Garden of Beasts

butts for later disposal.
    Morgan lifted an eyebrow.
    They told me you were good.
    Paul nodded toward his satchel, whispering, “ My Struggle. Hitler’s book. What exactly is it?”
    “Somebody called it a collection of 160,000 grammatical errors. It’s supposedly Hitler’s philosophy but basically it’s impenetrable nonsense. But you might want to keep it.” Morgan smiled. “Berlin is a city of shortages and at the moment toilet tissue is hard to find.”
    A brief laugh. Then Paul asked, “This man we’re about to meet . . . why can we trust him?”
    “In Germany now trust is a curious thing. The risk is so grave and so prevalent that it’s not enough to trust someone just because they believe in your cause. In my contact’s case, his brother was a union organizer murdered by Stormtroopers, so he sympathizes with us. But I am not willing to risk my life on that alone. So I have paid him a great deal of money. There is an expression here: ‘Whose bread I eat is whose song I sing.’ Well, Max eats a great deal of my bread. And he’s in the precarious position of having already sold me some very helpful and, for him, compromising material. This is a perfect example of how trust works here: You must either bribe someone or threaten him, and I prefer to do both simultaneously.”
    The door opened and Morgan squinted in recognition. “Ah, that’s he,” he whispered. A thin man in worker’s coveralls entered the restaurant, a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. He looked around, blinking to acclimate his vision to the dimness. Morgan waved his hand and the man joined them. He was clearly nervous, eyes darting from Paul to the other patrons to the waiters to the shadows in the corridors that led to the lavatory and the kitchen, then back to Paul.
    “They” is everybody in Germany now. . . . 
    He sat at the table, first with his back to the door, then switched seats so that he could see the rest of the restaurant.
    “Good afternoon,” Morgan said.
    “Hail Hitler.”
    “Hail,” Paul replied.
    “My friend here has asked that he be called Max. He has done work for the man you’ve come to see. Around his house. He delivers goods there and knows the housekeeper and gardener. He lives in the same town, Charlottenburg, west of here.”
    Max declined food or beer and had only coffee, into which he poured sugar that left a dusty scum on the surface. He stirred vigorously.
    “I need to know everything you can tell me about him,” Paul whispered.
    “Yes, yes, I will.” But he fell silent and looked around again. He wore his suspicion like the lotion that plastered down his thinning hair. Paul found the uneasiness irritating, not to mention dangerous. Max opened the rucksack and offered a dark green folder to Paul. Sitting back so no one could see the contents, he opened it and found himself looking at a half dozen wrinkled photographs. They depicted a man in a business suit, which was tailored, the clothing of a meticulous, conscientious man. He was in his fifties and had a round head and short gray or white hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses.
    Paul asked, “These are definitely of him? What about doubles?”
    “He doesn’t use doubles.” The man took a sip of coffee with shaking hands and looked around the restaurant again.
    Paul finished studying them. He was going to tell Max to keep the photos and destroy them when he got home but the man seemed too nervous and the American imagined him panicking and leaving them on the tram or subway. He slipped the folder into his satchel, next to Hitler’s book; he’d dispose of them later.
    “Now,” Paul said, leaning forward, “tell me about him. Everything you know.”
    Max relayed what he knew about Reinhard Ernst: The colonel retained the discipline and air of a military man though he’d been out of the service for some years. He would rise early and work long, long hours, six or seven days a week. He exercised regularly and was an expert shot. He often carried a small automatic pistol. His office was on Wilhelm Street, in the Chancellory building, and he drove himself to and from the office, rarely accompanied by a guard. His car was an open-air Mercedes.
    Paul was considering what the man had said. “This Chancellory? He’s there every day?”
    “Usually, yes. Though sometimes he travels to shipyards or, recently, to Krupp’s works.”
    “Who’s Krupp?”
    “His companies make munitions and armor.”
    “At the Chancellory,