid off? I can’t believe you’d cook up something like this to save your ass.”
Adam bristled with indignation. “Are you accusing me of fabricating a story?”
“It sure sounds like that’s what you’re doing!” Stacey replied, getting in his face. “For what? To sell newspapers?!”
“No! To sell luggage,” Adam retorted. “It’s my job that’s on the line. Not yours.”
“No, according to you, my ass is! You’re the one making speeches about fact checking! It’s on you to nail this down before deciding the man’s a war criminal!”
“Hey, hey?! Knock it off!” Tannen said, stepping between them. “Neutral corners. Now,” he commanded, directing them to opposite sides of the office. He gave them a few moments to settle; then, in the measured cadence of a mediator, said, “Okay. Now, Stacey, as I believe you pointed out earlier, we’ve no choice but to take this seriously. Right?” He waited until Stacey nodded grudgingly then, pursuing the logic, resumed. “And if what Adam suspects is true; if Dr. E is someone other than who he says he is; then the forearm in the snapshot from the suitcase that has the same prisoner number tattooed on it—belongs to the real Jake Epstein.”
“Works for me,” Adam said.
“Okay,” Tannen said, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, “But why would he agree to do the campaign? Why would he even allow the suitcase to be opened? It was his call. We gave him every chance to say no.”
“Yeah,” Stacey chimed in. “Why would he risk getting caught?”
“Because he wants to get caught,” Adam replied.
“Why?” Stacey challenged.
“Guilt,” Adam replied. “Not survivor guilt. Plain old, normal, everyday subconscious guilt. He’s damn-near ninety years old. Near the end of his life. He wants to fess up. Wants to make things right.”
Stacey sighed. She looked crestfallen. “I hate to say it, boss,” she said, her voice trembling. “I mean, the mere thought of it turns my stomach, but if Adam’s right, it’s a great fucking story.”
“Yeah, it is,” Adam said, sounding vindicated. “And, if I am right, the paper’s going to run it.”
“I applaud your parenthetical modifier,” Tannen said, sensing he had regained some measure of control. “It suggests that as the responsible, ethical, truth-seeking journalist we know you to be, you’ll be busting your ass to come up with the answers to a long list of questions, first. Won’t you?”
“And those questions are?”
“Is he the real Dr. Jacob Epstein or not? If not, who is he? Is he a Nazi? Is he a war criminal? Not all Nazis were; and not all Germans were Nazis. Last but not least, whatever and whoever he is…why is he masquerading as a Holocaust survivor? If that’s indeed what he’s doing. At the moment, all you’ve got is a theory. Speculation.”
Adam’s jaw tightened. He felt exposed, like a student whose outline for a term paper had just been savaged by his advisor. “Yeah, I guess, you’re right.”
“Voila!” Tannen exclaimed, with a trace of sarcasm. “As Celine would say, ‘Il la vu la lumiere!’ In the meantime, we better give Sol a heads-up on this.”
“Yeah, better he hear it from us…” Stacey paused and broke into a mischievous grin. “…than from some reporter for a tabloid.”
“Not funny,” Adam said, forcing a scowl. “On the other hand, she’s right. If I spotted this stuff, it’s only a matter of time before somebody else does. Which is another reason why I won’t sit on it forever.”
“Come on, Adam, you can’t sit on a story you don’t have—and you don’t have it,” Tannen said, pointedly. “We’ll deal with it if and when you do.” He held up the printouts Adam had brought with him. “I want Sol to see these? Okay?”
“Sure. They’re yours.”
“Thanks. Now, get your ass out of here. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Adam nodded. He looked beaten as he headed for the door.
Tannen cocked his head struck by a thought. “Hold it,” he called out. “Didn’t Dr. E say his med-school buddy…a…Max…Max…” he paused, searching for the name.
“…Kleist,” Stacey chimed-in, supplying it. “Max Kleist was the guy who gave him the suitcase.”
“Right. Didn’t Dr. E say he was in the SS?”
“Yeah, that’s right, he did,” Adam said, his eyes widening with intrigue as he drifted back toward them. “I forgot about that.”
Stacey nodded. “He also said he was an anti-Nazi who was conscripted and forced to serve.”
Adam groaned. “That’s what they all said.”
“Enough,” Tannen said, his tone sharpening. “I was about to say, maybe you should find out whatever you can about Max Kleist, too, while you’re at it.”
“Maybe I should,” Adam said, suddenly re-energized.
“Okay, but from here on, there’s something all of us need to remember. Something really important—” Tannen said, with a strategic pause. “—the tar goes on a lot easier than it comes off.” He made eye contact with Adam and prompted, “Got it?”
“Yes, I do,” Adam replied as if he meant it; then glancing to Stacey, he added, “Despite what some people think, not all journalists are cold-blooded.”
Tannen waited until Adam had left the office, then turned to Stacey and prompted, “You okay?”
Stacey nodded and broke into a coy smile. “He’s not always cold blooded.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Eva and Jake ha
d spent several hours hiding in Mittenwald’s frigid darkness before the rumble of a locomotive and the flicker of a headlight got their attention. Each waited until the train came thundering into view before entering the station.
Eva went directly to the ticket window. She couldn’t see Major Steig observing from his vantage point in the station master’s office. Neither she nor Jake had any idea what he looked like; though the sight of an SS uniform would have caught their eye. Steig had never seen them in person, either, and was relying on the fugitive alerts to identify them—on photographs taken three years ago when, as bright-eyed altruists, they first came to medical school. They appeared different, now. Hardened by the horrors of war, having treated so many of its casualties, and by their current status as fugitives, they had taken on the distant stare and weary posture of combat soldiers. So, when Eva bought her ticket, the major—like the sergeant at the Starnberg checkpoint—didn’t recognize the lone, young woman whose turned-up collar was encircled by a scarf, and whose tumbling, raven-black hair was concealed beneath a knitted wool hat pulled down over her ears. Eva left the window and made her way between the barricades that funneled passengers to a stand-up desk where a Gestapo agent was checking documents.
Across the station, Jake was sitting on a bench, pretending to be reading a discarded newspaper. The headline read: FüHRER VOWS VICTORY. PREDICTS ALLIES WILL SURRENDER BY EASTER. Jake waited until Eva had left the ticket window before joining the short queue.
At the security desk, the leather-jacketed Gestapo man glanced at Eva’s ticket and smirked. “Venice? All of northern Italy is under the Führer’s rule, now,” he bragged, going on to review her travel pass, and visa. “You’ll feel right at home.”
“It is my home,” Eva said, wishing she hadn’t.
“Passport,” he said, staring at her icily.
Eva took it from her purse, reflecting on Max’s warning about the Gestapo’s uncanny skill at detecting pseudonyms, and handed it to him. Would the agent ask her name? Or use it in some way to test her? He glanced from her passport to her face and back, then stamped her documents with a bright green Reichsadler, and returned them. Eva forced a smile, shouldered her rucksack and began walking from the desk.
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