Garden of Beasts (16 page)

“Ach,” the Brownshirt muttered sarcastically, “a Kripo detective has come to help us? Look, comrades, here’s an odd sight.”

The man was over two meters tall and, like many Stormtroopers, quite solid: from day labor before he joined the SA and from the constant, mindless parading he would now do. He sat on the curb, his can-shaped, light brown hat dangling from his fingers.

Another Brownshirt, shorter but just as stocky, leaned against the store-front of a small grocery. The sign in the window said,
No butter, no beef today.
Next door was a bookshop whose window was shattered. Glass and torn-up books littered the sidewalk. This man winced as he held his bandaged wrist. A third sat sullenly by himself. Dried blood stained his shirt-front.

“What got you out of your office, Inspector?” the first Brownshirt continued. “Not us, surely. Communists could have shot us down like Horst Wessel and it wouldn’t’ve pried you away from your cake and coffee at Alexander Plaza.”

Janssen stiffened at their offensive words but Kohl’s glance restrained him and the detective looked the men over sympathetically. A police or government official at Kohl’s level could insult most low-level Stormtroopers to their faces with no consequences. But he now needed their cooperation. “Ah, my good gentlemen, there’s no reason for words like that. The Kripo is as concerned about your well-being as everyone else’s. Please tell me about the ambush.”

“Ach, you’re right, Inspector,” the larger man said, nodding at Kohl’s carefully chosen word. “It
was
an ambush. He came up from behind while we were enforcing the law against improper books.”

“You are… ?”

“Hugo Felstedt. I command the barracks at Berlin Castle.”

This was a deserted brewery warehouse, Kohl knew. Two dozen Stormtroopers had taken it over. “Castle” could be read “flophouse.”

“Who were they?” Kohl asked, nodding at the bookstore.

“A couple. A husband and wife, it seemed.”

Kohl struggled to maintain a look of concern. He looked around. “They escaped too?”

“That’s right.”

The third Stormtrooper finally spoke. Through missing teeth he said, “It was a plan, of course. The two distracted us and then the third came up behind. He laid into us with a truncheon.”

“I see. And he wore a Stetson hat? Like Minister Göring wears? And a green tie?”

“That’s right,” the larger one agreed. “A loud, Jew tie.”

“Did you see his face?”

“He had a huge nose and fleshy jowls.”

“Bushy eyebrows. And bulbous lips.”

“He was quite fat,” Felstedt contributed. “Like on last week’s
The Stormer.
Did you see that? He looked just like the man on the cover.”

This was Julius Streicher’s pornographic, anti-Semitic magazine that contained fabricated articles about crimes that Jews had committed and nonsense about their racial inferiority. The covers featured grotesque caricatures of Jews. Embarrassing even to most National Socialists, it was published only because Hitler enjoyed the tabloid.

“Sadly, I missed it,” Kohl said dryly. “And he spoke German?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“A Jew accent.”

“Yes, yes, but perhaps
another
accent. Bavarian? Westphalian? Saxon?”

“Maybe.” A nod of the big man’s head. “Yes, I think so. You know, he would not have hurt us if he’d come at us like a man. Not a cowardly—”

Kohl interrupted. “Might his accent have been from another country?”

The three regarded one another. “We wouldn’t know, would we? We’ve never been out of Berlin.”

“Maybe Palestine,” one offered. “That could have been it.”

“All right, so he attacked you from behind with his truncheon.”

“And these too.” The third held up a pair of brass knuckles.

“Are those his?”

“No, they’re mine. He took his with him.”

“Yes, yes. I see. He attacked you from behind. Yet it’s your nose that has bled, I see.”

“I fell forward after he struck me.”

“And where was this attack exactly?”

“Over there.” He pointed to a small garden jutting into the sidewalk. “One of our comrades went to summon aid. He returned and the Jew coward took off, fleeing like a rabbit.”

“Which way?”

“There. Down several alleys to the east. I will show you.”

“In a moment,” Kohl said. “Did he carry a satchel?”

“Yes.”

“And he took it with him?”

“That’s right. It’s where he had his truncheons hidden.”

Kohl nodded to the garden. He and Janssen walked to it. “That was useless,” his assistant whispered to Kohl. “Attacked by a huge Jew with brass knuckles and truncheons. And probably fifty of the Chosen People right behind him.”

“I feel, Janssen, that the account of witnesses and suspects is like smoke. The words themselves are often meaningless but they might lead you to the fire.”

They walked around the garden, looking down carefully.

“Here, sir,” Janssen called excitedly. He’d found a small guidebook to the men’s Olympic Village, written in English.

Kohl was encouraged. It would be odd for foreign tourists to be in this bland neighborhood and coincidentally lose the booklet in just the spot where the struggle had taken place. The pages were crisp and unstained, suggesting it had lain in the grass for only a short time. He lifted it with a handkerchief (sometimes one could find fingerprints on paper). Opening it carefully, he found no handwriting on the pages and no clue to the identity of the person who’d possessed it. He wrapped up the booklet and placed it in his pocket. He called to the Stormtroopers. “Come here, please.”

The three men wandered to the garden.

“Stand there, in a row.” The inspector pointed to a spot of bare earth.

They lined up precisely, as Stormtroopers were exceedingly talented at doing. Kohl examined their boots and compared the size and shape to the sole prints in the dirt. He saw that the assailant had larger feet than they and that his heels were well worn.

“Good.” Then to Felstedt he said, “Show us where you pursued him. You others can leave now.”

The man with the bloody face called, “When you find him, Inspector, you will call us. We have a cell at our barracks. We will deal with him there.”

“Yes, yes, perhaps that can be arranged. And I will give you plenty of time so that you can have more than three men to handle him.”

The Stormtrooper hesitated, wondering if he was being insulted. He examined his crimson-stained shirt. “Look at this. Ach, when we get him, we’ll
drain
all the blood out of him. Let’s go, comrade.”

The two walked off down the sidewalk.

“This way. He ran this way.” Felstedt led Kohl and Janssen down two alleys into crowded Gormann Street.

“We were sure he went down one of these other alleys. We had men covering the far ends of them all but he disappeared.”

Kohl surveyed them. Several alleys branched off from the street, one a cul-de-sac, the others connecting to different streets. “All right, sir, we will take over from here.”

With his comrades gone, Felstedt was more candid. In a low voice he said, “He
is
a dangerous man, Inspector.”

“And you feel that your description is accurate?”

A hesitation. Then: “A Jew. Clearly he was a Jew, yes. Crinkly hair like an Ethiopian, a Jew nose, Jew eyes.” The Stormtrooper brushed at the stain on his shirt and swaggered away.

“Cretin,” Janssen muttered, glancing cautiously at Kohl, who said, “To be kind.” The inspector was looking up and down the alleys, musing, “Despite his own strain of blindness, though, I believe what ‘commandant’ Felstedt told us. Our suspect
was
cornered but managed to escape—and from dozens of SA. We will look in the trash containers in the alleys, Janssen.”

“Yes, sir. You think he discarded some clothing or the satchel to escape?”

“It is logical.”

They inspected each of the alleys, looking into the trash bins: nothing but old cartons, papers, cans, bottles, rotting food.

Kohl stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, glancing around and then asked, “Who does your shirts, Janssen?”

“My shirts?”

“They are always impeccably washed and pressed.”

“My wife, of course.”

“Then my apologies to her for having to clean and mend the one you are presently wearing.”

“Why should she need to clean and mend my shirt?”

“Because you are going to lie down on your belly and fish into that sewer grating.”

“But—”

“Yes, yes, I know. But I’ve done so, many times. And with age, Janssen, comes some privilege. Now off with your jacket. It’s lovely silk. No need to repair that as well.”

The young man handed Kohl his dark green suit jacket. It was quite nice. Janssen’s family was well off and he had some money independent of his monthly inspector candidate salary—which was fortunate, considering the paltry compensation Kripo detectives received. The young man knelt on the cobblestones and, supporting himself with one hand, reached into the dark opening.

As it turned out, though, the shirt was not badly soiled after all, for the young man called out only a moment later, “Something here, sir!” He stood up and displayed a crumpled brown object. Göring’s hat. And a bonus: Inside it was the tie, indeed gaudy green.

Janssen explained that they’d been resting on a ledge only a half meter below the sewer opening. He searched once more but found nothing else.

“We have some answers, Janssen,” Kohl said, examining the inside of the hat. The manufacturer’s label read,
Stetson Mity-Lite.
Another had been stitched inside by the store.
Manny’s Men’s Wear, New York City.

“More to add to our portrait of the suspect.” Kohl took the monocle from his vest pocket, squinted it into his eye and examined some hairs caught in the sweatband. “He has medium-length dark brown hair with a bit of red in it. Not black or ‘crinkly’ at all. Straight. And there are no stains from cream or hair oil.”

Kohl handed the hat and tie to Janssen, licked the tip of his pencil and jotted these latest observations into his notebook, which he then folded closed.

“Where to now, sir? Back to the Alex?”

“And what would we do there? Eat biscuits and sip coffee, as our Stormtrooper comrades think we do all day long? Or watch the Gestapo siphon off our resources as they round up every Russian in town? No, I think we’ll go for a drive. I hope the DKW doesn’t overheat again. The last time Heidi and I took the children to the country we sat outside Falken-hagen for two hours with nothing to do but watch the cows.”

Chapter Eleven

The taxi he’d taken from the Olympic Village dropped him at Lützow Plaza, a busy square near a brown, stagnant canal south of the Tiergarten.

Paul stepped out, smelling fetid water, and stood for a moment, orienting himself as he looked about slowly. He saw no lingering eyes peering at him over newspapers, no furtive men in brown suits or uniforms. He began walking east. This was a quiet, residential neighborhood, with some lovely houses and some modest. Recalling perfectly Morgan’s directions, he followed the canal for a time, crossed it and turned down Prince Heinrich Street. He soon came to a quiet road, Magdeburger Alley, lined with four-and five-story residential buildings, which reminded him of the quainter tenements on the West Side of Manhattan. Nearly all of the houses flew flags, most of them National Socialist red, white and black, and several with banners bearing the intertwined rings of the Olympics. The house he sought, No. 26, flew one of the latter. He pressed the doorbell. A moment later footsteps sounded. The curtain in a side window wafted as if in a sudden breeze. Then a pause. Metal snapped and the door opened.

Paul nodded at the woman, who looked out cautiously. “Good afternoon,” he said in German.

“You are Paul Schumann?”

“That’s right.”

She was in her late thirties, early forties, he guessed. A slim figure in a flowery dress with a hemline well below the knees, which Marion would have labeled “pretty unstylish,” a couple of years out of date. Her dark blonde hair was short and waved and, like most of the women he’d seen in Berlin, she wore no makeup. Her skin was dull and her brown eyes tired, but those were superficial qualities that a few square meals and a couple of nights’ undisturbed sleep would take care of. And, curiously, because of these distractions it made the woman behind them appear all the more attractive to him. Not like Marion’s friends—Marion herself too—who sometimes got so dolled up that you never knew what they really looked like.

“I am Käthe Richter. Welcome to Berlin.” She thrust a red, bony hand forward and shook his firmly. “I didn’t know when you’d be arriving. Mr. Morgan said sometime this weekend. In any case, your quarters are ready. Please, come in.”

He stepped into the foyer, smelling naphtha from moth repellent and cinnamon and just a hint of lilac, perhaps her perfume. After she closed and locked the door she looked through the curtained side window once again and examined the street for a moment. Then she took the suitcase and the leather satchel from him.

“No, I—”

“I will carry them,” she said briskly. “Come this way.”

She led him to a door halfway down the dim corridor, which still had the original gas lamps installed next to the newer electric fixtures. A few faded oil paintings of pastoral scenes were on the walls. Käthe opened the door and motioned him inside. The apartment was large, clean and sparsely furnished. The front door opened onto the living room, a bedroom was in the back, to the left, and along the wall was a small kitchen, separated from the rest of the living area by a stained Japanese screen. Tables were covered with figurines of animals and dolls, chipped, lacquered boxes and cheap paper fans. There were two unsteady electric lamps. A gramophone was in the corner, next to a large console radio, which she walked to and turned on.

“The smoking room is in the front of the building. I am sure you are used to a men-only smoking room but here everyone may use it. I insist on that.”

He wasn’t used to smoking rooms at all. He nodded.

“Now, tell me if you like the rooms. I have others if you do not.”

Glancing quickly at the place, he said, “It will suit me fine.”

“You don’t wish to see more? The closets, run the water, examine the view?”

Paul had noted that the place was on the ground floor, the windows were not barred and he could make a quick exit from the bedroom window, the living room window or the hallway door, which would lead to other apartments and other means of escape. He said to her, “Provided the water doesn’t come out of that canal I passed, I’m sure it will be fine. As for the view I’ll be working too hard to enjoy it.”

The radio tubes warmed up and a man’s voice filled the room. Brother! The health lecture was still going on, more talk of draining swamps and spraying to kill mosquitoes. At least FDR’s fireside chats were short and sweet. He walked over to the set and turned the dial, looking for music. There was none. He shut it off.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“It’s your room. Do as you wish.” She glanced at the silent radio uncertainly then said, “Mr. Morgan said you’re an American. But your German is very good.”

“Thanks to my parents and grandparents.” He took the suitcase from her, walked into the bedroom and set it on the bed. The bag sank deep into the mattress, and he wondered if it was filled with down. His grandmother had told him that she’d had a down bed in Nuremberg before they immigrated to New York, and as a boy Paul had been fascinated at the thought of sleeping on bird feathers.

When he returned to the living room Käthe said, “I serve a light breakfast, across the hall, from seven to eight
A.M.
Please let me know the night before when you’d like to be served. And there is coffee in the afternoon, of course. You’ll find a basin in the bedroom. The bathroom is up the hall, to be shared, but for now you are our only guest. Closer to the Olympics it will be much more crowded. Today you are the king of number twenty-six Magdeburger Alley. The castle is yours.” She walked to the door. “I will get afternoon coffee now.”

“You don’t have to. I actually—”

“Yes, yes, I will. It’s part of the price.”

When she stepped into the hall Paul went into the bedroom, where a dozen black beetles roamed the floor. He opened his briefcase and placed the copy of Hitler’s
Mein Kampf,
containing the fake passport and rubles, on the bookcase. Removing his sweater, he rolled up the sleeves of his tennis shirt, washed his hands then dried them on a threadbare towel.

Käthe returned a moment later with a tray containing a dented silver coffeepot, a cup and a small plate covered with a lace doily. She set this on the table in front of a well-worn couch.

“Please, you will sit.”

He did, rebuttoning his sleeves. He asked, “Do you know Reggie Morgan well?”

“No, he just answered an advertisement for the room and paid in advance.”

This was the answer Paul had been hoping for. He was relieved to learn that
she
had not contacted Morgan, which would have made her suspect. From the corner of his eye he felt her glance at his cheek. “You are hurt?”

“I’m tall. I’m always banging my head.” Paul touched his face lightly, as if he were hitting himself, to illustrate his words. The pantomime made him feel foolish and he lowered his hand.

She rose. “Please, wait.” A few minutes later she’d returned with a sticking plaster, which she offered him.

“Thanks.”

“I have no iodine, I’m afraid. I looked.”

He went into the bedroom, where he stood in front of the mirror behind the washstand and pressed the plaster to his face.

She called, “We have no low ceilings here. You will be safe.”

“Is this your building?” he asked, returning.

“No. It is owned by a man who is presently in Holland,” Käthe replied. “I manage the house in exchange for room and board.”

“Is he connected to the Olympics?”

“Olympics? No, why?”

“Most of the flags on the street are the Nazi—National Socialist, I mean. But you have an Olympic flag here.”

“Yes, yes.” She smiled. “We are in the spirit of the Games, aren’t we?”

Her German grammar was flawless and she was articulate; she’d had a different, and much better, career in the past, he could tell, but the ragged hands and cracked nails and such tired, tired eyes told a story of recent difficulties. But he could also sense an energy within her, a determination to see life through to better times. This, he decided, was part of the attraction he felt.

She poured him coffee. “There is no sugar at the moment. The stores have run out.”

“I don’t take sugar.”

“But I have strudel. I made it before the supplies ran short.” She took the doily off the plate, on which sat four small pieces of pastry. “Do you know what strudel is?”

“My mother made it. Every Saturday. My brother and sister would help her. They’d pull the dough so thin that you could read through it.”

“Yes, yes,” she said enthusiastically, “that is how I make it too. You did not help them stretch the dough?”

“No, I never did. I’m not so talented in the kitchen.” He took a bite and said, “But I
ate
plenty of it…. This is very good.” He nodded toward the pot. “Would you like coffee? I’ll pour you some.”

“Me?” She blinked. “Oh, no.”

He sipped the brew, which was weak. It had been made from used grounds.

“We will speak your language,” Käthe announced. And launched into: “I have never been over to your country but I want very much to go.”

He could detect only a slight
v
’ing of her
w
’s, which is the hardest English sound for Germans to form.

“Your English is good,” Paul said.

“You mean ‘well,’” she blurted, smiling to have caught him in a mistake.

Paul said, “No. Your English is
good.
You speak English
well.
‘Good’ is an adjective. ‘Well’ is an adverb—most of the time.”

She frowned. “Let me think…. Yes, yes, you are right. I am blushing now. Mr. Morgan said you are a writer. And you’ve been to university, of course.”

Two years at a small college in Brooklyn before he dropped out to enlist and go fight in France. He’d never gotten around to finishing his studies. When he’d returned, that was when life got complicated, and college fell by the wayside. In fact, though, he’d learned more about words and books working for his grandfather and father in the printing plant than he figured he’d ever learn in college. But he told her none of this.

“I am a teacher. That is to say, I
was
a teacher. I taught literature to youngsters. As well as the difference between ‘will’ and ‘shall’ and ‘may’ and ‘can.’ Oh, and ‘good’ and ‘well.’ Which I am now embarrassed about.”

“English literature?”

“No, German. Though I love many English books.”

There was silence for a moment. Paul reached into his pocket, took out his passport, handed it to her.

She frowned, turning it over in his hand.

“I’m really who I say I am.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The language… You asked me about speaking English to see if I’m really an American. Not a National Socialist informer. Am I right?”

“I…” Her brown eyes quickly examined the floor. She was embarrassed.

“It’s all right.” He nodded. “Look at it. The picture.”

She started to return it. But then she paused, opened it up and compared the picture to his face. He took the booklet back.

“Yes, you are right. I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Schumann.”

“Paul.”

Then a smile. “You must be quite a successful journalist to be so… ‘perceptive’ is the word?”

“Yes, that’s the word.”

“The Party is not so diligent, nor so wealthy, as to hire Americans to spy on little people like me, I am thinking. So I can tell you that I am not in favor.” A sigh. “It was my fault. I was not thinking. I was teaching Goethe, the poet, to my students and I mentioned simply that I respected his courage when he forbade his son to fight in the German war of independence. Pacifism is a crime in Germany now. I was fired for saying that, and all my books were confiscated.” She tossed her hand. “Forgive me. I am complaining. Have you read him? Goethe?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You would like him. He is brilliant. He spins colors out of words. Of all the books taken from me, his are the ones I miss the most.” Käthe glanced hungrily at the plate of strudel. She hadn’t eaten any. Paul held the plate out to her. She said, “No, no, thank you.”

“If you don’t eat one, then I’ll think that
you
’re the National Socialist agent trying to poison me.”

She eyed the pastry and took one. She ate it quickly. When Paul looked down to reach for his coffee cup he noted from the corner of his eye that she touched up pastry flakes from the tabletop on her fingertips and lifted them to her mouth, staring at him to make sure he wasn’t looking.

When he turned back, she said, “Ah, but now, we have been careless, you and I, as often happens on first meetings. We must be more cautious. This reminds me.” She pointed toward the telephone. “Always keep it unplugged. You must be aware of listening devices. And if you do make a call, assume that you are sharing your conversation with a National Socialist lackey. That is true especially for any long-distance calls you make from the post office, though phone kiosks on the street are, I’m told, relatively private.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. “But if anybody listened to my conversations all they’d hear is pretty boring talk: What’s the population of Berlin, how many steaks will the athletes eat, how long did it take to build the stadium? Things like that.”

“Ach,” Käthe said softly, rising to leave, “what we have said this afternoon, you and I, would be considered boring by many but would easily merit a visit from the Gestapo. If not worse.”