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Overview
This novel from “a suspense pro” is part World War II thriller and part modern-day mystery (Chicago Tribune).
A vintage suitcase is pulled from the trash by a young New York advertising executive brainstorming a campaign on her way to work. The account is Steinbach Luggage, the German answer to Louis Vuitton and Hermes. There is only one problem with the vintage bag—like Steinbach’s CEO, it is a Holocaust survivor, as evidenced by the name and other personal data painted on it.
The suitcase is hallowed memorabilia, and no one dares open it until it is determined if the owner is still alive. The Holocaust survivor turns out to be an eighty-nine-year-old member of New York’s Jewish aristocracy, a prominent philanthropist and surgeon. When he gives his consent, the documents inside the suitcase pique the interest of a New York Times reporter—whose investigation begins to unravel a devastating secret that has been locked away since the day Dachau was liberated.
From an author whose work has been praised by the New York Times for “sharp insight into character,” The German Suitcase is a unique thriller focusing on the Nazi doctors who were conscripted by the Secret Service and given the task of carrying out Hitler’s Final Solution, delving deeply into questions that have been asked ever since the war ended. What is a war crime? What is guilt? How is justice best served? It is a novel that questions the very nature of identity, and ultimately asks if a lifetime of good deeds can make up for past acts of evil.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497655379 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 07/01/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 274 |
| Sales rank: | 201,592 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Greg Dinallo, a New York Times Notable Author, has published six novels: Rockets’ Red Glare, Purpose of Evasion, Final Answers, Touched by Fire, Red Ink, and The German Suitcase, Dinallo’s latest and digital-first novel. He has also written and produced many dramatic programs and movies for television.
Read an Excerpt
The German Suitcase
A Novel
By Greg Dinallo
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2014 Greg DinalloAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5537-9
CHAPTER 1
New York City, Monday, June 1, 2009
"Hey boss, it's me! — Yeah, yeah I got it! A stroke of genius," Stacey Dutton exclaimed into her cellphone, her spiky blond hair bristling with excitement. She had the Blackberry in her left hand, and the handle of an old suitcase that she had just found on the street clutched in her right. "Yeah, I wracked my brain all weekend and came up with nada. This morning, I'm leaving my building and damn near tripped over it. — Yeah, go figure — Nope. Nope, you're gonna have to wait til I get there. Ciao."
Stacey spotted the battered suitcase amidst the rolling hillside of trash bags, discarded furniture, household items, and miscellaneous building materials awaiting pick-up outside the West 79th Street service entrance of The Apthorp. Built by John Jacob Astor, the elegant pre-war apartment building had a barrel-arched entrance flanked by ornate iron gates that opened onto a courtyard with two marble fountains and limestone benches shaded by perfectly scaled trees ... much like the Florentine palace after which it was modeled. Home to an eclectic group of the Upper West Side's wealthy elite, it had long been a source of high quality junk. Now, the once rent-controlled dowager was being turned into luxury condominiums; and the mass turnover of units and the emptying of storage rooms of belongings abandoned by long-departed tenants, had turned it into the mother lode. Far from unique to The Apthorp, this citywide scavenger hunt had been fueled by the real estate boom; and the stories of Manhattanites who had renovated and/or furnished entire apartments with what they'd found on the street were legendary.
Stacey Dutton was one of them. But this morning's find had nothing to do with her one bedroom, one bath with a view of The Apthorp's service entrance. As a copywriter for Gunther Global, a full service advertising agency, Stacey had been tapped to come up with a campaign idea for a client who was threatening to pull his account; and it was her quirky personality and nanosecond-fast cortex that had caused her boss to pull her off other assignments and have her work on this one, exclusively. Indeed, Stacey had one of those minds; the kind that when asked by a teacher to provide a synonym for friend, enabled her, without missing a beat, to reply: Tumor. And when the baffled fellow asked, Why? to answer: Because they both grow on you.
The hefty suitcase pre-dated roll-aboards, and lugging it around the city was a formidable task for its petite savior. So, instead of taking the subway, Stacey hailed a taxi. The driver swerved across two lanes cutting off a competitor and a city bus that almost rear-ended him. Stacey slithered between the bumpers and tossed the suitcase into the trunk. When she climbed into the back seat, the news crawl on the built-in TV screen read: OBAMA TO VISIT CAIRO. HOPES FOR MID-EAST PEACE RISE. The Pakistani cabbie stopped talking on his cellphone long enough to ask, "JFK? LaGuardia? Newark? Where you go?"
"No, no, Fifty-first and Park," Stacey replied.
"But you have suitcase!" the driver erupted. "Suitcase! With suitcase you go to airport! Forty-five dollars fare!" He capitulated with an angry groan and went careening down Broadway.
There were days Stacey wondered what she was doing in the advertising business. She'd long-ago given up trying to explain it to her family, all God-fearing, football-crazed Texans who drove pick-up trucks with gun racks and Sarah-cuda bumper stickers. It wasn't exactly where the editor of Westerner World, the Lubbock High newspaper, who had submitted short stories to The New Yorker as a teenager, and majored in creative writing and journalism at Columbia planned to end up. But Stacey was earning a living; and saddled with hefty student loans, she really needed to earn a living. Then again, Mad Men was the hottest show on TV, and she was Gunther Global's reincarnation of Peggy Olson, and then some ... if fifty years after the fact.
Her quirky mind was fully engaged, accelerating like her boss' anthracite-black Porsche down the Long Island Expressway; and she knew from experience that once the creative fire started burning it wouldn't go out. She could already envision the print ads, the TV spots, and the internet pop-ups, along with the lines of snappy copy, and the lyrics for jingles. Indeed, she could see the entire ad campaign laid out in front of her. It was as if all the pieces of a puzzle had suddenly leapt out of the box onto the table and locked into place forming a complete picture; and as the cab snaked its way through rush hour traffic, Stacey's thumbs were dancing across the keys of her Blackberry, recording the ideas that kept coming.
CHAPTER 2Munich, Germany, Monday, January 8, 1945
Like all Nazi installations, the facade of SS Headquarters on Schellingstrasse was brashly identified by enormous flags. The white-circled swastikas, set against bright orange fields, shimmered ominously in the icy winter light. The massive steel door beneath them swung open, and a young captain strode through it into the snowy street at a hurried pace. Square-shouldered and trim, he had a strong profile and the military bearing prized by the leaders of the Third Reich. The distinctive all-black uniform of the SS—belted jacket, jodhpurs, jackboots, swastika armband, and cap with silver skull-and-crossbones perched above the peak—gave him an air of frightening authority. Though he had the panther-like stride of a Himmler acolyte, a closer look would reveal the serpent crest of the caduceus on his collar insignia, and the precise surgeon's hands that, protected from the cold by black leather gloves, were clenched into fists, one of which held a cigarette. The University District was at the opposite end of Schellingstrasse. Less than a fifteen minute walk from SS Headquarters. He wanted to run but didn't dare. He couldn't even chance being seen at the Medical School, now. Not after what had just happened. Not after the harrowing night he'd spent being interrogated by an SS major named Steig.
The streets were busy with pedestrians bundled against the cold, trailing streams of gray breath behind them. Edgy, exhausted, eyes sunken from fear and lack of sleep, Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain, Waffen-SS, moved swiftly between them, his woolen greatcoat, left unbuttoned in haste, flowing behind him. The workers and students who were trudging through the snow-blanketed city to offices, factories and schools that had survived the relentless Allied air strikes, gave him wide berth as he came toward them, his jackboots clacking on the frozen pavement.
Yesterday, the industrial districts of Neuhausen and Schwabing had been heavily bombed; and the winter air was thick with the pungent smell of explosives, centuries old dust, and death. Rescue crews, hampered by the weather were still finding survivors in the collapsed buildings. The smoldering rubble was dotted with bits of brightly colored Christmas wrapping and the sparkle of shattered glass ornaments. The most seriously injured were taken either to the General Hospital in the Medical District southwest of the city, or to the Medical School and affiliated hospital in the nearby University District. At the latter, every member of the staff—doctors, nurses, professors and medical students—had been working round the clock treating casualties. Despite the chaos, things were gradually returning to what, during the war, had come to be considered normal, and classes had resumed.
Captain Kleist had almost reached the corner of Lentnerstrasse where he knew there was a public telephone. It was one of the few in the area that still worked and he had used it often, but never in such extreme circumstances. He was inhaling deeply on his cigarette when the roar of an engine rose behind him. He glanced back at SS Headquarters to see a staff car pulling out of the driveway. It came down the street toward him, SS flags fluttering above its headlights. He recognized the officer in the command seat next to the driver and shuddered. He knew all too well who he was; knew where he was going; knew what he would do!
Kleist turned the corner, dashed down the street and slipped inside the tiny phone booth. He set his cigarette amid the burn marks on the edge of the wooden shelf, pulled off a glove, and took a few coins from a pocket, setting them next to the cigarette. His hands were shaking as he lifted the mouthpiece and thumbed one of the coins into the slot. An electric hum. No dial tone. The line was dead. The young Captain jiggled the hook several times to no avail, then grimaced and left the earpiece dangling. He took his cigarette and hurried off, not wasting the time it would take to collect the coins.
Debris from a bombed-out building forced him to cross the street. As he reached the corner of Hiltenberg, a narrow road that ran north from Josephsplatz, he caught sight of a barman through the window of a small cafe. The crooked neon sign flickered Cafe Viktoria. What was he holding up to his mouth? A coffee mug? A beer stein? A telephone handset? Was he talking on a telephone?! Yes! Yes, despite the Christmas decorations in the window, and the reflections and condensation on the glass which obscured much of the interior, Captain Kleist was reasonably certain it was a telephone. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and pushed through the door.
The cafe was nearly empty. A Christmas garland hung in loops above the bar. The air smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and wet wool. A layer of smoke drifted between the tables where a few customers sat hunched over glasses of schnapps and—due to the unavailability of coffee which could no longer be imported—steaming mugs of a bitter tasting substitute brewed from roasted barley seeds and acorns.
Captain Kleist strode between them with as much intimidating authority as he could muster. The barman stiffened at the sight of an onrushing SS officer and ended his call. "The phone," Captain Kleist said, sharply. "SS emergency."
The anxious fellow nodded and nervously wiped the mouthpiece with a bar rag. His eyes were locked on the Death's Head insignia on the young captain's cap, not the caduceus in his lapel. "Bitte ..." He smiled faintly and pushed the phone across the scratched varnish with a subservient gesture.
Captain Kleist wanted the privacy of a telephone booth, but he had run out of time. Three of his closest friends and colleagues were in extreme danger, and he had no choice but to risk being overheard. He turned his back to the barman and those at the tables and began dialing a number with a University District prefix. He spun the rotary dial as fast as he could; but after each digit it circled back at a painfully slow pace that intensified his anxiety.
CHAPTER 3The taxi was still rolling to a stop in front of 375 Park Avenue, when Stacey popped the door. Built in 1958, the Seagram Building was the icon of modern post-war architecture, the supreme expression of Bauhaus International Style; or as Tom Wolfe wryly observed: Thirty-eight stories of worker housing used by capitalists as corporate headquarters. The bronze- tinted-glass facade was set back from the street amidst broad plazas and Olympic-size reflecting pools.
Stacey lugged the suitcase past the clusters of smokers gathered around an outdoor ash stand, getting their nicotine fix, then strode into the lobby, swiped her security pass through the reader, and headed for the elevators. Gunther Global's offices occupied the entire twentieth floor. The open-plan created a maze of workstations that was ringed by glass-walled offices. Isolated in these lushly furnished aquariums like fighting fish that would tear each other to pieces if forced to cohabitate, were account executives, creative directors, chief copy writers, and senior graphic designers.
Stacey hurried past the Industry Awards displayed in Reception, down a corridor lined with posters of notable print ads, and into her boss's office. Bart Tannen's aquarium had a putting green that ran along the windows, and a commanding view of the city. It also had his collection of international golf posters acquired during stints in GG offices around the world, during which he mastered his craft, became fluent in several languages, and worked at lowering his handicap; which is what he and his putter were doing when Stacey dropped the battered suitcase on his conference table.
As the agency's Chief Creative Officer, Tannen worked with clients who paid GG handsomely to create, develop, and deploy advertising strategies across national boundaries and diverse cultures. There was no more global a client than Steinbach & Company, a high quality trunk maker founded in Leipzig, Germany in 1847. Prices started at $4,500 and went into the stratosphere.
"That's it?" Tannen asked, peering at the suitcase through his tortoiseshell Oliver Peoples. His eyebrows were as thick as the rough that bordered the fairways at his country club; and his long hair, pulled straight back to cover a bald spot, was fastened in a puppytail above his collar. "You going to tell me what it is?" he went on, smoothly striking a putt that rolled into the cup. "Or do I have to guess?"
"Come on, boss. It's a vintage Steinbach," Stacey replied, surprised he had to ask. "The pebble-grain texture, the precise saddle-stitching, the machined fittings and latches; not to mention ..." She angled it so he could see the bottom where a brass plate that proclaimed Steinbach was centered between the hinges. A serial number was engraved beneath the company name.
Tannen ran a fingertip across it. "If their records go back that far, chances are we can find out who the original owner was."
"Chances are we already know," Stacey said in her sassy way. She turned the suitcase, revealing white hand painted lettering on the other side. The large, characters were chipped, scratched and worn with age, but clearly read:
EPSTEIN, JACOB GEB 1922 147 GRUPPE 12
"There's also this," Stacey went on, fingering a grimy luggage tag on which the same name, an address in Vienna, and several sets of numbers had been written.
The furrows in Tannen's brow deepened. "Where you going with this, Stace? I mean, we've got this filthy old piece of luggage with a name painted on it, probably by some rich-kid going off to boarding school or summer camp, and ... and we're building an entire, multi-million dollar campaign around it?"
"Uh-huh, this one and others," Stacey replied becoming impassioned. "They've got character. The imperfections are like ... like the lines in someone's face, footprints of our earliest ancestors in lava, hash marks in the military. I ever mention my daddy was a crew chief?" she prompted, lapsing into a West Texas drawl which, like so many who have ventured beyond the Longhorn state's borders, she could turn on and off at will. "Yup, F-111 Wing based in Clovis, New Mexico. Just a spit and holler over the border from Lubbock where I grew up." She smiled, faintly, and added. "Never was around much. He's into ranchin' now."
Tannen had become taken with her idea and managed a preoccupied nod. "In other words, each vintage Steinbach has a story to tell. The stickers plastered on the sides. The sweat-darkened leather on the handle. The dents, the bumps, the scrapes, the scars left behind by the vicissitudes of life ..."
"There ya go! They're like people who—"
"Hold it! Hold that thought!" Tannen stabbed at his intercom and said, "Astrid, see if the boss can pop in here will you?" He hung up and, prompting Stacey to continue, said, "They're like people who ..."
"... Who've lived interesting lives," she resumed without missing a beat. "Each one's got as many stories to tell as it has stitches. The places it's been, the people who sat on it in boarding lounges, waited for it in Baggage Claim, made love in hotel rooms while it watched from a luggage rack in the corner. Remember those fantastic Irving Penn shots of cigarette butts?"
"Yeah, sure," Tannen replied, baffled by what the connection could possibly be. "Large format camera. Poster-size, gritty, black-and-white platinum prints. Must've been like thirty-what years ago. Little before your time, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, well, I sort of acquired a copy of the coffee table book."
"Wait. Don't tell me ..."
Stacey nodded sheepishly. "Yup, a dumpster dive. I'll bring it tomorrow. Each shot's like a ... a portrait. Some crushed beneath a heel, others stubbed-out but standing tall. You can see every pore and fiber in the cigarette paper; count the strands of cellulite in the filters; see the texture of an ash that's straining to keep from falling off, the glistening moisture on a lipstick imprint. Each one has its own character and story to tell. Just like pieces of vintage Steinbach."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The German Suitcase by Greg Dinallo. Copyright © 2014 Greg Dinallo. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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What People are Saying About This
"A suspense pro." - The Chicago Tribune
"Mr. Dinallo makes us believe." - The New York Times
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