Garden of Beasts

he’d been playing soccer with the victims shortly before. Another soldiermight have balked altogether. Had he not died, his answers to the doctor-professor’s questionnaire would have been extremely helpful in establishing the criteria they would use to match soldiers and duties.
    The weakness he’d felt a moment ago, the contrition prompted by the assassin’s choice to forsake his own duty, vanished suddenly. He was once again convinced he was doing the right thing. Let Hitler have his fling with madness. Some innocents would die, yes, until the storm blew over, but eventually the Leader would be gone, while the army Ernst was creating would outlast him and be the backbone of a new German glory—and ultimately a new European peace.
    Sacrifices had to be made.
    Tomorrow Ernst would begin searching for another psychologist or doctor-professor who might help him continue the work. And this time he would find one who was more attuned to the spirit of National Socialism than Keitel—and one without Jewish grandparents, for God’s sake. Ernst must be more clever. This was a time in history when one had to be clever.
    The car pulled up in front of his house. Ernst thanked the driver and stepped out. The SS troops in the car behind his leapt out as well and joined the others already guarding his residence. The commander told him that the men would remain until the assassin was caught or it could be verified that he’d been killed or fled the country. Ernst politely thanked him as well and walked inside. He greeted Gertrud with a kiss. She glanced at the grass and mud stains on his pants.
    “Ach, you are hopeless, Reinie!”
    Without explaining, he smiled wanly. She returned to the kitchen, where she was cooking something fragrantwith vinegar and garlic. Ernst climbed the stairs to wash and change his clothes. He saw his grandson in his room, drawing on a tablet of paper.
    “Opa!” the boy cried and ran to him.
    “Hello, Mark. Are we going to work on our boat tonight?”
    He didn’t respond and Ernst realized the little boy was frowning.
    “What is the matter?”
    “Opa, you called me Mark. That was Papa’s name.”
    Had he? “I’m sorry, Rudy. I was not thinking clearly. I’m very tired today. I believe I need a nap.”
    “Yes, I take naps too,” the boy said eagerly, happy to please his grandfather with his knowledge. “In the afternoon sometimes I get tired. Mutti gives me hot milk, cocoa sometimes, and then I have a nap.”
    “Exactly. That’s how your foolish grandfather feels. It’s been a long day and he needs a nap. Now you get the wood and knives ready. After supper we will work on our boat.”
    “Yes, Opa, I’ll do it now.”
    •   •   •
    Close to 3 P.M. Bull Gordon walked up the steps to The Room in Manhattan. The city was busy and vibrant in other neighborhoods, even on Sunday, but here the cross street was still.
    The blinds were closed and the town house appeared deserted but as Gordon, wearing civvies today, approached, the front door opened before he even took the key from his pocket. “Afternoon, sir,” the uniformed naval officer said in a soft voice.
    Gordon nodded.
    “The Senator’s in the parlor, sir.”
    “Alone?”
    “That’s right.”
    Gordon walked inside, hung his topcoat on a rack in the hallway. He felt the weapon in his pocket. He wouldn’t need it, probably, but he was glad it was there. He drew a deep breath and walked into the small room.
    The Senator was sitting in an armchair beside a Tiffany floor lamp. He was listening to the Philco radio. When he saw Gordon he shut it off and asked, “Tiring flight?”
    “They’re always tiring. Seems that way.”
    Gordon walked to the bar and poured himself a scotch. Maybe not a good idea, what with the gun. But to hell with it. He added another finger to the glass. He offered a querying glance to the Senator.
    “Sure. Only double that.” He nodded at Gordon’s glass.
    The commander poured smoky liquid into another glass and handed it to the older man. He sat down heavily. His head still throbbed from the flight in the R2D-1, the naval version of the DC-2. It was just as fast but lacked the comfortable wicker chairs and soundproofing of the Douglas Commercial line.
    The Senator was wearing a suit, waistcoat and stiff-collared shirt with a silk tie. Gordon wondered if it had been what he’d worn to church that morning. He’d once told the commander that whatever a politician personally believed, even