Garden of Beasts (39 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

At 5:30
P.M.
the Labor Service truck eased over a smooth, immaculate highway that wove through tall stands of pine and hemlock. The air was flecked with motes of dust, and lazy insects died on the flat windshield.

Paul Schumann struggled to think only of Reinhard Ernst, of his target. Groping for the ice.

Don’t think about Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber.

This was, however, impossible. Paul was consumed with memories of the man he’d known only a day. Presently he was thinking that Otto would have fit in perfectly on the West Side of New York. Drinking with Runyon and Jacobs and the boxing crew. Maybe he’d even enjoy sparring a little. But what Webber really would have loved were the opportunities in America: the freedom to run countless scams and grifts.

Someday I may boast to you of my better cons….

But then his thoughts faded as he turned around a slow curve and diverted down a side road. A kilometer along the highway he saw a carefully painted sign,
Waltham Military College.
Three or four young men in hiking outfits lounged on the grass, surrounded by packs, baskets and the remnants of their Sunday afternoon dinner. A sign beside them pointed down the wide drive to the main hall. A second road led to the stadium and gymnasium and Academic Buildings 1 through 4. Farther along was the driveway to Buildings 5 through 8. It was in Building 5 that Ernst would have his meeting in a half hour, Paul had read on his schedule. He continued past the turnoff, though, drove another hundred yards along the road and pulled onto a deserted unpaved byway, overgrown with grass. He nosed the truck into the woods so that it couldn’t be seen from the main road.

A deep breath. Paul rubbed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face.

Would Ernst actually show up? he wondered. Or would he be like Dutch Schultz that time in Jersey City, when the mobster had skipped out on a meeting where he’d instinctively—some said psychically—known he was going to be ambushed?

But what else could Paul do? He had to believe the colonel would go ahead with the meeting. And his assessment was that the man would in fact show up here. Everything he’d learned about him suggested someone who didn’t shirk his obligations. The American climbed out of the truck. He stripped off the bulky blue-gray uniform and hat, folded them neatly and rested them on the front seat, beneath which he’d also hidden another suit, in case he needed to change identity yet again to escape. Paul dressed quickly in the working clothes he’d stolen from the warehouse. Then, collecting the rifle and the ammunition, he plunged into the thickest part of the woods, moving as silently as he could.

He slowly made his way through the quiet, fragrant forest, cautious at first, expecting more guards or troops, especially after the attempt that afternoon on Ernst’s life, but he was surprised to find none at all. As he moved closer to the buildings, easing through brush and trees, he saw some people and vehicles near the front of one of the structures, which a sign reported was No. 5, the one he sought. Parked up the drive about one hundred feet from it was a black Mercedes sedan. A man wearing an SS uniform stood beside the car, looking around vigilantly, a machine gun over his shoulder. Was this Ernst’s car? He couldn’t see through the glare of the windows.

Paul also noted a small panel van and a bus, near which a dozen young men in civilian clothing and a soldier in a gray uniform were playing soccer. A second soldier leaned against the bus, watching the game and cheering the teams on.

Why would someone as senior as Ernst meet with this small group of students? Maybe they were a handpicked group of future officers; the boys looked like model National Socialists—fair, blond and in very good shape. Whoever they were, Paul assumed that Ernst would meet with them in the classroom, which would require him to walk the fifty feet or so from the Mercedes to Building 5. Paul would have plenty of time to touch him off. From where he now crouched, though, he had no good shooting angle. The trees and brush waved in the hot wind and not only impaired the sight of his prey but could deflect the bullet.

The door to the Mercedes opened and a balding man in a brown jacket climbed out. Paul looked past him into the backseat. Yes! Ernst
was
inside. Then the door slammed and he lost sight of the colonel, who remained in the car. The man in brown carried a large folder to a second car, an Opel, near Paul, where the wooded hill bottomed out. He set the folder in the backseat and returned to the far side of the field.

Paul’s attention was drawn to the Opel; it was unoccupied. The car would give him a good shooting position, provide some cover from the soldiers and offer Paul a head start back into the woods to the truck for his escape afterward.

Yes, he decided, the car would be his hunting blind. Cradling the Mauser in the crook of his arm, Paul moved slowly forward, hearing the soft buzz of insects, the snap and crunch of the dusty July vegetation beneath his body and the shouts and laughter of young men enjoying their soccer game.

The faithful set of Auto Union wheels clattered along the highway at a paltry sixty kilometers per hour, rattling madly despite the mirror-smooth surface of the road. A backfire erupted and the engine gulped for air. Willi Kohl adjusted the choke and stomped on the accelerator once again. The car shuddered but finally picked up a bit of speed.

After he’d left Kripo headquarters through the forbidden back door— defiantly and, yes, foolishly—the inspector had walked toward the Hotel Metropol. As he’d approached he gradually became aware of music; the notes penned by Mozart so many years ago were dancing from the strings of a chamber quartet in the magnificent lobby.

He’d looked through the windows at the glittering chandeliers, the murals of scenes from Wagner’s
Ring,
the waiters in perfect black trousers and perfect white jackets balancing silver trays on their palms. And he’d continued
past
the hotel, not even pausing. The inspector had known all along, of course, that Paul Schumann was lying about coming here. His investigation had revealed that the American was a man who was comfortable not with champagne and limousines and Mozart, but with Pschorr ale and sausages. He was a man with worn shoes and a love of boxing rings. A man with some connection with the fringe neighborhood around November 1923 Square. If a man had no hesitation to take on four Stormtroopers with his fists, he would not be checking into an effete place like the Metropol, nor could he afford it either.

Yet this place had been the first location Schumann had thought of inresponse to Kohl’s question about his new address—which suggested that the American might have seen it recently. And since Miss Richter’s boardinghouse was far across town, it was logical that he had seen the hotel on his way to Berlin North, the tough neighborhood that began just a block past the hotel. This was an area that
was
akin to Paul Schumann’s temperament and tastes.

It was a large district; under most circumstances a half dozen investigators would be needed to canvass the locals and gather information on a suspect. But some evidence Kohl had found might, he believed, help him narrow his search considerably: At the boardinghouse he’d discovered in Schumann’s pockets a limp box of cheap matches, tucked into the packet of German cigarettes. Kohl was familiar with these. He often found them in the possession of other suspects, who’d picked them up in establishments in bad areas of the city, like Berlin North.

Perhaps the American had no connection here, but it was a good place to start his search. Armed with Paul Schumann’s passport, Kohl had made the rounds in the southern end of the neighborhood, noting first what kind of matches they gave away and, if they were the same, then showing the American’s picture to waiters and bartenders.

“No, Inspector… I am so sorry. Greet God, Inspector… I have seen no one like that. Hail Hitler. I’ll keep on the lookout for him…. Hail Hitler hail Hitler hail Hitler…”

He tried a restaurant on Dragoner Street. Nothing. Then walked a few doors farther on, to a club on the same street. He’d flashed his ID card to the man at the entrance and walked into the bar. Yes, the matches were the same as Schumann had had. He’d walked through the various rooms, flashing the American’s passport, asking if anyone had seen him. The civilians in the audience were typically blind, and the SS typically uncooperative. (One barked, “You’re blocking my view, Kripo. Move your ass!”)

But then he’d shown the picture to a waitress. Her eyes had flashed in anger.

“You know him?” Kohl had asked.

“Ach, do I know him? Yes, yes.”

“You are?”

“Liesl. He claimed his name was Hermann but I see that was a lie.” She nodded at the passport. “I’m not surprised. He was here not an hour ago. With his toad of a companion, Otto Webber.”

“Who is this Webber?”

“A toad, as I say.”

“What were they doing here?”

“What else? Drinking, talking. Ach, and flirting… A man flirts with a girl and then rejects her coldly…. How cruel that is.” Liesl’s Adam’s apple had quivered and Kohl deduced the whole sad story. “Will you arrest him?”

“Please, what do you know about him? Where he is staying, what his business is?”

Liesl had not known much. But one bit of information was golden. Schumann and Webber apparently planned to meet with someone later that afternoon. And a clandestine gathering it was to be, the spurned waitress had offered darkly. “A toad’s business. At someplace called Waltham College.”

Kohl had hurried from the Aryan Café, collected the DKW and sped to Waltham. He now saw the military college in front of him and eased the car gently onto the gravel shoulder near two low brick columns topped with statues of imperial eagles. Several students lounging on the grass beside backpacks and a picnic basket glanced at the dusty, black car.

Kohl gestured the students over to the car and the blond young men, sensing authority, trotted quickly forward.

“Hail Hitler.”

“Hail,” Kohl replied. “School is still in session? In the summer?”

“There are courses being taught, sir. Today, though, we have no classes, so we’ve been hiking.”

Like his own sons, these students were caught in the great fever of Third Empire education, only more so, of course, since the whole point of this college was to produce soldiers.

What brilliant criminals the Leader and his crowd are. They kidnap the nation by seizing our children….

He opened Schumann’s passport and displayed the picture. “Have you seen this man?”

“No, Inspector,” one said and glanced at his friends, who shook their heads no.

“How long have you been here?”

“Perhaps an hour.”

“Has anyone arrived in that time?”

“Yes, sir. Not long ago, a school bus arrived and with it an Opel and a Mercedes. A black one. Five-liter. New.”

“No, it was the seven-point-seven,” a friend corrected.

“You’re blind! It was much smaller.”

A third said, “And that Labor Service truck. Only it didn’t drive in here.”

“No, it went past and then turned off the road.” The boy pointed. “Near the entrance of some other academic buildings.”

“Labor Service?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was the truck full of workers?”

“We couldn’t see in the back.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor I.”

Labor Service… Kohl pondered this. RAD workers were used primarily for farming and public works. It would be very unusual for them to be assigned to a college, especially on Sunday. “Has the Service been doing some work here?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

“I’ve heard of nothing either, sir.”

“Don’t say anything of my questions,” Kohl said. “To anyone.”

“A matter of Party security?” one boy asked with an intrigued smile.

Kohl touched his finger to his lips.

And left them gossiping excitedly about what the mysterious policeman might mean.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Closing in on the gray Opel.

Crawling, pause.

Then crawling again. Just like at St. Mihiel and the dense, ancient forests of Argonne.

Paul Schumann smelled hot grass and the old manure used to fertilize the field. Smelled the oil and creosote of the weapon. Smelled his own sweat.

Another few feet. Then pause.

He had to move slowly; he was very exposed here. Anyone on the field around Building 5 might have glanced his way and noticed the grass swaying unnaturally or caught the glint of low light reflecting off the rifle barrel.

Pause.

He looked over the field again. The man in brown was taking a stack of documents from the panel truck. The glare on the windows continued to obscure any view of Ernst in the Mercedes. The SS guard continued his vigil of the area.

Looking back toward the classroom building, Paul watched the balding man call the young men together. They reluctantly ended the soccer game and walked into the classroom.

With their attention focused away from him, Paul continued more quickly now to the Opel, opened the back door and climbed into the baking vehicle, feeling his skin prickle from the heat. Looking out through the back left window, he noted that this was the perfect vantage point to shoot from. He had an excellent view of the area around Ernst’s car—a clear killing field of forty to fifty feet to bring the man down. And it would take the bodyguard and soldiers some time to figure out where the shot had come from.

Paul Schumann was touching the ice firmly. He clicked the Mauser’s safety catch off and squinted toward Ernst’s car.

“Greetings, future soldiers. Welcome to Waltham Military College.”

Kurt Fischer and the others replied to Doctor-professor Keitel with various greetings. Most said, “Hail Hitler.”

It was interesting that Keitel himself did not use that salutation, Kurt noted.

The recruitment soldier who’d been playing football with them stood beside the doctor-professor, in the front of the classroom, holding a stack of large envelopes. The man winked at Kurt, who’d just missed blocking a goal the soldier had scored.

The volunteers sat at oak desks. On the walls around them were maps and flags that Kurt didn’t recognize. His brother was looking around too and he leaned over and whispered, “Battle flags of Second Empire armies.”

Kurt shushed him, frowning in irritation, both at the interruption and because his younger brother knew something he did not. And how, he now wondered, troubled, did his brother, the son of pacifists, even know what a battle flag was?

The dowdy professor continued. “I’m going to tell you what is planned for the next few days. You will listen carefully.”

“Yes, sir” and its variations filled the room.

“First, you will fill out a personal information form and application for induction into the armed forces. Then you will answer a questionnaire about your personality and your aptitudes. The answers will be compiled and analyzed and will help us determine your talents and mental preferences for certain duties. Some of you, for instance, will be better suited for combat, some for radio work, some for office detail. So it is vital that you answer honestly.”

Kurt glanced toward his brother, who did not, however, acknowledge him. Their agreement had been that they would answer any such questions in a way as to be guaranteed of being assigned office tasks or even manual labor—anything to keep from having to kill another human being. But Kurt was troubled that Hans might be thinking differently now. Was he being seduced by the idea of becoming a combat soldier?

“After you are through with the forms, Colonel Ernst will address you. Then you will be shown to your dormitory and be given supper. Tomorrow you will begin your training and spend the next month marching and improving your physical condition before your classroom instruction begins.”

Keitel nodded at the soldier, who began passing out the packets. The recruitment officer paused at Kurt’s desk. They agreed to try for another game before supper, if the light held. The soldier then followed Keitel outside to get pencils for the inductees.

As he absently smoothed his hand over his documents, Kurt found himself oddly content, despite the harrowing circumstances of this hard, hard day. Yes, certainly some of this was gratitude—to Colonel Ernst and Doctor-professor Keitel—for providing this miraculous salvation. But more than that he was beginning to feel that he’d been given the chance to do something important after all, an act that transcended his own plight. Had Kurt gone to Oranienburg his imprisonment or death would have been courageous perhaps, but meaningless. Now, though, he decided that the incongruous act of volunteering for the army might prove to be exactly the gesture of defiance he’d been searching for, a small but concrete way of helping save his country from the brown plague.

With a smile toward his brother, Kurt ran his hand over the test envelope, realizing that for the first time in months his heart was truly content.