Garden of Beasts

to kill me, yes?”
    Schumann said nothing but patted the inspector’s pockets for other weapons. He stood back and then examined the field and forest around them. Apparently satisfied that they were alone, the American reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew several pieces of paper, damp with sweat. He handed them to Kohl, who asked, “What is this?”
    “Read it,” Schumann said.
    Kohl said, “Please, my spectacles.” Glancing down at his breast pocket.
    Schumann lifted the glasses out. He handed them to the inspector.
    Placing them on his nose, he unfolded and read the documents quickly, shocked by the words. He looked up, speechless, staring into Schumann’s blue eyes. He looked down and read the top page again.
    Ludwig:
    You will find annexed hereto my draft letter to the Leader about our study. Note that I’ve included a reference to the testing being done today at Waltham. We can add the results tonight.
    At this early stage of the study I believe it is best that we refer to those killed by our Subject soldiers as state criminals. Therefore you will see in the letter that the two Jewish families we killed at Gatow will be described as Jew subversives, the Polish laborers killed at Charlottenburg as foreign infiltrators, theRoma as sexual deviants, and the young Aryans at Waltham today will be political dissidents. . . . 
    Oh, our dear God in Heaven, he thought. The Gatow case, the Charlottenburg case! Another too: Gypsies murdered. And those young men today! With more planned . . .  They were killed simply as fodder for this barbarous study, one sanctioned at the highest levels of government.
    “I . . .”
    Schumann took the sheets back. “On your knees. Close your eyes.”
    Kohl looked once more at the American. Ach, yes, these are the eyes of a killer, he realized. How had he missed the look earlier at the boardinghouse? Perhaps because there are so many killers among us now that we have grown immune. Willi Kohl had acted humanely, letting Schumann go while he continued to investigate, rather than send the man to sure death in an SS or Gestapo cell. He’d saved the life of a wolf that had now turned on him. Oh, he could tell Schumann that he knew nothing about this horror. Yet why should the man believe him? Besides, Kohl thought with shame, despite his ignorance about this particular monstrosity, the inspector was undeniably linked to the people who had perpetrated it.
    “Now!” Schumann whispered fiercely.
    Kohl knelt in the leaves, thinking of his wife. Recalling that when they were young, first married, they would picnic in the Grünewald Forest. Ah, the size of the basket she packed, the salt of the meat, the resinous aroma of the wine, the sour pickles. The feel of her hand in his.
    The inspector closed his eyes and said a prayer, thinking that at least the National Socialists hadn’t found a way to make your spiritual communications a crime. He wassoon lost in a fervent narrative, which God had to share with Heidi and their children.
    And then he realized that some moments had passed.
    Eyes still closed, he listened carefully. He heard only the wind through the trees, the buzzing of insects, an airplane’s tenor motor high above him.
    Another endless minute or two. Finally he opened his eyes. He debated. Then Willi Kohl slowly looked behind him, expecting to hear the crack of a pistol shot at any moment.
    No sign of Schumann. The large man had slipped silently from the clearing. Not far away he heard an internal combustion engine start. Then the mesh of gears.
    He rose and, as fast as his solid frame and difficult feet could manage, trotted toward the sound. He came to the grass service road and followed it toward the highway. There was no sign of the Labor Service truck. Kohl veered in the direction of his DKW. But he stopped quickly. The hood was up and wires dangled. Schumann had disabled it. He turned and hurried back down the road toward the academic building.
    He arrived at the same time that two SS staff cars skidded to a stop nearby. Uniformed troops leapt out and immediately surrounded the Mercedes in which Ernst sat. They drew their pistols and gazed out into the woods, looking for threats.
    Kohl hurried across the clearing toward them. The SS officers frowned at Kohl’s approach and turned their weapons on him.
    “I’m Kripo!” he called breathlessly and waved his identification card.
    The SS commander gestured him over. “Hail Hitler.”
    “Hail,” Kohl