Garden of Beasts

thoughtful or ominous for the lens. When Ernst was not being photographed he talked with Rudy or stood by himself and, in his mind, composed his letter to the Leader about the Waltham Study, considering what to say and what not to.
    Sometimes you couldn’t share all. . . . 
    An SS guard appeared in the doorway. He spotted Ernst and called, “Mr. Minister.”
    A number of heads turned.
    “Mr. Minister Ernst.”
    The colonel was as amused as Göring was irritated; Ernst was not officially a minister of state.
    “Yes?”
    “Sir, there is a phone call for you from the secretary ofGustav Krupp von Bohlen. There is a matter he needs to inform you of immediately. Something most important. Regarding your latest meeting.”
    What had they discussed then that was so urgent? Armor for the warships had been one topic. It hadn’t seemed so critical. But now that England had accepted the new German shipbuilding figures, perhaps Krupp would have a problem meeting the production quotas. But then he reflected that, no, the baron had not been informed of the victory regarding the treaty. Krupp was as brilliant a capitalist as he was a technician. But he was also a coward, who’d shunned the Party until Hitler came to power then had become a rabid convert. Ernst suspected the crisis was minor at worst. But Krupp and his son were so important to the rearmament plans that they could not be ignored.
    “You may take the call on one of those phones there. I will have it put through.”
    “Excuse me for one moment, my Leader.”
    Hitler nodded and returned to discussing the angle of the camera with the photographer.
    A moment later one of the many phones against the wall buzzed. A glowing light indicated which it was and Ernst picked it up.
    “Yes? This is Colonel Ernst.”
    “Colonel. I am Stroud, an aide to Baron von Bohlen. I apologize for the disturbance. He’s sent some documents for you to examine. A driver has them at the stadium where you are now.”
    “What are these about?”
    A pause. “I was instructed by the baron not to mention the subject over this telephone.”
    “Yes, yes, fine. Where is the driver?”
    “In the driveway on the south side of the stadium. He will meet you there. It’s better to be discreet. Alone, I am saying, sir. Those are my instructions.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Hail Hitler.”
    “Hail.”
    Ernst hung the phone in the cradle. Göring had been watching him like an obese falcon. “A problem, Minister?”
    The colonel decided both to ignore the feigned sympathy and the irony in the title. Rather than lie, he admitted, “Some problem that Krupp’s having. He’s sent me a message about it.”
    As a maker primarily of armor, artillery and munitions, Krupp dealt more with Ernst and the naval and army commanders than with Göring, whose province was the air.
    “Ach.” The huge man turned back to the mirror the photographer had provided. He began moving a finger around his face, smoothing his makeup.
    Ernst started for the door.
    “Opa, may I come with you?”
    “Of course, Rudy. This way.”
    The boy scurried after his grandfather and they stepped into the interior corridor that connected all the pressrooms. Ernst put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. He oriented himself and noticed a doorway that would lead to one of the south stairways. They started toward it. He’d downplayed the concern at first but in fact he was growing troubled. Krupp steel was recognized as the best in the world; the spire of New York City’s magnificent Chrysler building was made of his company’s famed Enduro KA-2. But this meant too that foreign military planners were looking very carefully at Krupp’s products and output. He wondered if the British or French hadlearned how much of his steel was going not to rails or washing machines or automobiles but to armor.
    Grandfather and grandson made their way through a crowd of workers and foremen energetically finishing the construction here on the press-booth floor, cutting doors to size, mounting hardware, sanding and painting walls. As they dodged around a carpentry station, Ernst glanced down at the arm of his suit and grimaced.
    “What’s wrong, Opa?” Rudy shouted over the scream of a saw.
    “Oh, look at this. Look at what I’ve gotten on me.” There was a sprinkling of plaster on it.
    He brushed the dust away as best he could but some remained. He wondered if he should wet his fingers to clean it. But this might cause the plaster to set