Garden Of Beasts

Wheezing from the walk up the stairs, he opened the door just as eleven-year-old Ha

He fished out the meerschaum for her. She carried it to the rack in the den where dozens of others sat.

“I’m home,” he called.

Heidi stepped into the doorway and kissed her husband on both cheeks. A few years younger than he, she’d become round over the course of their marriage, developing a smooth extra chin and huge bosom, adding pounds with each child. But this was as it should be; Kohl felt you should grow both in soul and in girth with your partner. Five children had earned her a certificate from the Party. (Women with more offspring had higher accolades; producing nine children won you a gold star. Indeed, a couple with fewer than four offspring were not allowed to call themselves a “family.”) But Heidi had angrily stuffed the parchment into the bottom of her bureau. She had children because she enjoyed them, enjoyed everything about them – giving them life, raising them, directing their course – not because the Little Man wished to swell the population of his Third Empire.

His wife vanished then returned a moment later, bearing a snifter of schnapps. She let him have only one glass of the potent drink before di

He said hello to Hilde, his seventeen-year-old, lost as always in a book. She rose and hugged him and then returned to the divan. The willowy girl was the family scholar. But she’d been having a difficult time lately. Goebbels himself said that a woman’s sole purpose was to be beautiful and populate the Third Empire. The universities were largely closed to girls now, and those admitted were limited to two courses of study: domestic science (which earned what was contemptuously called the “pudding degree”) or education. Hilde, however, wished to study mathematics and science and ultimately become a university professor. But she would be allowed to teach only lower grades. Kohl believed both of his older daughters were equally smart but learning came more easily to Hilde than to vivacious and athletic Charlotte, four years older. He was often amazed at how he and Heidi had produced such similar and yet vastly different human beings.

The inspector walked out onto his small balcony, where he would sometimes sit and smoke his pipe late at night. It faced west and now he gazed at the fierce red-and-orange clouds, lit by the vanished sun. He took a small sip of the harsh schnapps. The second was kinder and he sat down comfortably in his chair, trying hard not to think about fat, dead men, about the tragic deaths in Gatow and Charlottenburg, about Pietr – forgive me, Peter – Krauss, about the mysterious churning of the DeHoMags in the basement of the Kripo. Trying not to think about their clever Ma

Who are you?

A clamor from the front hall. The boys were returning. Feet thudded powerfully on the stairs. Younger Herman was first through the doorway, swinging it shut on Günter, who blocked the door and started for a tackle. They then noticed their father, and the wrestling match ceased.

“Papa!” Herman cried and hugged his father. Günter lifted his head in greeting. The sixteen-year-old had stopped hugging his parents exactly eighteen months ago. Kohl supposed sons had behaved according to that schedule since the days of Otto I, if not forever.

“You will wash before di

“But we swam. We went to the Wilhelm Marr Street pool.”

“Then,” their father added, “you will wash the swimming water off of you.”

“What are we having for supper, Mutti?” Herman asked.

“The sooner you bathe,” she a

They charged off down the corridor, teenage-calamity-in-motion.

A few moments later Heinrich arrived with Charlotte. Kohl liked the fellow (he would never have let a daughter marry someone he did not respect). But the handsome blond man’s fascination with police matters prompted him to query Kohl enthusiastically and at length about recent cases. Normally the inspector enjoyed this but the last thing he wanted tonight was to talk about his day. Kohl brought up the Olympics – a sure conversation deflector. Everyone had heard different rumors about the teams, favorite athletes, the many nations represented.

Soon they were seated at the table in the dining room. Kohl opened two bottles of Saar-Ruwer wine and poured some for everyone, including small amounts for the children. The conversation, as always in the Kohl household, went in many different directions. This was one of the inspector’s favorite times of the day. Being with those you loved… and being able to speak freely. As they talked and laughed and argued, Kohl looked from face to face. His eyes were quick, listening to voices, observing gestures and expressions. One might think he did this automatically because of his years as a policeman. But in fact, no. He made his observations and drew his conclusions because this was an aspect of parenthood. Tonight he noted one thing that troubled him but filed it away in his mind, the way he might a key clue from a crime scene.

Di

“Yes, Father.”

Kohl fetched his foot-soaking pan and the salts. He dropped into his leather chair in the den, the very chair his father had sat in after a long day working in the fields, charged a pipe and lit it. A few minutes later his oldest son walked into the room, easily carrying the steaming kettle, which must have weighed ten kilos, in one hand. He filled the basin. Kohl rolled up his cuffs, removed his socks and, avoiding looking at the gnarled bunions and yellow calluses, eased his feet into the hot water and poured in some salts.

“Ach, yes.”

The boy turned to go but Kohl said, “Günter, wait a moment.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Sit down.”

The boy did, cautious, and set the kettle on the floor. In his eyes was a flash of adolescent guilt. Kohl wondered, with amusement, what transgressions were fluttering through his son’s mind. A cigarette, a bit of schnapps, some fumbling exploration of young Lisa Wagner’s undergarments?

“Günter, what is the matter? Something was bothering you at di

“Nothing, Father.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

In a soft but firm voice Willi Kohl now said, “You will tell me.”

The boy examined the floor. Finally he said, “School will start soon.”

“Not for a month.”

“Still… I was hoping, Father. Can I be transferred to a different one?”

“But why? The Hindenburg School is one of the best in the city. Headmaster Muntz is very respected.”

“Please.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know. I just dislike it.”

“Your grades are good. Your teachers say you are a fine student.”

The boy said nothing.

“Is it something other than your lessons?”

“I don’t know.”

What could it be?

Günter shrugged. “Please, can’t I just go to a different school until December?”

“Why then?”

The boy wouldn’t answer and avoided his father’s eyes.

“Tell me,” Kohl said kindly.

“Because…”

“Go on.”

“Because in December everyone must join the Hitler Youth. And now… well, you won’t let me.”

Ah, this again. A recurring problem. But was this new information true? Would Hitler Youth be mandatory? A frightening thought. After the National Socialists came to power they folded all of Germany’s many youth groups into the Hitler Youth and the others were outlawed. Kohl believed in children’s organizations – he’d been in swimming and hiking clubs in his teen years and loved them – but the Hitler Youth was nothing more than a pre-army military training organization, ma