Garden of Beasts

tink . . .
    Kurt Fischer, the older of the two blond-haired brothers, said, “Stop making that noise.”
    Hans had been tapping the knife on the plate that had held an apple core and some rinds from cheese, the remnants of their pathetic breakfast. He continued the tink for a moment more and then set the utensil down.
    Five years separated the brothers but there were other gulfs far wider between them.
    Hans said, “He could denounce us for money. He could denounce us because he’s drunk on National Socialism. He could denounce us because it’s Sunday and he simply takes a fancy to denounce someone.”
    This was certainly true.
    “And, as I keep saying, what’s the hurry? Why today? I would like to see Ilsa again. You remember her, don’t you? Oh, she is as beautiful as Marlene Dietrich.”
    “You are making a joke, aren’t you?” Kurt replied, exasperated. “We’re concerned for our lives and you’re pining away for a big-titted girl you’ve known for less than a month.”
    “We can leave tomorrow. Or why not after the Olympics? People will leave the Games early, toss away their day tickets. We can get in for the afternoon events.”
    This was the crux of the matter, most likely: the Olympics. For a handsome youth like Hans, there would be many Ilsas in his life; she was not particularly pretty or bright (though she did seem particularly loose by National Socialist standards). But what troubled Hans the most about their escape from Germany was missing the Games.
    Kurt sighed in frustration. His brother was nineteen, an age at which many men held responsible positions in the army or a trade. But his brother had always been impulsive and a dreamer, and a bit lazy, as well.
    What to do? Kurt thought, taking up the debate with himself. He chewed on a piece of dry bread. They’d had no butter for a week. In fact, they had little of any food left. But Kurt hated to go outside. Ironically, he felt more vulnerable there—when in fact it was probably far more dangerous to be in the apartment, which was undoubtedly watched from time to time by the Gestapo or the SD.
    Reflecting again: It all came down to trust. Should they or should they not?
    “What was that?” Hans asked, lifting an eyebrow.
    Kurt shook his head. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. The question had been addressed to the only two people in the world who would have answered honestlyand with sound judgment. Their parents. But Albrecht and Lotte Fischer were not present. Social Democrats, pacifists, the couple had attended a worldwide peace conference in London two months ago. But just before they returned, they’d learned from a friend that their names were on a Gestapo list. The secret police were planning to arrest them at Tempelhof when they arrived. Albrecht made two attempts to slip into the country and get his sons out, once through France and once through the Czech Sudetenland. He was refused entry both times, nearly arrested the second.
    Ensconced in London, taken in by like-minded professors and working part-time as translators and teachers, the distraught parents had managed to get several messages to the boys, urging them to leave. But their passports had been lifted and their identity cards stamped. Not only were they the children of pacifists and ardent Socis, but the Gestapo had files on the boys themselves, it seemed. They held their parents’ political beliefs, and the police had noted their attendance at the forbidden swing and jazz clubs, where American Negro music was played and girls smoked and the punch was spiked with Russian vodka. They had friends who were activists.
    Hardly subversive. But it was merely a matter of time until they were arrested. Or they starved. Kurt had been dismissed from his job. Hans had completed his mandatory six-month Labor Service stint and was back home now. He’d been drummed out of university—the Gestapo had seen to that, as well—and, like his brother, he too was unemployed. Their future might very well see them becoming beggars on Alexander Plaza or Oranienburger Square.
    And so the question of trust had arisen. AlbrechtFischer managed to contact a former colleague, Gerhard Unger, from the University of Berlin. A pacifist and Soci himself, Unger had quit his job teaching not long after the National Socialists had come to power and returned to his family confectionary company. He often traveled over borders and, being firmly anti-Hitler, was more than happy to help