Garden of Beasts

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 soldiersaround, 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 wereetched 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.
    Ten feet . . .
    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