Garden of Beasts

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 hisyounger 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.
    Her voice, filled with fury, raged at the boys: “Betrayers! Swine!”
    It was Mrs. Lutz, the war widow who lived on their floor in the apartment building, the woman who had just wished them a good day!
    Shocked, staring at Unger’s limp body, from which blood flowed copiously, Kurt heard her breathless scream, “You ungrateful pigs. I’ve been watching you, I know what you’ve done, I know who’s been to your apartment. I write down what I’ve seen. You’ve betrayed our Leader!”
    The SS commander grimaced with irritation at the woman. He nodded toward a younger officer and he pushed her back into the car.
    “You have been on our list, both of you, for some time.”
    “We’ve done nothing!” Staring at Unger’s blood, unableto look away from the growing crimson pool, Kurt whispered, “Nothing. I swear. We were just trying to be with our parents.”
    “Illegally escaping the country, pacifism, anti-Party activities . . . all capital offenses.” He pulled Hans closer, aimed the pistol at his head. The boy whimpered. “Please, no. Please! . . .”
    Kurt stepped forward