Garden of Beasts

the front of the building, where he could cover both the front and back doors. He glanced quickly out the window and saw a lone motorcycle parked in front. He knew the young man was merely making a routine check of the warehouse and there would be no others coming. But someone might have heard the shot. And the SS man could simply stay where he was, keeping Paul pinned down, until his superior realized he hadn’t reported back and sent more troops to the warehouse.
    He looked out from his end of the stack of crates. He had no idea where the soldier was. He—
    Another gunshot echoed. Glass splintered the front window, nowhere near Paul.
    The SS guard had fired through the glass to draw attention; he’d shot directly into the street, not caring if he hit anyone.
    “You Jew pig!” the man raged. “Stand up and raise your hands or you’ll die screaming in Columbia House!” The voice came from a different place this time, closer to the front of the warehouse. He’d crawled forward to put more crates between himself and his enemy.
    Another shot through the window. Outside a car horn blared.
    Paul moved into the next row, swinging the gun before him, finger on the trigger. The Mauser was ungainly—good for distance, bad for this. He looked fast. The aisle was empty. He jumped as another shot shattered a window. Someone must have heard by now. Or seen a bullet strike a wall or house across the street. Maybe a car or passerby had been hit.
    He started for the next aisle. Fast, swinging the gun before him.
    A glimpse of the man’s black uniform, disappearing. The SS man had heard Paul, or anticipated him, and slipped behind another stack of crates.
    Paul decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d have to stop the guard. There was nothing to do but charge over the center row of crates, just like he’d gone over the top of the trenches in an assault during the War, and hope he could get off a fatal shot before the man sprayed bullets at him from the semiautomatic pistol.
    Okay, Paul said to himself. He took a deep breath.
    Another . . .
    Go!
    He leapt to his feet and climbed onto the crate in front of him, lifting the gun. His foot just touched the second crate when he heard a sound behind him and to his right. The soldier had flanked him! But as he turned, the grimy windows shook again from a gunshot. Paul froze.
    The SS soldier stepped directly in front of him, twenty feet away. Paul frantically raised the Mauser but just before he fired, the soldier coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth, and the Luger dropped to the floor. He shook his head. He fell heavily and lay still, blood turning his uniform ruddy.
    To his right, Paul could see Otto Webber on the floor. He clutched his bloody gut with one hand. In his other was a Mauser. He’d managed to crawl to a rack of guns, load one and fire. The rifle slid to the floor.
    “Are you crazy?” Paul whispered angrily. “Why did you go toward him like that? Didn’t you think he’d shoot?”
    “No,” the white-faced, sweating man said, laughing. “I didn’t think he’d do that.” The man sighed in pain. “Go see if anybody has responded to his subtle call for help.”
    Paul ran to the front and noted the area was still deserted. Across the street was a tall, windowless building, a factory or warehouse, closed today. It was likely that the bullets had struck the wall unnoticed.
    “It’s clear,” he said, returning to Webber, who had sat up and was looking down at the mass of blood on his belly. “Ach.”
    “We have to find a doctor.” Paul slung the rifle over his shoulder. He helped Webber to his feet and they made their way out the back doorway and into the boat. Pale and sweating, the German lay back with his head against the bow as Paul rowed frantically to the dock near the truck.
    “Where can I take you? For a doctor?”
    “Doctor?” Webber laughed. “It’s too late for that, Mr. John Dillinger. Leave me. Go on. I can tell. It’s too late.”
    “No, I’m taking you for help,” Paul repeated firmly. “Tell me where to find somebody who won’t go running to the SS or Gestapo.” He pulled the boat to the dock, tied itup and climbed out. He set the Mauser in a patch of grass nearby and turned back to help Webber out of the boat.
    “No!” Paul whispered.
    Webber had untied the rope and with his remaining strength pushed off from the dock. The dinghy was now ten feet away, drifting into the current.
    “Otto! No!”
    “As I say, too