Garden of Beasts (28 page)

The Leader didn’t seem to notice the silent exchange between the men. He tapped several documents on the desk. “I asked Colonel Ernst for information about his study on our military he is currently conducting, which he will deliver tomorrow….” A sharp look at Ernst, who nodded and assured him, “Indeed, my Leader.”

“And in preparing it he learned that someone has altered records of the relatives of Doctor-professor Keitel and others working with the government. Men at Krupp, Farben, Siemens.”

“And,” Ernst muttered, “I was shocked to find that the matter goes beyond that. They have even altered records of the relatives and ancestors of many prominent officials in the Party itself. Planting information in and around Hamburg, mostly. I saw fit to destroy much of what I came across.” Ernst looked Göring up and down. “Some lies referred to people quite high up. Suggestions of liaisons with Jewish tinkers, bastard children and the like.”

Göring frowned. “Terrible.” His teeth were close together—furious not only at the defeat but at Ernst’s hint that Jewish ancestry might have figured in the air minister’s past, as well. “Who would do such a thing?” He began fidgeting with the folder he held.

“Who?” Hitler muttered. “Communists, Jews, Social Democrats. I myself have been troubled lately by the Catholics. We must never forget they oppose us. It’s easy to be lulled, considering our common hatred for the Jews. But who knows? We have many enemies.”

“Indeed we do.” Göring again cast a look at Ernst, who asked if he could pour the minister some coffee or chocolate.

“No, thank you, Reinhard,” was the chilly reply.

As a soldier Ernst had learned early that of all the weapons in the arsenal of the military the single most effective was accurate intelligence. He insisted on knowing exactly what his enemy was up to. He’d made a mistake in thinking that the phone kiosk some blocks away from the Chancellory was not monitored by Göring’s spies. Through that carelessness, the air minister had learned the name of the coauthor of the Waltham Study. But fortunately Ernst—while appearing to be naive in the art of intrigue— nonetheless had good people placed where they were quite useful. The man who regularly provided information to Ernst about goings-on at the air ministry had last night reported, just after he’d cleaned up a broken spaghetti plate and fetched the minister a clean shirt, that Göring had unearthed information about Keitel’s grandmother.

Disgusted to have to be playing such a game, yet aware of the deadly risk the situation posed, Ernst had immediately gone to see Keitel. The doctor-professor had supposed that the woman’s Jewish connection was true but he’d had nothing to do with that side of the family for years. Ernst and Keitel had themselves spent hours last night creating forgeries of documents suggesting that businessmen and government officials who were pure-blooded Aryan had Jewish roots.

The only difficult part of Ernst’s strategy was to make certain that he got to Hitler before Göring did. But one of the techniques of warfare that Ernst was committed to in strategic military planning was what he called the “lightning strike.” By this he meant moving so quickly that your enemy had no time to prepare a defense, even if he was more powerful than you. The colonel blustered his way into the Leader’s office early this morning and laid out
his
conspiracy, proffering the forgeries.

“We will get to the bottom of it,” Hitler now said and stepped away from the desk to pour himself more hot cocoa and take several zwiebacks from a plate. “Now, Hermann, what about your note? What have
you
uncovered?”

With a smiling nod toward Ernst, the huge man refused to acknowledge defeat. Instead he shook his head, with a massive frown, and said, “I’ve heard of unrest at Oranienburg. Particular disrespect for the guards there. I’m worried about the possibility of rebellions. I would recommend reprisals. Harsh reprisals.”

This was absurd. Being extensively rebuilt with slave labor and renamed Sachsenhausen, the concentration camp was perfectly secure; there was no chance for rebellion whatsoever. The prisoners were like penned, declawed animals. Göring’s comments were told for one purpose only: out of vindictiveness, to lay a series of deaths of innocent people at Ernst’s feet.

As Hitler considered this, Ernst said casually, “I know little about the camp, my Leader, and the air minister has a good point. We must make absolutely certain there is no dissent.”

“But… I sense some hesitation, Colonel,” Hitler said.

Ernst shrugged. “Only that I wonder if such reprisals would be better inflicted
after
the Olympics. The camp is not far from the Olympic Village, after all. Particularly with the foreign reporters in town, it could be quite awkward if stories leaked out. I would think it best to keep the camp as secret as possible until later.”

This idea didn’t please Hitler, Ernst could see at once. But before Göring could protest, the Leader said, “I agree it’s probably best. We’ll deal with the matter in a month or two.”

When he and Göring would have forgotten about the matter, Ernst hoped.

“Now, Hermann, the colonel has more good news. The British have completely accepted our warship and undersea boat quotas under last year’s treaty. Reinhard’s plan has worked.”

“How fortunate,” Göring muttered.

“Air Minister, is that file for my attention?” The Leader’s eyes, which missed little, glanced at the documents under the man’s arm.

“No, sir. It’s nothing.”

The Leader poured himself yet more chocolate and walked to the scale model of the Olympic stadium. “Come, gentlemen, and look at the new additions. They’re quite nice, don’t you think? Elegant, I would say. I love the modern styling. Mussolini thinks he invented it. But he is a thief, of course, as we all know.”

“Indeed, my Leader,” Göring said.

Ernst too murmured his approval. Hitler’s dancing eyes reminded him of Rudy’s when the boy had shown his Opa an elaborate sand castle he’d built at the beach last year.

“I’m told the heat might be breaking today. Let us hope that will be the case, for our picture-taking session. Colonel, you will wear your uniform?”

“I think not, my Leader. I am, after all, merely a civil servant now. I wouldn’t want to appear ostentatious in the company of my distinguished colleagues.” Ernst kept his eyes on the mock-up of the stadium and, with some effort, avoided a glance at Göring’s elaborate uniform.

The office of the plenipotentiary for domestic stability—the sign painted in stark Gothic German characters—was on the third floor of the Chancellory. The renovations on this level seemed largely completed, though the smell of paint and plaster and varnish was heavy in the air.

Paul had entered the building without difficulty, though he’d been carefully searched by two black-uniformed guards armed with bayonet-mounted rifles. Webber’s paperwork passed muster, though he was stopped and searched again on the third floor.

He waited until a patrol had walked down the hallway and knocked respectfully on the rippled-glass window in the door to Ernst’s office.

No answer.

He tried the knob and found it unlocked. He walked through the dark anteroom and toward the door that led to Ernst’s private office. He stopped suddenly, alarmed that the man might be here, since the light under the door was so bright. But he knocked again and heard nothing. He opened the door and found that the brilliance was sunlight; the office faced east and the morning light streamed viciously into the room. Debating about the door, he decided to leave it open; closing it was probably against regulations and would be suspicious, if guards made rounds.

His first impression was how cluttered the office was: papers, booklets, account sheets, bound reports, maps, letters. They covered Ernst’s desk and a large table in the corner. Many books sat on the shelves, most dealing with military history, apparently arranged chronologically, starting with Caesar’s
Gallic Wars.
After what Käthe had told him about German censorship, he was surprised to find books by and about Americans and Englishmen: Pershing, Teddy Roosevelt, Lord Cornwallis, Ulysses S. Grant, Abraham Lincoln, Lord Nelson.

There was a fireplace, empty this morning, of course, and scrubbed clean. On the black-and-white marble mantel were plaques of war decorations, a bayonet, battle flags, pictures of a younger, uniformed Ernst with a stout man sporting a fierce mustache and wearing a spiked helmet.

Paul opened his notebook, in which he’d sketched a dozen room plans, then paced off the perimeter of the office, drew it and added dimensions. He didn’t bother with the measuring stick; he needed credibility, not accuracy. Walking to the desk, Paul looked over it. He saw several framed pictures. These showed the colonel with his family. Others were of a handsome brunette woman, probably his wife, and a threesome: a young man in uniform with, apparently, his own young wife and infant. Then there were two of the same young woman and the child, taken several years apart and more recently.

Paul looked away from the pictures and quickly read over dozens of papers on the desk. He was about to reach for one of the piles of documents and dig through it, but he paused, aware of a sound—or perhaps an absence of sound. Just a softening of the loose noises floating about him. Instantly Paul dropped to his knees and set the measuring stick on the floor, then began walking it from one side of the room to the other. He looked up as a man slowly entered, glancing at him with curiosity.

The photographs on the mantel and the ones that Morgan’s contact, Max, had shown him had been several years old but there was no doubt that the man standing in front of him was Reinhard Ernst.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Hail Hitler,” Paul said. “Forgive me if I am disturbing you, sir.”

“Hail,” the man replied lethargically. “You are?”

“I am Fleischman. I am measuring for carpets.”

“Ah, carpets.”

Another figure glanced into the room, a large, black-uniformed guard. He asked to see Paul’s papers, read them carefully and then returned to the ante-office, pulling up a chair just outside the door.

Ernst asked Paul, “And how big a room do I have here?”

“Eight by nine and a half meters.” Paul’s heart was pounding; he’d nearly said “yards.”

“I would have thought it bigger.”

“Oh, it is bigger, sir. I was referring to the size of the rug. Generally with fine floors like this our customers want a border of wood visible.”

Ernst glanced at the floor as if he’d never seen the oak. He took his jacket off and hung it on a suit form beside his desk. He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and rubbed them. Then he sat forward, pulled on some wire-rimmed glasses and read some documents.

“You are working on Sunday, sir?” Paul asked.

“As you,” Ernst replied with a laugh, not looking up.

“The Leader is eager to finish the renovations to the building.”

“Yes, that is certainly true.”

As he bent to measure a small alcove Paul glanced sideways at Ernst, noting the scarred hand, the creases around the mouth, the red eyes, the demeanor of someone with a thousand thoughts percolating in his mind, someone carrying a thousand burdens.

A faint squeal as Ernst swiveled in his chair to face the window, removing his glasses. He seemed to soak up the glare and heat of the sun hungrily, with pleasure, but with a hint of regret, as well, as if he were a man of the outdoors not happy that his duty kept him desk-bound.

“How long have you done this work, Fleischman?” he asked without turning.

Paul stood, clutching the notebook at his side. “All my life, sir. Since the War.”

Ernst continued to bask in the sun, leaning back slightly, eyes closed. Paul walked quietly to the mantel. The bayonet was a long one. It was dark and had not been sharpened recently but it was still quite capable of death.

“And you enjoy it?” Ernst asked.

“It suits me.”

He could snatch the grisly weapon up and step to Ernst’s back in one second, kill him quickly. He’d killed with a blade before. Using a knife is not like fencing in a Douglas Fairbanks movie. The blade is merely a deadly extension of the fist. A good boxer is a good knife man.

Touching the ice…

But what about the guard outside the door? That man would have to die too. Yet Paul never killed his touch-off’s bodyguards, never even put himself in a situation where he might have to. He might kill Ernst with the blade, then knock the guard out. But with all the other soldiers around, somebody might hear the ruckus and they’d arrest him. Besides, his orders were to make sure the death was public.

“It suits you,” Ernst repeated. “A simple life, with no conflicts and no difficult choices.”

The phone buzzed. Ernst lifted it. “Yes?… Yes, Ludwig, the meeting went to our advantage…. Yes, yes… Now, have you found some volunteers? Ach, good…. But perhaps another two or three… Yes, I’ll meet you there. Good afternoon.”

Hanging up the phone, Ernst glanced at Paul then toward the mantel. “Some of my mementos. I’ve known soldiers all my life, and we all seem to be pack rats of memorabilia like this. I have many more items at home. Isn’t it odd how we keep souvenirs of such horrendous events? It sometimes seems mad to me.” He looked at the clock on his desk. “Are you finished, Fleischman?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“I have some work to do now in private.”

“Thank you for allowing the intrusion, sir. Hail Hitler.”

“Fleischman?”

Paul turned at the doorway.

“You are a lucky man to have your duty coincide with your circumstance and your nature. How rare that is.”

“I suppose it is, sir. Good day to you.”

“Yes, hail.”

Outside, into the hallway.

With Ernst’s face and his voice burned into Paul’s mind, he walked down the stairs, eyes forward, moving slowly, passing invisibly among the men here, in black or gray uniforms or suits or the coveralls of laborers. And everywhere the stern, two-dimensional eyes staring down at him from the paintings on the walls: the trinity whose names were etched into brass plates,
A. Hitler, H. Göring
and
P. J. Goebbels.

On the ground floor he turned toward the glaring front doorway that opened onto Wilhelm Street, footsteps echoing loudly. Webber had provided used boots, a good addition to the costume, except that a hobnail had worn through the leather and tapped loudly with every step, no matter how Paul twisted his foot.

He was fifty feet from the doorway, which was an explosion of sunlight surrounded by a halo.

Forty feet.

Tap, tap, tap.

Twenty feet.

He could see outside now, cars streaming past on the street.

Tenfeet…

Tap… tap…

“You! You will stop.”

Paul froze. He turned to see a middle-aged man in a gray uniform striding quickly to him.

“You came down those stairs. Where were you?”

“I was only—”

“Let me see your documents.”

“I was measuring for carpets, sir,” Paul said, digging Webber’s papers out of his pocket.

The SS man looked them over quickly, compared the photo and read the work order. He took the meter stick from Paul’s hand, as if it were a weapon.

He returned the work order then looked up. “Where is your special permit?”

“Special permit? I wasn’t told I needed one.”

“For access upstairs, you must have one.”

“My superior never told me.”

“That’s not our concern. Everyone with access to floors above the ground needs a special permit. Your party membership card?”

“I… I don’t have it with me.”

“You are not a member of the Party?”

“Of course, sir. I am a loyal National Socialist, believe me.”

“You’re not a loyal National Socialist if you don’t carry your card.” The officer searched him, flipped through the notebook, glanced at the sketches of the rooms and the dimensions. He was shaking his head.

Paul said, “I am to return later in the week, sir. I can bring you a special permit and Party card then.” He added, “And at that time I can measure your office as well.”

“My office is on the ground floor, in the back—the area not scheduled for renovation,” the SS officer said sourly.

“All the more reason to have a fine Persian carpet. Of which we happen to have several more than have been allotted. And nothing to do but let them rot in a warehouse.”

The man considered this. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. “I don’t have time to pursue this matter. I am Security Underleader Schechter. You will find my office down the stairs and to the right. The name is on the door. On with you now. But when you come back, have the special permit or it will be Prince Albrecht Street for you.”

As the three men sped away from Wilhelm Square, a siren sounded nearby. Paul and Reggie Morgan looked uneasily out the windows of the van, which stank of burned cabbage and sweat.

Webber laughed. “It’s an ambulance. Relax.” A moment later the medical vehicle turned the corner. “I know the sounds of all the official vehicles. It’s helpful knowledge in Berlin nowadays.”

After a few moments Paul said quietly, “I met him.”

“Met whom?” Morgan asked.

“Ernst.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “He was there?”

“He came into the office just after I got there.”

“Ach, what do we do?” Webber said. “We can’t get back inside the Chancellory. How will we find out where he’ll be?”

“Oh, I found that out,” Paul said.

“You did?” Morgan asked.

“I had time to look over his desk before he arrived. He’ll be at the stadium today.”

“Which stadium?” Morgan asked. “There are dozens in the city.”

“The
Olympic
stadium. I saw a memorandum. Hitler’s having photographs of senior Party officials taken there this afternoon.” He glanced at a nearby clock tower. “But we have only a few hours to get me into place. I think we’ll need your help once again, Otto.”

“Ach, I can get you anywhere you wish, Mr. John Dillinger. I work the miracles… and you pay for them. That is why we are such good partners, of course. And speaking of which, my American cash, if you please.” And he let the transmission of the van scream in second gear as he held out his right hand, palm up, until Morgan dropped the envelope into it.

After a moment Paul was aware that Morgan had been looking him over. The man asked, “What was Ernst like? Did he seem like the most dangerous man in Europe?”

“He was polite, he was preoccupied, he was weary. And sad.”

“Sad?” Webber asked.

Paul nodded, recalling the man’s fast yet burdened eyes, the eyes of someone waiting for arduous trials to be over with.

The sun finally sets….

Morgan glanced at the shops and buildings and flags on the wide avenue of Under the Lindens. He asked, “Is that a problem?”

“Problem?”

“Will meeting him make you hesitate to… to do what you’ve come here for? Will it make a difference?”

Paul Schumann wished to God that he could say it would. That seeing someone up close, that talking to him, would melt the ice, would make him hesitate to take that man’s life. But he answered truthfully. “No. It will make no difference.”

They sweated from the heat, and Kurt Fischer, at least, sweated from fear.

The brothers were now two blocks from the square where they would meet Unger, the man who was to spirit them away from this foundering country and reunite them with their parents.

The man they were trusting with their lives.

Hans stooped down, picked up a stone and skipped it across the waters of the Landwehr Canal.

“Don’t!” Kurt whispered harshly. “Don’t draw attention to us.”

“You should relax, brother. Skipping stones doesn’t draw attention. Everybody does it. God, it’s hot. Can we stop for a ginger beer?”

“Ach, you think we are on holiday, don’t you?” Kurt glanced around. There were not many people out. The hour was early, the heat already fierce.

“See anyone following us?” his brother asked with some irony.

“Do you want to stay in Berlin? All things considered?”

“All I know is that if we give up our house, we’ll never see it again.”

“If we don’t give it up, we’ll never see Mother and Father again. Probably we’ll never see
anyone
again.”

Hans scowled and picked up another stone. He got three skips this time. “Look! Did you see that?”

“Hurry up.”

They turned into a market street, where vendors’ booths were being set up. There were a number of trucks parked on the streets and sidewalks. The vehicles were filled with turnips, beets, apples, potatoes, canal trout, carp, cod oil. None of the most-in-demand items, of course, like meat, olive oil, butter and sugar. Even so, people were already queuing up to find the best—or rather the least unappetizing—purchases.

“Look, there he is,” Kurt said, crossing the street and making for an old truck parked off the side of the square. A man with curly brown hair leaned against it, smoking as he looked through a newspaper. He glanced up, saw the boys and nodded subtly. He tossed the paper inside the cab of the truck.

It all comes down to trust….

And sometimes you’re not disappointed. Kurt had had doubts that he would even show up.

“Mr. Unger!” Kurt said as they joined him. They shook hands warmly. “This is my brother, Hans.”

“Ach, he looks just like his father.”

“You sell chocolates?” the boy asked, looking at the truck.

“I manufacture
and
sell candy. I was a professor but that is not a lucrative job any longer. Learning is sporadic but eating sweets is a constant, not to mention politically safe. We can talk later. Now we should get out of Berlin. You can ride in the cab with me until we get near the border. Then you will climb into a space in the back. I use ice to keep the chocolate from melting on days like this, and you will lie under boards covered with ice. Don’t worry, you won’t freeze to death. I’ve cut holes in the side of the truck to let in some warm air. We’ll cross the border, as I do every week. I know the guards. I give them chocolate. They never search me.”

Unger walked to the back of the truck and closed the gate.

Hans climbed into the cab, picked up the newspaper and started reading. Kurt turned, wiped his brow and looked out one last time over the city in which he’d spent his entire life. In the heat and the haze, it seemed Italian, reminding him of a trip he’d taken to Bologna with his parents when his father was lecturing for a fortnight at the old university there.

The young man was turning back to climb into the truck next to his brother when there was a collective gasp from the crowd.

Kurt froze, eyes wide.

Three black cars skidded to a stop around Unger’s truck. Six men jumped out, in black SS uniforms.

No!

“Hans, run!” Kurt shouted.

But two of the SS troops raced to the passenger side of the vehicle. They ripped the door open and dragged his younger brother onto the street. He fought back until one struck him in the gut with a truncheon. Hans yelped and stopped struggling, rolling on the ground, clutching his belly. The soldiers pulled him to his feet. “No, no, no!” Unger cried. Both he and Kurt were shoved against the side of the truck.

“Papers! Empty your pockets.”

The three captives did as they were told.

“The Fischers,” said the SS commander, looking over their identity cards and nodding in recognition.

Tears running down his cheeks, Unger said to Kurt, “I didn’t betray you. I swear I didn’t!”

“No, he didn’t,” said the SS officer, who unholstered his Luger, worked the toggle to cock it and shot the man in the head. Unger dropped to the pavement. Kurt gasped in horror. “
She
did,” the SS man added, nodding toward a large, middle-aged woman leaning out of the SS car’s window.