Garden Of Beasts

“Well, I guess, sure.”

Heinsler had added in a soft voice, “One other thing: It’d be better to say you found the letter. Otherwise they might take you into the station and question you. That could take hours. It could use up all your shore leave.”

The young mate had felt a little uneasy at this intrigue.

Heinsler had picked up on that and added quickly, “Here’s a twenty.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the man had thought, and told the porter, “You just bought yourself a special delivery.”

Now, as he walked away from the policeman and headed back toward the waterfront, he wondered absently what had happened to Heinsler. The young man hadn’t seen him since last night. But thoughts about the porter vanished quickly as the mate approached the venue he’d spotted, the one that seemed like a perfect choice for his first taste of German culture. He was, however, disappointed to find that Rosa’s Hot Kitten Club – the enticing name conveniently spelled in English – was permanently closed, just like every other such attraction on the waterfront.

So, the mate thought with a sigh, looks like it’ll be churches and museums after all.

Chapter Four

He awoke to the sound of a hazel grouse fluttering into the sky from the gooseberry bushes just outside the bedroom window of his home in suburban Charlottenburg. He awoke to the smell of magnolia.

He awoke to the touch of the infamous Berlin wind, which, according to young men and old housewives, was infused with an alkaline dust that aroused earthy desires.

Whether it was the magic air, or being a man of a certain age, Reinhard Ernst found himself picturing his attractive, brunette wife of twenty-eight years, Gertrud. He rolled over to face her. And he found himself looking at the empty indentation in their down bed. He could not help but smile. He was forever exhausted in the evenings, after working sixteen-hour days, and she always rose early because it was her nature. Lately they had rarely even shared so much as a word or two in bed.

He now heard, from downstairs, the clatter of activity in the kitchen. The time was 7 A. M. Ernst had had just over four hours of sleep.

Ernst stretched, lifting his damaged arm as far as he could, massaging it and feeling the triangular piece of metal lodged near the shoulder. There was a familiarity and, curiously, a comfort about the shrapnel. Ernst believed in embracing the past and he appreciated all the emblems of years gone by, even those that had nearly taken his limb and his life.

He climbed from the bed and pulled off his nightshirt. Since Frieda would be in the house by now Ernst tugged on beige jodhpurs and, forgoing a shirt, stepped into the study next to the bedroom. The fifty-six-year-old colonel had a round head, covered with cropped gray hair. Creases circled his mouth. His small nose was Roman and his eyes set close together, making him seem both predatory and savvy. These features had earned him the nickname “Caesar” from his men in the War.

During the summer he and his grandson Rudy would often exercise together in the morning, rolling the medicine ball and lifting Indian clubs, doing press-ups and ru

He began his fifteen minutes of arm press-ups and knee bends. Halfway through, he heard: “Opa!”

Breathing hard, Ernst paused and looked into the hallway. “Good morning, Rudy.”

“Look what I’ve drawn.” The seven-year-old, dressed in his uniform, held up a picture. Ernst didn’t have his glasses on and he couldn’t make out the design clearly. But the boy said, “It’s an eagle.”

“Yes, of course it is. I can tell.”

“And it’s flying through a lightning storm.”

“Quite a brave eagle you’ve drawn.”

“Are you coming to breakfast?”

“Yes, tell your grandmother I’ll be down in ten minutes. Did you eat an egg today?”

The boy said, “Yes, I did.”

“Excellent. Eggs are good for you.”

“Tomorrow I’ll draw a hawk.” The slight, blond boy turned and ran back down the stairs.

Ernst returned to his exercising, thinking about the dozens of matters that needed attending to today. He finished his regimen and bathed his body with cold water, wiping away both sweat and alkaline dust. As he was drying, the telephone buzzed. His hands paused. In these days no matter how high one was in the National Socialist government, a telephone call at an odd hour was a matter of concern.

“Reinie,” Gertrud called. “Someone has telephoned for you.”

He pulled on his shirt and, not bothering with stockings or shoes, walked down the stairs. He took the receiver from his wife.

“Yes? This is Ernst.”

“Colonel.”

He recognized the voice of one of Hitler’s secretaries. “Miss Lauer. Good morning.”

“And to you. I am asked to tell you that your presence is required by the Leader at the chancellory immediately. If you have any other plans I’m asked to tell you to alter them.”

“Please tell Chancellor Hitler that I will leave at once. In his office?”

“That is correct.”

“Who else will be attending?”

There was a moment’s hesitation then she said, “That’s all the information I have, Colonel. Hail Hitler.”

“Hail Hitler.”

He hung up and stared at the phone, his hand on the receiver.

“Opa, you have no shoes on!” Rudy had come up beside Ernst, still clutching his drawing. He laughed, looking at his grandfather’s bare feet.

“I know, Rudy. I must finish dressing.” He looked for a long moment at the telephone.

“What is it, Opa? Something is wrong?”

“Nothing, Rudy.”

“Mutti says your breakfast is getting cold.”

“You ate all your egg, did you?”

“Yes, Opa.”

“Good fellow. Tell your grandmother and your mutti that I’ll be downstairs in a few moments. But tell them to begin their breakfast without me.”

Ernst started up the stairs to shave, observing that his desire for his wife and his hunger for the breakfast awaiting him had both vanished completely.

Forty minutes later Reinhard Ernst was walking through the corridors of the State Chancellory building on Wilhelm Street at Voss Street in central Berlin, dodging construction workers. The building was old – parts of it dated to the eighteenth century – and had been the home of German leaders since Bismarck. Hitler would fly into tirades occasionally about the shabbiness of the structure and – since the new chancellory was not close to being finished – was constantly ordering renovations to the old one.

But construction and architecture were of no interest to Ernst at the moment. The one thought in his mind was this: What will the consequences of my mistake be? How bad was my miscalculation?

He lifted his arm and gave a perfunctory “Hail Hitler” to a guard, who had enthusiastically saluted the plenipotentiary for domestic stability, a title as heavy and embarrassing to wear as a wet, threadbare coat. Ernst continued down the corridor, his face emotionless, revealing nothing of the turbulent thoughts about the crime he had committed.

And what was that crime?

The infraction of not sharing all with the Leader.

This would be a minor matter in other countries, perhaps, but here it could be a capital offense. Yet sometimes you couldn’t share all. If you did give Hitler all the details of an idea, his mind might snag on its most insignificant aspect and that would be the end of it, shot dead with one word. Never mind that you had no personal gain at stake and were thinking only of the good of the fatherland.

But if you didn’t tell him… Ach, that could be far worse. In his paranoia he might decide that you were withholding information for a reason. And then the great piercing eye of the Party’s security mechanism would turn toward you and your loved ones… sometimes with deadly consequences. As, Reinhard Ernst was convinced, had now occurred, given the mysterious and peremptory summons to an early, unscheduled meeting. The Third Empire was order and structure and regularity personified. Anything out of the ordinary was cause for alarm.