The German Suitcase

by Dinallo, Greg

  “Hey boy,” Max murmured as the animal nuzzled him.

  The dog whimpered in reply, then, lowering its head as if in mourning, hovered over the family’s remains.

  “I know,” Max said, faced with the task of burying them. The Kleist family plot was in Ostlicher Freidhof Cemetery where Holy Cross Church was also located. Family members had been interred there since it was built in the 1860s; it was several miles away in the Geising District. He went down to the garage and found the doors wide open and his father’s Mercedes and sister’s Volkswagon gone. The bicycle that had been left behind by the looters wouldn’t be of use. Munich was a paved urban landscape, except for the Englisher Garten, a vast expanse of woods and meadows on the river; but it, too, would require transportation. Possartplatz, just across the street, was the only plot of land logistically feasible; but it was an unsecure and inappropriate resting place, not to mention Max would have to dig three graves with kitchen utensils or his bare hands.

  They were his parents, his sister, and the thought of just leaving them there was tearing Max apart. On the other hand, it was more than likely that the convoy had reached Landsberg; and the Americans would soon discover he was missing. He needed to get out of Germany as soon as possible, and had neither the tools nor the time to inter his family properly; but he knew who he might entrust with the task. He fetched some blankets, and wrapped their remains separately, securing each with lengths of cord salvaged from window blinds. When finished, he aligned his mother, father and sister side-by-side at the foot of the altar; then wrote their names and dates of birth on separate cards, affixing them to each. On a fourth, he wrote that the Kleists were decent and courageous people who were executed for helping Jews and others survive the Nazi horrors.

  Turning his attention to what had brought him to the chapel in the first place, Max found the vault-like tabernacle door had been opened. The solid gold chalice was gone, the Hosts spilled across the altar and onto the floor. To his dismay, the packets of cash, blank passports and travel passes were also gone, along with the paintings that had graced the walls. This left him with the cash in his wallet and his German passport.

  Night had fallen. Max decided to spend it in the townhouse, gathering anything that might prove useful: foodstuffs, clothing, hand tools, medical supplies, and the deed to the cemetery plot which he found in his mother’s office. The elevator had been wrecked in the bombing; and with the dog leading the way, Max lugged the suitcase up three bomb-damaged flights to his quarters, which, along with every other room on the upper floors, had also been looted. Some clothing had been left behind, as were the drawings of prosthetic devices he’d been developing with Jake and Eva. He rolled them up and was slipping them into a mailing tube when the edge of a picture frame on the wall next to the luggage closet caught his eye. The door had been swung back in front of it by the looters, concealing the painting from view. To Max’s delight, it was Kandinsky’s Murnau With Church, one of the artist’s smaller works. Once removed from its frame and slipped into a pillowcase for safe-keeping, Max found it fit neatly in the bottom of the suitcase which he had emptied onto the bed.

  The luggage closet was empty. Not a Steinbach remained. Ostensibly, they had been filled with booty by the looters. Reflecting on that day four months ago when he had given the suitcase to Jake, Max suddenly realized what Jake had given him. It was more than a way to survive Dachau. Much more. The battered, whip-scarred suitcase with Jake’s name and other data painted on it, along with the tattoo and striped prison uniform, would be invaluable in the days to come.

  Indeed, the soiled, ragged uniform would not only deter suspicion, but also garner sympathy; and Max had no intention of changing into the civilian clothes he had gathered, though he made immediate use of a pack of Sturms he found in a shirt pocket. The few cigarettes it contained would be stale, and chokingly harsh; but Max hadn’t had one in weeks. The smoke soon filled his lungs with its satisfying warmth. He exhaled slowly, savoring it along with the thought of spending one last night in his own bed. He was repacking the suitcase when he noticed the Mein Kampf dust jacket amidst the items. Max smiled in wistful appreciation of Jake’s witty choice of camouflage on finding Remarque’s anti-war novel within. He had read it as a teenager; and, now, settling against the headboard with his cigarette, he began reading the opening lines: We are at rest five miles behind the front. Yesterday we were relieved, and now our bellies are full of beef and haricot beans. We are satisfied and at peace…

  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 gon
e. 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 sai
d, 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?”