Garden of Beasts (17 page)

Chapter Twelve

Willi Kohl’s battered Auto Union DKW managed the twenty kilometers to the Olympic Village west of the city without overheating, despite the relentless sunlight that forced both officers to shed their jackets—contrary both to their natures and to Kripo regulations.

The route had taken them through Charlottenburg and, had they continued southwest, would have led them toward Gatow, the two towns near which the Polish workers and the Jewish families had died. The terrible pictures of the murders continued to toss about in Kohl’s memory like bad fish in his gut.

They arrived at the main entrance of the village, which was bustling. Private cars, taxis and buses were dropping off athletes and other personnel; trucks were delivering crates, luggage and equipment. Jacketed once more, they walked to the gate, showed their ID cards to the guards—who were regular army—and were let inside the spacious, trimmed grounds. Around them men carted suitcases and trunks along the wide sidewalks. Others, in shorts and sleeveless shirts, exercised or ran.

“Look,” Janssen said enthusiastically, nodding toward a cluster of Japanese or Chinese men. Kohl was surprised to see them in white shirts and flannel trousers and not… well, he didn’t know what. Loincloths, perhaps, or embroidered silk robes. Nearby several dark, Middle Eastern men walked together, two of them laughing at what the third had said. Willi Kohl stared like a schoolboy. He would certainly enjoy watching the Games themselves when they began next week but he was also looking forward to seeing people from nearly every country on earth, the only major nations not represented being Spain and Russia.

The policemen located the American dormitories. In the main building was a reception area. They approached the German army liaison officer. “Lieutenant,” Kohl said, noting the rank on the man’s uniform. He stood immediately and then grew even more attentive when Kohl identified himself and his assistant. “Hail Hitler. You are here on business, sir?”

“That’s right.” He described the suspect and asked if the officer had seen such a man.

“No, sir, but there are many hundreds of people in the American dormitories alone. As you can see, the facility is quite large.”

Kohl nodded. “I need to speak to someone who is with the American team. Some official.”

“Yes, sir. I will arrange it.”

Five minutes later he returned with a lanky man in his forties, who identified himself in English as one of the head coaches. He wore white slacks and, although the day was very hot, a white chain-knit sweater vest over his white shirt. Kohl realized that while the reception area had been nearly empty a short time before, now a dozen athletes and others had eased into the room, pretending to have some business there. As he remembered from the army, nothing spread faster than news among men housed together.

The German officer was willing to interpret but Kohl preferred to speak directly to those he was interviewing and said in halting English, “Sir, I am being a police inspector with the German criminal police.” He displayed his ID.

“Is there some problem?”

“We are not certain yet. But, uhm, we try to find a man we would like to speak to. Perhaps you are knowing him.”

“It’s quite a serious matter,” Janssen offered with perfect English pronunciation. Kohl had not known he spoke the language so well.

“Yes, yes,” the inspector continued. “He had seemingly this book he lost.” He held up the guidebook, unfurled the handkerchief around it. “It is given to persons with the Olympic Games, is it?”

“That’s right. Not just athletes, though, everybody. We’ve given out maybe a thousand or so. And a lot of the other countries give out the English version too, you know.”

“Yes, but we have located too his hat and it was purchased in New York, New York. So, mostly likely, he is Americaner.”

“Really?” the coach asked cautiously. “His hat?”

Kohl continued. “He is being a large man, we are believing, with red, black brown hair.”

“Black brown?”

Frustrated at his own lack of foreign vocabulary, Kohl glanced at Janssen, who said, “His hair is dark brown, straight. A reddish tint.”

“He wears a light gray suit and this hat and tie.” Kohl nodded toward Janssen, who produced the evidence from his case.

The coach looked at them noncommittally and shrugged. “Maybe it would help if you told us what this was about.”

Kohl thought again how different life was in America. No German would dare ask
why
a policeman wished to know something.

“It is a matter of state security.”

“State security. Uh-huh. Well, I’d like to help. I sure would. But unless you’ve got something more specific…”

Kohl looked around. “Perhaps some person here might be knowing this man.”

The coach called, “Any of you boys know who these belong to?”

They shook their heads or muttered “No” or “Nope.”

“Perhaps then I am in hopes you are having a… yes, yes, a
list
of peoples who came with you here. And addresses. To see who would be living in New York.”

“We do but only the members of the team and the coaches. And you’re not suggesting—”

“No, no.” Kohl believed that the killer was not on the team. The athletes were in the spotlight; it would be unlikely for one of them to slip away from the village unseen on his first full day in Berlin, murder a man, visit several different places in the city on a mission of some sort, then return without arousing suspicion. “I am doubting this man is an athlete.”

“So. I can’t be much help, I’m afraid.” The coach crossed his arms. “You know, Officer, I’ll bet your immigration department has information on visitors’ addresses. They keep track of everybody entering and leaving the country, don’t they? I heard you fellows in Germany are real good at that.”

“Yes, yes, I was considered that. But, unfortunate, the information does not present a person’s address in his home. Only his nationality.”

“Oh, tough break.”

Kohl persisted. “What I am also been hoping: perhaps a manifest of the ship, the
Manhattan
passenger list? Often it is giving addresses.”

“Ah, yeah. That I’ll bet we do have. Although you realize there were close to a thousand people on board.”

“Please, I am understanding. But still I would most hopefully like to see it.”

“You bet. Only… I sure hate to be difficult, Officer, but I think this dorm… you know, I think we might have diplomatic status. Sovereign territory. So, I think you’d need a search warrant.”

Kohl remembered when a judge needed to approve the search of a suspect’s house or the demand to turn over evidence. The Weimar Constitution, creating the Republic of Germany after the War, had many such protections, most borrowed from the American. (It contained a single, rather significant flaw, though, one that Hitler seized upon immediately: the right of the president to indefinitely suspend all civil rights.)

“Oh, I’m merely looking at a few matters here. I am having no warrant.”

“I’d really feel better if you got one.”

“This is a matter of certain urgency.”

“I’m sure it is. But, hey, it might be better for you too. We sure don’t want to ruffle any feathers. Diplomatically. ‘Ruffle feathers,’ you know what I mean?”

“I am understanding the words.”

“So how ’bout if your boss called the embassy or the Olympic Committee. They give me the okay, then whatever you want, I’ll hand it to you on a silver platter.”

“The okay. Yes, yes.” The U.S. embassy probably would agree, Kohl reflected, if he handled the request properly. The Americans would not want the story to circulate that a killer had gotten into Germany with their Olympic team.

“Very good, sir,” Kohl said politely. “I am be contacting the embassy and the committee as you suggest.”

“Good. You take care now. Hey, and good luck at the Games. Your boys’re going to give us a run for our money.”

“I will be in attendance,” Kohl said. “I am having my tickets for more than a whole year.”

They said good-bye and Kohl and the inspector candidate stepped outside. “We will call Horcher from the radio in the car, Janssen. He can contact the American embassy, I am sure. This could be—” Kohl stopped speaking. He’d detected a pungent smell. Something familiar, yet out of place. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do—?”

“This way. Quickly!” Kohl began walking fast, around the back of the main American building. The smell was of smoke, not cooking smoke, which one detected often in the summer from grilling braziers, but wood smoke from a stove, rare in July.

“What is that word, Janssen? On the sign? I cannot make out the English.”

“It says
Showers/steam room.
”

“No!”

“What’s the matter, sir?”

Kohl ran through the door into a large tiled area. The lavatory was to the left, showers to the right, and a separate door led to the steam room. It was this door that Kohl ran to. He flung it open. Inside was a stove on top of which was a large tray filled with rocks. Nearby were buckets of water, which could be ladled onto the hot rocks to produce steam. Two young Negroes in navy blue cotton exercising outfits stood at the stove, in which a fire was blazing. One, bending down to the door, had a round, handsome face with a high hairline, the other was leaner and had thicker hair that came down farther on his forehead. The round-faced one stood and closed the metal stove door. He turned around, cocking his eyebrow toward the inspector with a pleasant smile.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” Kohl said, once again in dreaded English. “I am being—”

“We heard. How are you doing, Inspector? Grand place you fellows made for us here. The village, I mean.”

“I smelled smoke and was grown concerned.”

“Just getting the fire going.”

“Nothing like steam for achin’ muscles,” added his friend.

Kohl stared through the glass door of the stove. The damper was wide open and the flames raged. He saw some sheets of white paper curling to ash inside.

“Sir,” Janssen began sharply in German, “what are they—?” But Kohl cut him off with a shake of his head and glanced at the first man who’d spoken. “You are… ?” Kohl squinted and his eyes went wide. “Yes, yes, you are Jesse Owens, the great runner.” In Kohl’s German-accented English, the name came out “Yessa Ovens.”

The surprised man extended his sweaty hand. Shaking the firm grip, Kohl glanced to the other Negro.

“Ralph Metcalfe,” the athlete said, introducing himself. A second handshake.

“He’s on the team too,” Owens said.

“Yes, yes, I have heard of you, as well. You won in Los Angeles in the California state at the last Games. Welcome to you too.” Kohl’s eyes dipped to the fire. “You take the steam bath
before
you exercise?”

“Sometimes before, sometimes after,” Owens said.

“You a steam man, Inspector?” Metcalfe asked.

“Yes, yes, from time to time. Mostly now I soak my feet.”

“Sore feet,” Owens said, wincing. “I know all about that. Say, why don’t we get outa here, Inspector? It’s a heck of a lot cooler outside.”

He held the door open for Kohl and Janssen. The Kripo men hesitated then followed Metcalfe into the grassy area behind the dorm.

“You’ve got a beautiful country, Inspector,” Metcalfe said.

“Yes, yes. That is true.” Kohl watched the smoke rise from the metal duct above the steam room.

“Hope you have luck finding that fellow you’re looking for,” Owens said.

“Yes, yes. I am supposed it is not useful to ask if you know of anyone who weared a Stetson hat and a green tie. A man of large size?”

“Sorry, I don’t know anyone like that.” He glanced at Metcalfe, who shook his head.

Janssen asked, “Would you know
anyone
who came here with the team and perhaps left soon? Went on to Berlin or somewhere else?”

The men glanced at each other. “Nope, afraid not,” Owens replied.

“I sure don’t either,” Metcalfe added.

“Ach, well, it is being an honor to meet you both.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I was followed news of your races in, was it the Michigan state? Last year—the trials?”

“Ann Arbor. You heard about that?” Owens laughed, again surprised.

“Yes, yes. World records. Sadly, now we are not getting much news from America. Still, I look forward to the Games. But I am having four tickets and five children and my wife and future son-in-law. We will be present and attending in… shifts, you would say? The heat will not be bothering you?”

“I grew up running in the Midwest. Pretty much the same weather there.”

With sudden seriousness Janssen said, “You know, there are a lot of people in Germany who hope you don’t win.”

Metcalfe frowned and said, “Because of that bull—what Hitler thinks about the coloreds?”

“No,” the young assistant said. Then his face broke into a smile. “Because our bookmakers will be arrested if they accept bets on foreigners. We can only bet on German athletes.”

Owens was amused. “So you’re betting against us?”

“Oh, we would bet in
favor
of you,” Kohl said. “But, alas, we can’t.”

“Because it’s illegal?”

“No, because we are only poor policemans with no money. So run like the
Luft,
the wind, you Americans say, right? Run like the wind, Herr Owens and Herr Metcalfe. I will be in the stands. And cheering you on, though perhaps silently…. Come, Janssen.” Kohl got several feet then stopped and turned back. “I must ask again: You are being certain no one has worn the brown Stetson hat?… No, no, of course not, or you would have telled me. Good day.”

They walked around to the front of the dormitory and then toward the exit to the village.

“Was that the ship’s manifest with the name of our killer on it, sir? What the Negroes burned in the stove?”

“It is possible. But say ‘suspect,’ remember. Not ‘killer.’”

The smell of the burning paper wafted through the hot air and stung Kohl’s nose, taunting him and adding to the frustration.

“What can we do about it?”

“Nothing,” Kohl said simply, sighing angrily. “We can do nothing. And it was my fault.”