Garden of Beasts

Adolf Hitler—leader, chancellor and president of the Third Empire and ultimate commander of the armed forces. Thinking as he often did: If charisma, energy and canniness are the prime ingredients of power, then here is the most powerful man in the world.
    Wearing a brown uniform and glossy black knee boots, Hitler was bending over a desk, leafing through papers.
    “My Leader,” Ernst said, nodding respectfully and offering a gentle heel tap, a throwback to the days of the Second Empire, which had ended eighteen years before, with Germany’s surrender and the flight of Kaiser Wilhelm to Holland. Though giving the Party salute with “Hail Hitler” or “Hail victory” was expected from citizens, the formality was rarely seen among the higher echelon of officials, except from the drippier sycophants.
    “Colonel.” Hitler glanced up at Ernst with his pale blue eyes beneath drooping lids—eyes that for some reason left the impression that the man was considering a dozen things at once. His mood was forever unreadable. Hitler found the document he sought and turned and walked into his large but modestly decorated office. “Please join us.” Ernst followed. His still, soldier’s face gave no reaction but his heart sank when he saw who else was present.
    Sweating and massive, Hermann Göring lounged on a couch that creaked under his weight. Claiming he was always in pain, the round-faced man was continually adjusting himself in ways that made one want to cringe.His excessive cologne filled the room. The air minister nodded a greeting to Ernst, who reciprocated.
    Another man sat in an ornate chair, sipping coffee, his legs crossed like a woman’s: the clubfooted scarecrow Paul Joseph Goebbels, the state propaganda minister. Ernst didn’t doubt his skill; he was largely responsible for the Party’s early, vital foothold in Berlin and Prussia. Still, Ernst despised the man, who couldn’t stop gazing at the Leader with adoring eyes and smugly dishing up damning gossip about prominent Jews and Socis one moment then dropping the names of famous German actors and actresses from UFA Studios the next. Ernst said good morning to him and then sat, recalling a recent joke that had made the rounds: Describe the ideal Aryan. Why, he’s as blond as Hitler, as slim as Göring and as tall as Goebbels.
    Hitler offered the document to puffy-eyed Göring, who read it, nodded and then put it into his sumptuous leather folder without comment. The Leader sat and poured himself chocolate. He lifted an eyebrow toward Goebbels, meaning he should continue with whatever he had been discussing, and Ernst realized his fate regarding the Waltham Study would have to remain in limbo for sometime longer.
    “As I was saying, my Leader, many of the visitors to the Olympics will be interested in entertainment.”
    “We have cafés and theater. We have museums, parks, movie theaters. They can see our Babelsberg films, they can see Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow. And Charles Laughton and Mickey Mouse.” The impatient tone in Hitler’s voice told Ernst he knew exactly what kind of entertainment Goebbels had meant. There followed an excruciatingly long and edgy debate about letting legalprostitutes—licensed “control girls”—out on the streets again. Hitler was against this idea at first but Goebbels had thought through the matter and argued persuasively; the Leader relented eventually, on the condition that there be no more than seven thousand women throughout the metropolitan area. Similarly, the penal code provision banning homosexuality, Article 175, would be relaxed temporarily. Rumors abounded about Hitler’s own preferences—from incest to boys to animals to human waste. Ernst had come to believe, though, that the man simply had no interest in sex; the only lover he desired was the nation of Germany.
    “Finally,” Goebbels continued suavely, “there is the matter of public display. I am thinking that perhaps we might permit women’s skirts to be shortened somewhat.”
    As the head of Germany’s Third Empire and his adjutant debated, in centimeters, the degree to which Berlin women might be allowed to conform to world fashion, the worm of ill ease continued to eat away at Ernst’s heart. Why hadn’t he at least mentioned the name of the Waltham Study some months ago? He could have sent a letter to the Leader, with a glancing reference to it. One had to be savvy about such things nowadays.
    The debate continued. Then the