Garden of Beasts

questionable exchanges between himself and his wife. This was the Gestapo’s technique—to gather evidence on the sly then arrest you in your home either early in the morning or during the dinner hour or just after, when you would least expect them. “Quickly, put the radio on, see if there’s a broadcast,” he said. As if listening to Goebbels’s rantings would deter the political police.
    She did. The dial glowed yellow but no sound yet came through the speakers. It took some moments for the tubes to heat up.
    Another pounding.
    Kohl thought of his pistol, but he kept it at the office; he never wanted the weapon near his children. Yet even if he had it, what good would it do against a company of Gestapo or SS? He walked into the living room and saw Charlotte and Heinrich, standing side by side, looking uneasily at each other. Hilde appeared in the doorway, her book drooping in her hand.
    Goebbels’s passionate baritone began surging out of the radio, talking about infections and health and disease.
    As he walked to the door, Kohl wondered if Günter had already made some casual comment about his parents to a friend. Perhaps the boy had denounced someone—his father, albeit unknowingly. Kohl glanced back at Heidi, who was standing with her arm around her youngest daughter. He unbolted the lock and swung open the heavy oak slab.
    Konrad Janssen stood in the doorway, looking fresh as a child at holy communion. He looked past the inspector and said to Heidi, “Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Kohl. It’s unforgivable at this late hour.”
    Mother of God, Kohl thought, hands and heart vibrating. He wondered if the inspector candidate could hear the pounding in his chest. “Yes, yes, Janssen, the hour is not a problem. But next time, a lighter touch on the door, if you please.”
    “Of course.” The young face, usually so calm, bristled with enthusiasm. “Sir, I showed the picture of the suspect all over the Olympics and half the rest of the city, it seemed.”
    “And?”
    “I found a reporter for a British newspaper. He’d come over from New York on the S.S. Manhattan. He’s been writing a story on athletic fields around the world and—”
    “This Briton is our suspect, the man in the artist’s picture?”
    “No, but—”
    “Then this portion of your story doesn’t interest us, Janssen.”
    “Of course, sir. Forgive me. It’s sufficient to say that this reporter recognized our man.”
    “Ah, well done, Janssen. Tell me, what did he have to say?”
    “Not a great deal. All he knew was that he is an American.”
    This paltry confirmation was worth a burst heart? Kohl sighed.
    But the inspector candidate, it seemed, was only pausing to catch his breath. He continued. “And his name is Paul Schumann.”
    •   •   •
    Words spoken in the dark.
    Words spoken as if in a dream.
    They were close, finding in each other a comfortable opposite, knee to back of knee, swell of belly to back, chin to shoulder. The bed assisted; the feather mattress in Paul’s bedroom formed a V under their joint weight and seated them firmly. They could not have moved apart had they wanted to.
    Words spoken in the anonymity of new romance, the passion past, though only momentarily.
    Smelling her perfume, which was in fact the source of the lilac he’d smelled when he’d first met her.
    Paul kissed the back of Käthe’s head.
    Words spoken between lovers, speaking of everything, of nothing. Whims, jokes, facts, speculations, hopes . . . a torrent of words.
    Käthe was telling him of her life as a landlady. She fell silent. Through the open window they could hear Beethoven once again, growing louder as someone in a nearby apartment turned up the volume. A moment later a firm voice echoed through the damp night.
    “Ach,” she said, shaking her head. “The Leader speaks. That’s Hitler himself.”
    It was yet more talk about germs, about stagnant water, about infections.
    Paul laughed. “Why’s he so obsessed with health?”
    “Health?”
    “All day long, everybody’s been talking about germs and cleanliness. You can’t get away from it.”
    She was laughing. “Germs?”
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Don’t you understand what he’s saying?”
    “I . . . No.”
    “It’s not germs he’s talking about. It’s Jews. He’s changed all his speeches during the Olympics. He doesn’t say ‘Jew’ but that’s what he means. He doesn’t want to offend the foreigners but he can’t let us forget