Garden of Beasts

constantly—those particular letters easy to confuse because the piece of type was the exact reverse of the printed letter.
    He was now looking over the Summer Garden just as carefully. He’d missed the Stormtrooper watching him from the phone booth outside Dresden Alley—an inexcusable mistake for a button man. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.
    After a few minutes, he sensed no immediate danger but, he reflected, how could he tell? Maybe the people he was watching were nothing more than they seemed: normal joes eating meals and going about their errands on a hot, lazy Saturday afternoon, with no interest in anyone else on the street.
    But maybe they were as suspicious and murderously loyal to the Nazis as the man on the Manhattan, Heinsler.
    I love the Führer . . .
    He tossed the paper into a bin then crossed the street and entered the restaurant.
    “Please,” he said to the captain, “a table for three.”
    “Anywhere, anywhere,” the harried man said.
    Paul took a table inside. A casual glance around him. No one paid any attention to him.
    Or appeared to.
    A waiter sailed past. “You wish to order?”
    “A beer for now.”
    “Which beer?” He started to name brands Paul had never heard of.
    He said, “The first. A large.”
    The waiter walked toward the bar and returned a moment later with a tall pilsner glass. Paul drank thirstily but found he disliked the taste. It was almost sweet, fruity. He pushed it aside and lit a cigarette, having shaken the Chesterfield out of the pack below the tabletop so no one could see the American label. He glanced up to see Reginald Morgan strolling casually into the restaurant. Looking around, he noticed Paul and walked up to him, saying in German, “My friend, so good to see you again.”
    They shook hands and he sat down across the table.
    Morgan’s face was damp and he wiped it with his handkerchief. His eyes were troubled. “It was close. The Schupo pulled up just as I got away.”
    “Anyone see you?”
    “I don’t think so. I left by the far end of the alley.”
    “Is it safe to stay here?” Paul asked, looking around. “Should we leave?”
    “No. It would be more suspicious at this time of day toarrive at a restaurant then leave quickly without eating. Not like New York. Berliners won’t be rushed when it comes to meals. Offices close down for two hours so people can have a proper lunch. Of course, they also eat two breakfasts.” He patted his stomach. “Now you can see why I was happy to be posted here.” Looking around casually, Morgan said, “Here.” He pushed a thick book toward Paul. “See, I remembered to return it.” The German words on the cover were Mein Kampf, which Paul translated as “My Struggle.” Hitler’s name was on it. He’d written a book? Paul wondered.
    “Thank you. But there was no hurry.”
    Paul stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray but, when it was cool, slipped it into his pocket, ever careful not to leave traces that might place him somewhere.
    Morgan leaned forward, smiling as if whispering a bawdy joke. “Inside the book’s a hundred marks. And the address of the place you’ll be staying, a boardinghouse. It’s near Lützow Plaza, south of the Tiergarten. I wrote down directions too.”
    “Is it on the ground floor?”
    “The apartment? I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You’re thinking of escape routes?”
    Specifically he was thinking of Malone’s binge-nest with its sealed doors and windows and a welcoming party of armed sailors. “That’s right.”
    “Well, have a look at it. Maybe you can swap if there’s a problem. The landlady seems agreeable. Her name is Käthe Richter.”
    “Is she a Nazi?”
    Morgan said softly, “Don’t use that word here. It will give you away. ‘Nazi’ is Bavarian slang for ‘simpleton.’ The proper abbreviation is ‘Nazo,’ but you don’t hear thatmuch either. Say ‘National Socialist.’ Some people use the initials, NSDAP. Or you can refer to the ‘Party.’ And say it reverently. . . . Regarding Miss Richter, she doesn’t seem to have any sympathies one way or the other.” Nodding at the beer, Morgan asked, “You don’t care for that?”
    “Piss water.”
    Morgan laughed. “It’s wheat beer. Children drink it. Why did you order it?”
    “There were a thousand kinds. I’d never heard of any of them.”
    “I’ll order for us.”
    When the waiter arrived he said, “Please, bring us two Pschorr ales. And sausage and bread.