Garden Of Beasts

Ach, he should have told the man something about the Waltham Study when Ernst had first conceived it this past March. Yet the Leader, Defense Minister von Blomberg, and Ernst himself had been so occupied with retaking the Rhineland that the study had paled beside the monumental risk of reclaiming a portion of their country stolen away by the Allies at Versailles. And, truth be told, much of the study was based on academic work that Hitler would find suspect, if not inflammatory; Ernst simply hadn’t wanted to bring the matter up.

And now he was going to pay for that oversight.

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Ernst walked inside the large ante-office and found himself standing before Adolf Hitler – leader, chancellor and president of the Third Empire and ultimate commander of the armed forces. Thinking as he often did: If charisma, energy and ca

Wearing a brown uniform and glossy black knee boots, Hitler was bending over a desk, leafing through papers.

“My Leader,” Ernst said, nodding respectfully and offering a gentle heel tap, a throwback to the days of the Second Empire, which had ended eighteen years before, with Germany’s surrender and the flight of Kaiser Wilhelm to Holland. Though giving the Party salute with “Hail Hitler” or “Hail victory” was expected from citizens, the formality was rarely seen among the higher echelon of officials, except from the drippier sycophants.

“Colonel.” Hitler glanced up at Ernst with his pale blue eyes beneath drooping lids – eyes that for some reason left the impression that the man was considering a dozen things at once. His mood was forever unreadable. Hitler found the document he sought and turned and walked into his large but modestly decorated office. “Please join us.” Ernst followed. His still, soldier’s face gave no reaction but his heart sank when he saw who else was present.

Sweating and massive, Herma

Another man sat in an ornate chair, sipping coffee, his legs crossed like a woman’s: the clubfooted scarecrow Paul Joseph Goebbels, the state propaganda minister. Ernst didn’t doubt his skill; he was largely responsible for the Party’s early, vital foothold in Berlin and Prussia. Still, Ernst despised the man, who couldn’t stop gazing at the Leader with adoring eyes and smugly dishing up damning gossip about prominent Jews and Socis one moment then dropping the names of famous German actors and actresses from UFA Studios the next. Ernst said good morning to him and then sat, recalling a recent joke that had made the rounds: Describe the ideal Aryan. Why, he’s as blond as Hitler, as slim as Göring and as tall as Goebbels.

Hitler offered the document to puffy-eyed Göring, who read it, nodded and then put it into his sumptuous leather folder without comment. The Leader sat and poured himself chocolate. He lifted an eyebrow toward Goebbels, meaning he should continue with whatever he had been discussing, and Ernst realized his fate regarding the Waltham Study would have to remain in limbo for sometime longer.

“As I was saying, my Leader, many of the visitors to the Olympics will be interested in entertainment.”

“We have cafés and theater. We have museums, parks, movie theaters. They can see our Babelsberg films, they can see Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow. And Charles Laughton and Mickey Mouse.” The impatient tone in Hitler’s voice told Ernst he knew exactly what kind of entertainment Goebbels had meant. There followed an excruciatingly long and edgy debate about letting legal prostitutes – licensed “control girls” – out on the streets again. Hitler was against this idea at first but Goebbels had thought through the matter and argued persuasively; the Leader relented eventually, on the condition that there be no more than seven thousand women throughout the metropolitan area. Similarly, the penal code provision ba

“Finally,” Goebbels continued suavely, “there is the matter of public display. I am thinking that perhaps we might permit women’s skirts to be shortened somewhat.”

As the head of Germany’s Third Empire and his adjutant debated, in centimeters, the degree to which Berlin women might be allowed to conform to world fashion, the worm of ill ease continued to eat away at Ernst’s heart. Why hadn’t he at least mentioned the name of the Waltham Study some months ago? He could have sent a letter to the Leader, with a glancing reference to it. One had to be savvy about such things nowadays.

The debate continued. Then the Leader said firmly, “Skirts may be raised five centimeters. That settles it. But we will not approve makeup.”

“Yes, my Leader.”

A moment of silence as Hitler’s eyes settled in the corner of the room, as they often did. He then glanced sharply at Ernst. “Colonel.”

“Yes, sir?”

Hitler rose and walked to his desk. He lifted a piece of paper and walked slowly back to the others. Göring and Goebbels kept their eyes on Ernst. Though each believed he had the special ear of the Leader, deep within him was the fear that the grace was temporary or, more frightening, illusory and at any moment he would be sitting here, like Ernst, a tethered badger, though probably without the quiet aplomb of the colonel.

The Leader wiped his mustache. “An important matter.”

“Of course, my Leader. However I may help.” Ernst held the man’s eyes and answered in a steady voice.

“It involves our air force.”

Ernst glanced at Göring, ruddy cheeks framing a faux smile. A daring ace in the War (though dismissed by Baron von Richthofen himself for repeatedly attacking civilians), he was presently both air minister and commander in chief of the German air force – the latter currently being his favorite among the dozen titles he held. It was on the subject of the German air force that Göring and Ernst met most frequently and clashed the most passionately.

Hitler handed the document to Ernst. “You read English?”

“Some.”

“This is a letter from Mr. Charles Lindbergh himself,” Hitler said proudly. “He will be attending the Olympics as our special guest.”

Really? This was exciting information. Both smiling, Göring and Goebbels leaned forward and rapped on the table in front of them, signifying approval of this news. Ernst took the letter in his right hand, the back of which, like his shoulder, was shrapnel scarred.

Lindbergh… Ernst had avidly followed the story of the man’s transatlantic flight, but he’d been far more moved by the terrible account of the death of the aviator’s son. Ernst knew the horror of losing a child. The accidental explosion on a ship’s magazine that had taken Mark was tragic, wrenching, yes; but at least Ernst’s son had been at the helm of a combat ship and had lived to see his own boy, Rudy, born. To lose an infant to the hands of a criminal – that was appalling.

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The Leader continued. “This is why I have asked for you, Colonel. Some people think that it would be of strategic value to show the world our increasing strength in the air. I am inclined to feel this way myself. What do you think about a small air show in honor of Mr. Lindbergh, in which we demonstrate our new monoplane?”