Garden Of Beasts

Chapter Forty-Three

They were sick of waiting.

During their weekend in Amsterdam, Lieutenants Andrew Avery and Vincent Manielli had seen tulips in every color imaginable and looked at plenty of fine paintings and flirted with page-boyed blondes who had round, rosy faces (Manielli, at least; Avery being contentedly married). They’d enjoyed the company of a dashing Royal Air Force flier named Len Aarons, who was in the country on his own intrigues (about which he was as evasive as the Americans). They’d drunk quarts of Amstel beer and cloying Genever gin.

But life on a foreign army base wears thin fast. And, in truth, they were also tired of hanging from tenterhooks, worrying about Paul Schuma

Now, though, the waiting was over. At 10 A. M. Monday morning the twin-engine plane, streamlined as a gull, flared for a moment and then touched down on the grass field at Machteldt Aerodrome outside of Amsterdam. It settled onto its tail wheel and slowed, then taxied toward the hangar, weaving in a zigzag since the pilot couldn’t see over the raised nose when the plane was on the ground.

Avery waved as the sleek, silver plane eased toward them.

“I think I’ll go a few rounds with him,” Manielli shouted over the sound of the engines and prop wash.

“Who?” Avery asked.

“Schuma

The lieutenant looked his colleague over and laughed.

“What?”

“He’d eat you like a box of Cracker Jack and spit out the prize.”

“I’m younger, I’m faster.”

“You’re stupider.”

The plane eased up to a parking strip and the pilot cut the engines. The props coughed to a stop and the ground crew ran out to chock the wheels under the big Pratt & Whitneys.

The lieutenants walked up to the door. They’d tried to think of something to get Schuma

But Avery had said, “No. You can’t tell somebody that something you’ve already done for them is a present.”

Manielli figured the lieutenant would know this; married men knew all about the protocols of giving presents. So they bought him a carton of Packs o’ Pleasure – Chesterfields – which had taken them some effort, and expense, to find in Holland. Manielli now held it under his arm.

One of the ground crew walked to the door of the plane and pulled it down. It became stairs. The lieutenants stepped forward, gri

He blinked, held his hand up to shelter his eyes from the sun, then climbed down the stairs. “Guten Morgen… Bitte, Ich bin Georg Mattenberg.” He threw his arms around Avery and hugged him heartily. Then he walked past him, rubbing his eyes as if he’d just awakened.

“Who the hell’s he?” Manielli whispered.

Avery shrugged and then stared at the door as other men emerged. There were five altogether. All in their twenties or late teens, in good shape, but exhausted and bleary-eyed, unshaven, their clothes tattered and stained with sweat.

“It’s the wrong plane,” Manielli whispered. “Jesus, where-”

“It’s the right plane,” his fellow officer said but he was no less confused.

“Lieutenant Avery?” an accented voice called from the doorway. A man a few years older than the others climbed out. Another, younger, joined him.

“That’s me. Who are you?”

“I speak English better as the others. I will answer. I am Kurt Fischer and this is my brother, Hans.” He laughed at the lieutenants’ expression and said, “You are not expecting us, yes, yes. But Paul Schuma

He told a story about how Schuma

“At dawn he droved us out to a old aerodrome outside of the city, where we got on this airplane. And here we are.”

Avery was about to pepper the man with more questions, but at that moment a woman appeared in the doorway of the airplane. She was around forty, quite thin, as tired as the others. Her brown eyes quickly snapped up everything around her. She climbed down the stairs. In one hand was a small suitcase, in the other a book whose cover had been torn off.

“Ma’am,” Avery said, casting another perplexed gaze at his colleague.

“You are Lieutenant Avery? Or perhaps you are Lieutenant Manielli.” Her English was perfect, with only a slight accent.

“I… well, yes, I’m Avery.”

The woman said, “My name is Käthe Richter. This is for you.”

She handed him a letter. He opened it and nudged Manielli. They both read:

Gordon, Avery and Manelli (or however the hell you spell it):

Get these people into England or America or wherever they want to go. Find homes for them, get them set up. I don’t care how you do it but make sure it happens.

And if you’re thinking about sending them back to Germany, just remember that Damon Runyon or one of my buddies at the Sun or the Post would be pretty interested in what you sent me to Berlin for. Now that’d be one hell of a news story. Esp. in an election year.

It’s been swell, boys,

Paul

P.S.: There’s a Negro living in the back room of my gym, Sorry Williams. Have the place signed over to him, however that works. And give him some dough too. Be generous.

“There is this as well,” she said and gave Avery several tattered pages typed in German. “It’s about something called the Waltham Study. Paul said the commander should see it.”

Avery took the document and put it in his pocket. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Manielli walked to the airplane. Avery joined him and they looked into the empty cabin. “He didn’t trust us. He thought we were going to hand him over to Dewey after all and had the pilot land somewhere else before they got here.”

“France, you think?” Manielli suggested. “Maybe he got to know it during the War… No, I know. I’ll bet it was Switzerland.”

Stung that Schuma

“What?”

“Where did you land? To drop Schuma

The pilot frowned as he glanced at the copilot. Then he looked back at Avery. His voice echoed through the ti