Garden of Beasts (31 page)

He glanced at the professor, who continued. “Your service will be as any other soldier’s. The only difference is that we will monitor your performance. Your commanding officers will keep notes on your record. The information will be compiled and we will analyze it.”

Ernst said, “If you serve the year, your criminal record will be erased.” A nod at the court’s sentencing list. “You will be free to emigrate if you wish. But the currency regulations will remain in place. You can only take a limited number of marks and you will not be allowed back into the country.”

Kurt was thinking about something he’d heard a moment ago.
Perhaps they are of a certain race or nationality….
Did Ernst foresee that Jews or other non-Aryans would someday be in the German army?

And, if so, what did that mean for the country in general? What changes did these men have in mind?

“You are pacifists,” Ernst said. “Our other volunteers who’ve agreed to help us have had less of a difficult choice than you. Can a pacifist morally join a military organization? That’s a hard decision to make. But we would like you to participate. You are Nordic in appearance, are in excellent health and have the bearing of soldiers. With people like you involved, I believe certain elements in the government would be more inclined to accept our theories.”

“Regarding these beliefs of yours,” Keitel added, “I will say this: Being a professor at a war college and a military historian, I find them naive. But we will take your sentiments into account, and your duties in the service would be commensurate with your views. We would hardly make a flier out of a man terrified of heights or put a claustrophobic in an undersea boat. There are many jobs in the military that a pacifist could hold. Medical service comes to mind.”

Ernst said, “And, as I said, after some time you may find that your feelings about peace and war become more realistic. There is no better crucible for becoming a man than the army, I feel.”

Impossible, Kurt thought. He said nothing.

“But if your beliefs dictate that you cannot serve,” Ernst said, “you have another option.” A gesture toward the sentencing document.

Kurt glanced at his brother. “May we discuss this between ourselves?”

Ernst said, “Certainly. But you only have a few hours. There is a group being inducted late this afternoon, with basic training to start tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting now. I’ll be back here by two or three to learn your decision.”

Kurt handed the sentencing document to Ernst.

But the colonel shook his head. “Keep that. It might help you make up your mind.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Twenty minutes from downtown Berlin, just past Charlottenburg, the white van turned north at Adolf Hitler Plaza, Reggie Morgan behind the wheel. He and Paul Schumann, beside him, gazed at the stadium to the left. Two massive rectangular columns stood at the front, the five Olympic rings floating between them.

As they turned left onto Olympic Street, Paul again noted the massive size of the complex. According to the directional signs, in addition to the stadium itself were a swimming facility, a hockey rink, a theater, a sports field and many outbuildings and parking areas. The stadium was white, toweringly high and long; it didn’t remind Paul of a building as much as an impregnable battleship.

The grounds were crowded: mostly workmen and provisioners but also many gray-and black-uniformed soldiers and guards, security for the National Socialist leaders attending the photography session. If Bull Gordon and the Senator wanted Ernst to die in public, then this was the place for it.

It appeared that one could drive right up to the front plaza of the stadium. But for an SS lieutenant (the commission was courtesy of Otto Webber, no extra cost) to climb out of a private van would be suspicious, of course. So they decided to skirt the stadium. Morgan would drop Paul off in some trees near a parking lot, which he would “patrol,” examining trucks and workmen as he slowly made his way to the shed overlooking the press office on the south side of the stadium.

The van now pulled off the road onto a grassy patch and rocked to a stop, invisible from the stadium. Paul climbed out and assembled the Mauser. He took the telescopic sight off the rifle—it was not the sort of accessory a guard would have—and slipped it into his pocket. He slung the gun over his shoulder and put his black helmet on his head.

“How do I look?” Paul asked.

“Authentic enough to scare me. Good luck to you.”

I’ll need it, Paul thought grimly, peering through the trees at the scores of workmen on the grounds, ready and able to point out an intruder, and at the hundreds of guards who’d be happy to gun him down.

Six to five against…

Brother. He glanced at Morgan and felt an impulse to lift his hand in an American salute, one veteran to another, but of course Paul Schumann was fully aware of his role. “Hail.” And lifted his arm. Morgan repressed a smile and reciprocated.

As Paul turned to leave, Morgan said softly, “Oh, wait, Paul. When I spoke to Bull Gordon and the Senator this morning, they wished you luck. And the commander said to tell you you can print his daughter’s wedding invitations as your first job. You know what he means?”

Paul gave a nod and, gripping the sling of the Mauser, started toward the stadium. He stepped through the line of trees and into a huge parking lot, which must have had room for twenty thousand cars. He strode with authority and determination, glancing sharply toward the vehicles parked here, every inch the diligent guard.

Ten minutes later Paul had made his way through the lot and was at the soaring entrance to the stadium. There were soldiers on duty here, carefully checking papers and searching anyone who wanted to enter, but on the surrounding grounds, Paul was merely another soldier and no one paid him any attention. With an occasional “Hail Hitler” and nods, he skirted the building, heading toward the shed. He passed a huge iron bell, on the side of which was an inscription: “I Summon the Youth of the World.”

As he approached the shed he noticed that it had no windows. There was no back door; the escape after the shooting would be difficult. He’d have to exit by the front, in full view of the entire stadium. But he suspected the acoustics would make it very difficult to tell where the shot had come from. And there were many sounds of construction—pile drivers, saws, riveting machines and the like—to obscure the report of the rifle. Paul would walk slowly from the shed after firing, pause and look around, even call for help if he could do so without raising suspicion.

The time was one-thirty. Otto Webber, who was in the Potsdam Plaza post office, would place his call around two-fifteen. Plenty of time.

He strolled on slowly, examining the grounds, looking in parked vehicles.

“Hail Hitler,” he said to some laborers, who were stripped to the waist and painting a fence. “It is a hot day for work like that.”

“Ach, it’s nothing,” one replied. “And if it were, so what? We work for the good of the fatherland.”

Paul said, “The Leader is proud of you.” And continued on to his hunting blind.

He glanced at the shed curiously as if wondering if it posed any security threat. Pulling on the black leather gloves that were part of the uniform, he opened the door and stepped inside. The place was filled with cardboard cartons tied with twine. Paul recognized the smell immediately from his days as a printer: the bitter scent of paper, the sweet scent of ink. The shed was being used to store programs or souvenir booklets of the Games. He arranged some cartons to make a shooting position in the front of the shed. He then laid his open jacket to the right of where he’d be lying, to catch the ejected shells when he worked the bolt of the gun. These details—retrieving the casings and minding fingerprints—probably didn’t matter. He had no record here and would be out of the country by nightfall. But nonetheless he went to the trouble simply because this was his craft.

You make sure nothing is out of kilter.

You check your
p
’s and
q
’s.

Standing well inside the small building, he scanned the stadium with the rifle’s telescopic sight. He noted the open corridor behind the pressroom, which Ernst would take to reach the stairway and walk down to meet the messenger or driver that Webber would tell him about. He’d have a perfect shot as soon as the colonel stepped out of the doorway. There were large windows too, which he might shoot through if the man paused in front of one.

The time was one-fifty.

Paul sat back, legs crossed, and cradled the rifle in his lap. Sweat was dripping down his forehead in tickling rivulets. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt then began to mount the telescopic sight onto the rifle.

“What do you think, Rudy?”

But Reinhard Ernst did not expect his grandson to answer. The boy wasstaring with smiling awe over the expanse of the Olympic stadium. They were in the long press facility on the south side of the building, above the Leader’s reviewing stand. Ernst held him up so that he could look through the window. Rudy was virtually dancing with excitement.

“Ah, who is this?” a voice asked.

Ernst turned to see Adolf Hitler and two of his SS guards enter the room.

“My Leader.”

Hitler walked forward and smiled at the boy.

Ernst said, “This is Rudy, my son’s boy.”

A faint look of sympathy on the Leader’s face told Ernst that he was thinking of Mark’s death in the war maneuvers accident. Ernst was momentarily surprised that the man remembered but realized that he should not have been; Hitler’s mind was as expansive as the Olympic field, frighteningly quick, and it retained everything he wished to retain.

“Say hello to our Leader, Rudy. Salute as I taught you.”

The boy gave a smart National Socialist salute and Hitler laughed in delight and tousled Rudy’s hair. The Leader stepped closer to the window and pointed out some of the features of the stadium, talking in an enthusiastic voice. Hitler asked the boy about his studies and what subjects he liked, which sports he enjoyed.

More voices in the hallway. The two rivals Goebbels and Göring arrived together. What a drive
that
must have been, thought Ernst, smiling to himself.

After his defeat at the Chancellory that morning Göring remained desultory. Ernst could see it clearly, despite the smile. What a difference between the two most powerful men in Germany…. Hitler’s tantrums, admittedly extreme, were rarely about personal matters; if his favorite chocolate was not available or he knocked his shin on a table he would shrug the matter off without anger. And as to reversals on issues of state, yes, he had a temper that could terrify his closest of friends, but once the problem was solved he was on to other matters. Göring, on the other hand, was like a greedy child. Anything that went against his wishes would infuriate him and fester until he found suitable revenge.

Hitler was explaining to the boy what sporting events would be played in which areas of the stadium. Ernst was amused to see that beneath his broad smile Göring was growing all the more angry that the Leader was paying such attention to his rival’s grandson.

Over the next ten minutes other officials began arriving: Von Blomberg, the state defense minister, and Hjalmar Schacht, head of the state bank, with whom Ernst had developed a complicated system of financing rearmament projects using untraceable funds known as “Mefo bills.” Schacht’s middle name was Horace Greeley, after the American, and Ernst would joke with the brilliant economist about having cowboy roots. Here too were Himmler, block-faced Rudolf Hess and serpent-eyed Reinhard Heydrich, who greeted Ernst in a distracted way, which was how he greeted everyone.

The photographer meticulously set up his Leica and other equipment so that he could get both the subject in the foreground and the stadium in the back, yet the lights would not flare in the windows. Ernst had developed an interest in photography. He himself owned several Leicas and he’d planned to buy Rudy a Kodak, which was imported from America and easier to use than the German precision cameras. The colonel had recorded some of the trips he and his family had taken. Paris and Budapest in particular had been well documented, as had a hiking sojourn in the Black Forest and a boat trip down the Danube.

“Good, good,” the photographer now called. “We can begin.”

Hitler first insisted on taking a picture with Rudy and lifted the boy onto his knee, laughing and chatting with him like a good uncle. After this the planned pictures began.

Though he was pleased that Rudy was enjoying himself, Ernst was growing impatient. He found publicity absurd. Moreover, it was a bad tactical error—as was the whole idea of holding the Olympics in Germany, for that matter. There were far too many aspects of the rearmament that should have been kept secret. How could a foreign visitor
not
see that this was a military nation and becoming more so every day?

The flashes went off, as the celebrities of the Third Empire looked cheerful or thoughtful or ominous for the lens. When Ernst was not being photographed he talked with Rudy or stood by himself and, in his mind, composed his letter to the Leader about the Waltham Study, considering what to say and what not to.

Sometimes you couldn’t share all….

An SS guard appeared in the doorway. He spotted Ernst and called, “Mr. Minister.”

A number of heads turned.

“Mr. Minister Ernst.”

The colonel was as amused as Göring was irritated; Ernst was not officially a minister of state.

“Yes?”

“Sir, there is a phone call for you from the secretary of Gustav Krupp von Bohlen. There is a matter he needs to inform you of immediately. Something most important. Regarding your latest meeting.”

What had they discussed then that was so urgent? Armor for the warships had been one topic. It hadn’t seemed so critical. But now that England had accepted the new German shipbuilding figures, perhaps Krupp would have a problem meeting the production quotas. But then he reflected that, no, the baron had not been informed of the victory regarding the treaty. Krupp was as brilliant a capitalist as he was a technician. But he was also a coward, who’d shunned the Party until Hitler came to power then had become a rabid convert. Ernst suspected the crisis was minor at worst. But Krupp and his son were so important to the rearmament plans that they could not be ignored.

“You may take the call on one of those phones there. I will have it put through.”

“Excuse me for one moment, my Leader.”

Hitler nodded and returned to discussing the angle of the camera with the photographer.

A moment later one of the many phones against the wall buzzed. A glowing light indicated which it was and Ernst picked it up.

“Yes? This is Colonel Ernst.”

“Colonel. I am Stroud, an aide to Baron von Bohlen. I apologize for the disturbance. He’s sent some documents for you to examine. A driver has them at the stadium where you are now.”

“What are these about?”

A pause. “I was instructed by the baron not to mention the subject over this telephone.”

“Yes, yes, fine. Where is the driver?”

“In the driveway on the south side of the stadium. He will meet you there. It’s better to be discreet. Alone, I am saying, sir. Those are my instructions.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hail Hitler.”

“Hail.”

Ernst hung the phone in the cradle. Göring had been watching him like an obese falcon. “A problem, Minister?”

The colonel decided both to ignore the feigned sympathy and the irony in the title. Rather than lie, he admitted, “Some problem that Krupp’s having. He’s sent me a message about it.”

As a maker primarily of armor, artillery and munitions, Krupp dealt more with Ernst and the naval and army commanders than with Göring, whose province was the air.

“Ach.” The huge man turned back to the mirror the photographer had provided. He began moving a finger around his face, smoothing his makeup.

Ernst started for the door.

“Opa, may I come with you?”

“Of course, Rudy. This way.”

The boy scurried after his grandfather and they stepped into the interior corridor that connected all the pressrooms. Ernst put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. He oriented himself and noticed a doorway that would lead to one of the south stairways. They started toward it. He’d downplayed the concern at first but in fact he was growing troubled. Krupp steel was recognized as the best in the world; the spire of New York City’s magnificent Chrysler building was made of his company’s famed Enduro KA-2. But this meant too that foreign military planners were looking very carefully at Krupp’s products and output. He wondered if the British or French had learned how much of his steel was going not to rails or washing machines or automobiles but to armor.