Garden of Beasts

late,” Webber called, gasping. Then he gave a sour laugh. “Look at me, a Viking’s funeral! Ach, when you return home play some John Philip Sousa and think of me. . . . Though I still say he’s English. You Americans take credit for far too much. Now, go on, Mr. John Dillinger. Do what you have come here for.”
    The last glimpse Paul Schumann had of his friend were the man’s eyes closing as he slumped to the bottom of the boat, which gathered speed, drawn into the murky water of the Spree.
    •   •   •
    A dozen of them, all young men, who had chosen life and freedom over honor. Was it cowardice or intelligence that had motivated them to do this?
    Kurt Fischer wondered if he was the only one among them plagued by this question.
    They were being driven through the countryside northwest of Berlin in the same sort of bus that used to take them on outings as young students. The round driver piloted his vehicle smoothly over the winding road and tried, unsuccessfully, to get them to sing hunting and hiking songs.
    Kurt sat next to his brother, as they shared stories with the others. Little by little he learned something about them. Mostly Aryan, all from middle-class families, all with degrees, attending universities or planning to do soafter their Labor Service. Half were, like Kurt and Hans, marginally anti-Party for political and intellectual reasons: Socialists, pacifists, protestors. The other half were “swing kids,” richer, rebellious too but not as political; their main complaint with the National Socialists was cultural: the censoring of movies, dance and music.
    There were no Jews, Slavs or Roma gypsies among this crowd, of course. Nor any Kosis, either. Despite Colonel Ernst’s enlightenment, Kurt knew that it would be many years before such ethnic and political groups would find a home in the military or German officialdom. Kurt’s personal belief was that it would never happen as long as the triumvirate of Hitler, Göring and Goebbels was in power.
    So here they were, he was thinking, these young men, brought together by the predicament of having to choose between a concentration camp and possible death or an organization they found morally wrong.
    Am I a coward, Kurt wondered again, choosing as I did? He remembered Goebbels’s call for the nationwide boycott of Jewish stores in April of ’33. The National Socialists thought it would receive an overwhelming show of support. In fact, the event went badly for the Party, with many Germans—his parents among them—openly defying the boycott. Thousands, in fact, sought out stores they hadn’t previously been to, just to show support for their Jewish fellow citizens.
    That was courage. Did he not have this bravery within him?
    “Kurt?”
    He looked up. His brother had been speaking to him. “You’re not listening.”
    “What did you say?”
    “When will we eat supper? I’m hungry.”
    “I don’t have any clue. How would I know?”
    “Is army food any good? I heard you eat well. I suppose it depends, though. If you’re in the field, it’ll be different than at a base. I wonder what it’s like.”
    “What, the food?”
    “No. Being in the trenches. Being—”
    “We won’t be in the trenches. There won’t be another war. And if there is, you heard Colonel Ernst, we won’t have to fight. We’ll be given different duties.”
    His brother didn’t look convinced. And more troubling, he didn’t look that upset that he might be seeing combat. Why, he even seemed intrigued by the thought. This was a very new, and disturbing, side to his brother.
    I wonder what it’s like. . . . 
    Conversation in the bus continued—about sports, about the scenery, about the Olympics, about American movies. And girls, of course.
    Finally they arrived, turning off the highway and easing down a long maple-lined drive that led to the campus of Waltham Military College.
    What their pacifist parents would think to see them in such a place!
    The bus squealed to a halt in front of one of the school’s red-brick buildings. Kurt was struck by the incongruity: an institution devoted to the philosophy and practice of warfare, yet set in an idyllic vale with a rich carpet of grass, fluttering ivy crawling up the ancient buildings, forests and hills behind, which formed a gentle frame for the scene.
    The boys gathered their rucksacks and climbed off the bus. A young soldier not much older than they identified himself as their recruitment officer