Garden of Beasts

from Willi Kohl.
    The inspector wiped his hand on his slacks and aimed his revolver at Schumann. It was a long-range shot but not impossible and at least he could pin the man down until other troops arrived.
    But just as Kohl began to squeeze the trigger, Schumann ripped the front door of the building open. He stepped inside and emerged a moment later, dragging out a young man. Several others followed, staggering, holding their chests, coughing, some vomiting. Another one, then three more.
    God in Heaven! Kohl was stunned. It was they who’d been gassed, not rats or mice.
    Schumann motioned the men toward the woods and, before Kohl could recover from the shock of what he’d seen and aim once more, the American was firing toward the Mercedes again, giving the young men cover with the rifle as they made for the safety of the dense forest.
    •   •   •
    The Mauser kicked hard against his shoulder as Paul fired again. He aimed low, hoping to hit Ernst’s or his guard’s legs. But their car was in a shallow gully and he couldn’t find a target beneath it. He glanced inside the classroomquickly; the last of the young men were leaving. They staggered out and ran for the woods.
    “Run!” Paul cried. “Run!”
    He fired twice more to keep Ernst and the guard down.
    Flinging sweat from his forehead with his fingers, Paul tried to get closer to the Mercedes but both Ernst and his guard were armed and good shots, and the SS man had a submachine gun. They fired repeatedly and Paul could make no headway toward them. As Paul worked the bolt to chamber a round, the guard peppered the bus and the ground nearby. Ernst leapt into the front seat of the Mercedes and grabbed the microphone then took cover again on the far side of the car.
    How long would it be until help arrived? Paul had driven through Waltham only two miles up the road; he was sure the good-sized town would be home to a garrison of police. And the school itself might have its own security force.
    If he wanted to survive he’d have to flee now.
    He fired twice more, using up the last of the Mauser ammunition. He tossed the rifle to the ground then bent down and pulled a pistol from the belt of one of the dead soldiers. It was a Luger, like Reginald Morgan’s. He worked the toggle to put a bullet in the chamber.
    He looked down and saw, crouching, halfway under the bus, the balding mustachioed man who’d led the students into the building.
    “What’s your name?” Paul asked in German.
    “Please, sir.” His voice shook. “Do not—”
    “Your name? ”
    “Doctor-professor Keitel, sir.” The man was crying. “Please . . .”
    Paul recalled that this was the name on the letter aboutthe Waltham Study. He lifted the pistol and shot him once in the center of the forehead.
    Then he took a final look toward Ernst’s car and could see no target. Paul ran across the field, firing several shots into the Mercedes to keep Ernst and the guard down, and soon he plunged into the woods as bullets from the SS man’s weapon chopped through the lush green foliage around him, none even close to its mark.

Chapter Forty
    Willi Kohl had turned away from the clearing and now, drenched in sweat and sick from the heat and exertion, was heading back in the direction of the Labor Service truck, Schumann’s means of escape, he assumed. He would flatten the tires to prevent him from leaving.
    A hundred meters, two hundred, gasping, wondering: Who were the young people? Were they criminals? Were they innocent?
    He paused to try to catch his breath. If he didn’t, he was sure Schumann would easily hear the wheezing rasp as he approached.
    He scanned the forest. He saw nothing.
    Where was the truck? He was disoriented. This direction? No, it was the other way.
    But perhaps Schumann wasn’t making for the truck. Maybe he did have another way out. The man was brilliant, after all. He might have hidden—
    Without a sound, without any warning, a piece of hot metal touched the back of his head.
    No! His first thought was: Heidi, my love . . . how will you manage alone with the children in this mad world of ours? Oh, no, no!
    “Don’t move.” In barely accented German.
    “I won’t. . . . Is you, Schumann?” he asked in English.
    “Give me the pistol.”
    Kohl let the weapon go. Schumann took it from him.
    A huge hand gripped his shoulder and turned the inspector around.
    What eyes, Kohl thought, chilled. He reverted to his native language. “You are going