Max nodded, then smiled at a thought. “And you’ll be Mrs. Jacob Epstein…”
“Yes,” Eva said spiritedly and without the slightest hesitation. “Yes, Jake, I will.”
And that was the moment Maximilian Kleist ceased to exist. As the weeks passed, his hair grew longer, his face filled out, his color returned, and he began looking more and more like the photograph on his passport; the one, Milton Glazer, the clever young graphic designer had transferred from his German passport to the Austrian one he had forged in the name Jacob Epstein. Eva called him Jake, spoke about him as Jake, introduced him as Jake; and soon, the neighbors, and the local vendors, and the waiters in the trattoria and the corner coffee bar were all calling him Jake, along with everyone on the medical staff at the Metropoli who came to know him as Dr. Jacob Epstein. Indeed, the hospital was overwhelmed and understaffed and, having already traded his striped prison uniform for civilian clothes, Jake donned a white lab coat and began working there with Eva; setting broken limbs, reassembling shattered people, and saving lives.
When not on duty, Eva and Jake spent time outdoors, went to the islands, bicycled along the Lido, swam in the Adriatic. And overcome with joy at having survived, at having found each other, and at the prospect of spending their lives together, they began to believe they just might be able to have that life in la bella Venezia.
One evening, they attended an outdoor concert in the Giardini Publicci, a broad expanse of trees and gardens in the heart of the Castello District. La Fenice, the city’s legendary opera house, which had been shut down throughout the First World War, had been kept open during this one by the German staff who prided themselves on being cultured; but their largesse hadn’t been extended to the Jewish musicians who, having been expelled from the orchestra, resorted to these public performances to earn a living; and they were still doing so despite the War’s end. When the concert was over, Eva and Jake walked home along the Laguna Veneta, the dog tailing after them in the darkness. They had just turned into Garibaldi, and were still humming the opening of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, when Eva stopped suddenly and emitted a loud, horrified shriek.
Jake had every reason to think she was either in cardiac arrest or had been shot. “Eva?! Eva, what is it? What’s wrong?!”
Eva was trembling, paralyzed with fear. A long moment passed before she pointed to a nearby building.
Jake gasped at the sight of a flyer taped to the wall. Large block letters proclaimed: FUGITIVE JEW. The name Eva Sarah Rosenberg was beneath her picture. It was a copy of the same Fugitive Alert that Major Steig had issued all those months ago in Munich. The same death warrant that he had left on the table in the Officer’s Club at Dachau the night he slyly informed Max that Jake had been arrested; that his ‘other Jewish friend’ was still at large and being hunted; and that her capture was just a matter of time.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The poster-sized enlargements of the print ads featuring Jake and Steinbach along with other visuals related to the campaign were still in evidence throughout Gunther Global’s headquarters; but the sense of accomplishment and excitement of the launch party had given way to a sense of impending doom as Adam briefed Stacey, Tannen, Steinbach and Gunther on his interview with Dr. Jacob Epstein. “He admitted everything,” Adam concluded. “Right down to working on the ramp.”
Tannen looked baffled. “Why? Why would he do that?”
Adam shrugged. “He was raised a Catholic. Maybe he needed to go to Confession.”
“So, you’re saying,” Tannen went on, barely able to repeat it. “Dr. Jacob Epstein really is Maximilian Kleist, M.D. Captain, Waffen-SS…”
Adam nodded. “He’s a Nazi war criminal.”
Steinbach stiffened, then his shoulders slackened. He looked crushed. “Jesus H. Christ…” he muttered.
“You’re sure?” Gunther prompted.
“Absolutely. I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up, and a chance to comment on the record.”
Gunther splayed his hands. “I don’t know, I’ve…I’ve got questions, not comments. I mean, he’s lived such an exemplary life. Chairman Emeritus of Beth Israel, museum trustee, generous philanthropist. What did he say? How did he explain it?”
“He claims he was coerced, that the SS threatened to kill his family if he didn’t do their bidding.”
“He’s always come across as so credible,” Gunther said. “Did you believe him?”
Adam shrugged. “No, not really. He can say whatever he wants, knowing there’s no way to—”
“Why should we believe you?!” Steinbach erupted, feeling stung. “You think this is going to make up for what your fucking newspaper didn’t do when it had the chance? When it would have mattered!”
Adam looked puzzled. “I’m sorry Mr. Steinbach, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Not surprising,” Steinbach said, his tone laden with contempt. “If you’re going to write about this, get the facts. All the facts.” He leaned forward in his chair, jabbing a forefinger at Adam as he went on. “From the mid-thirties to the mid-forties, The New York Times—owned and operated by a Jewish family—ran damn near twenty-five thousand front page stories on World War Two. Only twenty-six of them—twenty-six—had anything to do with the Nazis killing Jews.”
“I’m sorry, it’s the first time I’ve heard that,” Adam said, sounding chastised. “But I’m writing one, now—with all the facts—as I found them. As I said, I’ve no way of knowing if Dr. Epstein’s telling the truth.”
“You’re saying, he’s lying about being coerced?” Tannen prompted, his voice taking on an edge.
“No, I said I have no way of knowing if he’s—”
“Then maybe you ought to back off until you do!” Tannen snapped.
“Hey—hey, come on,” Stacey interrupted, once again caught in the triangulated conflict that had become her life: torn between her feelings for Adam, her adoring affection for Jake, and her loyalty to her company—not always in that order. “For what it’s worth, Adam said something about this the other day that seemed to make sense: Maybe Dr. Epstein’s been living a lie for so long he’s come to believe it.”
Tannen seemed to soften. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“I wasn’t offering it up as an excuse,” Adam said. “What he believes doesn’t change a thing. By his own admission, he was an SS officer. A Nazi doctor at a concentration camp—who made selections.”
Stacey frowned. “Ellen Rother said not all of them were monsters. Remember that book…The Nazi…Nazi Doctors…”
Tannen nodded. “As I recall, it condemned these bastards, while acknowledging some were conflicted and coerced.”
Stacey nodded smartly. “They were pained at violating their Hippocratic Oath. They drank heavily. They suffered post traumatic stress…”
“They decided who lived and who died. They sent people to be executed,” Adam added, using Stacey’s rhythm. “And Dr. Epstein was one of them.”
Stacey could barely contain herself. “But he said they threatened to kill his family. The fact that they did proves he’s not lying, doesn’t it?”
“Good point,” Gunther chimed in. “This is different—if it’s true. The trouble is, as Adam has so astutely observed, it’s hard to prove one way or the other.”
Tannen nodded in agreement. “Which is why as Ellen also said, the DOJ uses immigration violations to get these guys. I mean, there’s no doubt the good doctor lied about his past when he immigrated.”
“They both lied about it,” Adam said. “Mrs. Epstein is not Hannah Friedman, a Holocaust victim who, as it turns out, was in love with the real Jacob Epstein. Her real name is Eva Rosenberg.”
“What?!” Stacey blurted.
Adam nodded.
Incredulous looks darted from Steinbach to Gunther to Tannen who said, “That alone could cost them their citizenship and get them deported.”
“Adam nodded again. “In Dr. E’s case, it’s basically the Al Capone thing: He’s into
murder and extortion, but he destroyed the evidence and killed all the witnesses, so we can’t prove it; but we can nail him on tax evasion. The bottom line is, Nazis were prosecuted at Nuremberg for what he did.”
“And still are,” Steinbach added with an angry growl. “Regardless of age or accomplishments. Demjanjuk just had his ninetieth birthday in a Munich prison where he’s finally standing trial. That snake Waldheim had been the head of the U.N. and was President of Austria when they finally nailed his ass. I could go on. The point is, justice was finally served.”
“And should be,” Adam said. “Though as I told the Epsteins, I’m not in the business of dispensing it. I deal in facts, and the fact is, he’s a war criminal.”
“But there were mitigating circumstances,” Stacey retorted. “Not only was he coerced, he and his family saved many lives. Jake’s, Eva Rosenberg’s, and others in Munich and Dachau. We know he’s not lying about that.”
“True,” Steinbach conceded, his tone softening. “Yad Vashem wouldn’t have honored them without having corroborating witnesses and evidence. Come to think of it, he’s not lying about the suitcase either. The Kleists purchased it years before the real Jake Epstein was sent to Auschwitz. It’s his name and DOB painted on it. How else could he have gotten it? And how else could Max Kleist have gotten it back?”
Gunther nodded thoughtfully and locked his eyes onto Adam’s. “You’ve just been put on notice. Should you proceed with your story, you’re more than obligated to mention the Kleist’s Yad Vashem award—which they paid for with their lives—as well as all of Dr. Epstein’s good works as a physician and philanthropist.”
“Of course. I’ll also be obligated to mention that after the war, the Allies declared that the SS was an illegal criminal organization; and that SS doctors were war criminals. Did you know that? People were hung for what Dr. Epstein did.”
“You want to see him hung?” Stacey asked, forlornly.
“My job is to get the story.”
“They lived it, and you get to judge it.”
“No, Stace. Society gets to judge it. We do it all the time. It’s called the criminal justice system. Evidence is uncovered, witnesses come forward, trials are held, verdicts are rendered…”
“Convictions and acquittals,” Stacey retorted.
“The man was in the SS. He made selections.”
“Come on, Clive! He was protecting his fucking family!” Stacey erupted, pushing up out of her chair.”
“Yeah,” Tannen chimed in. “Unlike those weasels at Nuremberg, he isn’t claiming I was just following orders.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who lived it,” Steinbach said. “Half of me would like nothing better than to see that Nazi son-of-a-bitch destroyed. The other half…”
“You’d be feeding your revenge fantasies, Sol,” Gunther cautioned.
“Bet your ass I would,” Steinbach cracked. “And I love every damn one of ’em!”
“We all do,” Gunther conceded in quiet reflection. “Grace spent years learning not to entertain them. It wasn’t easy. It’s a constant tug of war between the emotional craving for vengeance or, what we’ve come to call, closure; and the cerebral counterweights of patience and reason, of taking the moral high ground.”
“It comes down to ‘An eye for an eye,’ versus, ‘Do unto others’,” Tannen said. “Even the Bible equivocates…not that I’m an expert.”
“Yes, we live in a painfully polarized society,” Gunther went on. “Things are either black or white, red or blue, my way or the highway. No gray areas allowed. We think in extremes and demand simple answers to complex problems; but, whether it be the Middle East, health care reform, financial institutions, or the one we’re wrestling with, they’re far and few between, if any.”
“Well, I’ve been accused of taking the moral high ground on occasion,” Steinbach said with a self-deprecating cackle. “Which is why the other half of me is thinking we probably ought to let the good doctor off the hook.”
Adam looked puzzled. “The facts are clear and compelling. Why am I the only one who’s not ambivalent about this?”
“Because you’re young and ambitious and see this as your chance to make your mark as a journalist,” Tannen replied. “And you’re probably right.”
“Not to mention scared shitless about being laid-off,” Stacey sniped, dropping into her chair and swiveling around, coming face-to-face with Adam. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“What’s your excuse?” Adam challenged, rhetorically. “That he’s a mensch who’s spent his life caring for his fellow man. And you Mr. Steinbach. You’re a survivor of Auschwitz. You have a number tattooed on your arm. Your family was gassed by these monsters. My readers will be really interested to know why you don’t want this guy exposed and punished.”
Steinbach nodded, appearing to be deep in thought. “The bottom line is, I don’t see the good that comes from destroying the man and his family. Why trash everything he’s done as a doctor, as a philanthropist and, despite the Catholic thing, as a Jew? It doesn’t compute. As Mark said, I’d just be feeding my revenge fantasies.”
“But I’m not out to destroy him,” Adam said, matter-of-factly. “That’s not my goal. Never has been. I’m just searching for the truth. I mean—”
“Which will destroy him!” Steinbach interrupted. “Along with the name Dr. Jacob Epstein—the name of a Holocaust victim. It’ll be forever linked to this ugliness…forever soiled and sullied. The headlines will read Dr. Jacob Epstein Revealed As War Criminal,” Steinbach went on, his face reddening, his voice rising, his pace quickening. “Dr. Jacob Epstein Nazi Fugitive! Dr. Jacob Epstein Murderer! Imposter! Fake! The fucking Post’ll have a field day with it! Jewish Surgeon Exposed As Nazi Slicer-Dicer! The fact that his name is really Maximilian Kleist will get buried in paragraph ten, the Catholic thing even further down. And you know it! It bothers the hell out of me.”
“Makes two of us,” Gunther said, contemplatively. “As you know, Adam, I’m very close to this because of my wife; and I’m just as conflicted as Sol. We all have the luxury of time, distance, perspective; of sitting back in comfort and evaluating decisions people made under duress and the threat of death before most of us were even born. We don’t know what it was like to be tested, to live every moment in fear, in a nation ruled by a psychopath. On the other hand, we all have genuine emotional outrage that cries-out for justice, and we have every right to demand it; and have demanded it. In most cases—whether it be Mengele, Eichmann, Klaus Barbie, or one of the hundreds of lower echelon monsters—there’s been no reason to equivocate; but this one…this one’s not an easy call.”
Adam bit a lip, seeming to be moved by Gunther’s impassioned appeal. Indeed, he had become keenly aware that Gunther and Steinbach, the two people with a personal connection to the Holocaust, were counseling restraint. “Look, I didn’t come here to be talked out of writing this story,” Adam said, sounding more defensive than he planned. “And I’m not saying I have; but…” he winced and emitted an ambivalent sigh. “…you’re right, it isn’t an easy call.”
“Well, it’s your story, Adam. You’re the only one who can make it,” Gunther said with finality. “The sooner the better for all concerned.”
“If I walk away from it, you’ll run the campaign as planned, right?”
Gunther winced. “Frankly, that remains to be seen. Either way, we have a lot of work to do. So, let’s hop to it.” He punctuated it with a little fist-pump and strode from the room followed by Tannen and Steinbach.
Adam remained seated, head down, arms crossed, deep in thought.
Stacey started after the others, then hesitated, torn between her professional responsibilities and her concern for Adam. “Hey,” she called out, hurrying to catch-up with the three men who were striding out the door. “Just give me a minute, okay?”
“Take two, take ten,” Tannen replied. “Take the rest of the day if you think it’ll do any good.”
“Yeah,
kid,” Steinbach chirped. “You’re our last hope. Knock yourself out.”
“No pressure,” Gunther said with a little smile.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The fugitive alert had been taped to the facade of a shop on the corner of Grimana. Eva’s apartment was at the end of the street close to the canal that ran along the rear of the buildings. Jake ripped the alert from the wall in disgust. “Steig… He’s found us, he’s toying with us.”
The dog sensed the tension and looked about warily.
Eva looked traumatized. “Maybe…maybe we should go to the Carabinieri…”
“The police?” Jake said, aghast, as he went about tearing down several other alerts that been posted. “No thanks. I’ve had my fill of document-checks and tense moments with men in uniform. I’ve also had some luck, and I don’t want to push it.”
“We have to do something, Jake. It’s obvious Steig knows where we live, and probably where we work.”
Jake nodded, his eyes clouded with concern. “I don’t think he’ll chance showing up at the hospital; but the apartment’s not safe. We better put together a few things and get out of there.”
“I can’t believe I’m on the run, again,” Eva said with a distraught sigh as they hurried toward her building. “What about the partisans? They’d love to get their hands on him.”
“They’d love to get their hands on me!” Jake retorted. “Besides, Steig won’t be easy to find. He isn’t strutting about Venice in his greatcoat and jodhpurs, believe me.” He tossed the alerts he had collected in a trash bin in front of the building. “We should think this through before doing anything.”
Eva reached into the bin and retrieved one of them. “If anyone contacts the partisans, it’s going to be me,” she said with steely resolve, brandishing the alert. “They’ll need little convincing to hunt down Steig once they see this.”
“If anyone contacts them,” Jake cautioned as they entered the building. He left the door open and waited for the dog that had remained outside to do its business. “Kunst, stay,” he commanded when the animal appeared, posting it in the vestibule in the event Steig showed-up. Though the dog had become less skittish, it growled in protest, pawing at the staircase. Jake repeated the command and stared him down. He waited until Kunst had settled on his haunches, then hurried upstairs after Eva who had gone on ahead. Jake had just reached the landing when he heard her shriek, exactly as she had outside on seeing the fugitive alert. He dashed into the apartment after her, and froze in place.
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