Garden of Beasts

Leader said firmly, “Skirts may be raised five centimeters. That settles it. But we will not approve makeup.”
    “Yes, my Leader.”
    A moment of silence as Hitler’s eyes settled in the corner of the room, as they often did. He then glanced sharply at Ernst. “Colonel.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    Hitler rose and walked to his desk. He lifted a piece of paper and walked slowly back to the others. Göring andGoebbels kept their eyes on Ernst. Though each believed he had the special ear of the Leader, deep within him was the fear that the grace was temporary or, more frightening, illusory and at any moment he would be sitting here, like Ernst, a tethered badger, though probably without the quiet aplomb of the colonel.
    The Leader wiped his mustache. “An important matter.”
    “Of course, my Leader. However I may help.” Ernst held the man’s eyes and answered in a steady voice.
    “It involves our air force.”
    Ernst glanced at Göring, ruddy cheeks framing a faux smile. A daring ace in the War (though dismissed by Baron von Richthofen himself for repeatedly attacking civilians), he was presently both air minister and commander in chief of the German air force—the latter currently being his favorite among the dozen titles he held. It was on the subject of the German air force that Göring and Ernst met most frequently and clashed the most passionately.
    Hitler handed the document to Ernst. “You read English?”
    “Some.”
    “This is a letter from Mr. Charles Lindbergh himself,” Hitler said proudly. “He will be attending the Olympics as our special guest.”
    Really? This was exciting information. Both smiling, Göring and Goebbels leaned forward and rapped on the table in front of them, signifying approval of this news. Ernst took the letter in his right hand, the back of which, like his shoulder, was shrapnel scarred.
    Lindbergh . . . Ernst had avidly followed the story of the man’s transatlantic flight, but he’d been far more moved by the terrible account of the death of the aviator’sson. Ernst knew the horror of losing a child. The accidental explosion on a ship’s magazine that had taken Mark was tragic, wrenching, yes; but at least Ernst’s son had been at the helm of a combat ship and had lived to see his own boy, Rudy, born. To lose an infant to the hands of a criminal—that was appalling.
    Ernst scanned the document and was able to make out the cordial words, which expressed an interest in seeing Germany’s recent developments in aviation.
    The Leader continued. “This is why I have asked for you, Colonel. Some people think that it would be of strategic value to show the world our increasing strength in the air. I am inclined to feel this way myself. What do you think about a small air show in honor of Mr. Lindbergh, in which we demonstrate our new monoplane?”
    Ernst was greatly relieved that the summons had not been about the Waltham Study. But the relief lasted only a moment. His concerns rose once again as he considered what he was being asked . . . and the answer he had to give. The “some people” Hitler was referring to was, of course, Hermann Göring.
    “The monoplane, sir, ah . . .” The Me 109 by Messerschmitt was a superb killing machine, a fighter with a speed of three hundred miles per hour. There were other monowing fighters in the world but this was the fastest. More important, though, the Me 109 was of all-metal construction, which Ernst had long advocated because it allowed easy mass production and field repair and maintenance. Large numbers of the planes were necessary to support the devastating bombing missions that Ernst planned as precursors for any land invasion by the Third Empire’s army.
    He cocked his head, as if considering the question,though he’d made his decision the instant he’d heard it. “I would be against that idea, my Leader.”
    “Why?” Hitler’s eyes flared, a sign that a tantrum might follow, possibly accompanied by what was nearly as bad: an endless, ranting monologue about military history or politics. “Are we not allowed to protect ourselves? Are we ashamed to let the world know that we reject the third-class role the Allies keep trying to push us into?”
    Careful, now, Ernst thought. Careful as a surgeon removing a tumor. “I’m not thinking of the backstabbers’ treaty of 1918,” Ernst answered, filling his voice with contempt for the Versailles accord. “I am thinking of how wise it might be to let others