Garden of Beasts

garments. He rolled it up and started into another alley to put it on. But he heard shouts from nearby. “There! Is that him? . . . You! Stop!”
    To his left he saw three more Stormtroopers pointing his way. Word had spread of the incident. He hurried into the alley, longer and darker than the first. More shouts behind him. Then a gunshot. He heard a sharp snap as the bullet hit brick near his head. He glanced back. Another three or four uniformed men had joined his pursuers.
    There are far too many people in this country who will chase you simply because you are running. . . . 
    Paul spit hard against the wall and struggled to suck air into his lungs. A moment later he burst out of the alley into another street, more crowded than the first. Heinhaled deeply and lost himself in the crowds of Saturday shoppers. Looking up and down the avenue, he saw three or four alleys branching off.
    Which one?
    Shouts behind him as the Stormtroopers poured into the street. No time to wait. He picked the nearest alleyway.
    Wrong choice. The only exits from it were five or six doors. They were all locked.
    He started to run back out of the cul-de-sac but stopped. There were now a dozen Brownshirts prowling through the crowds, moving steadily toward this alley. Most of them held pistols. Boys accompanied them, dressed like the flag-lowering youngsters he’d met yesterday at the Olympic Village.
    Steadying his breathing, he pressed flat against the brick.
    A swell mess this is, he thought angrily.
    He stuffed his hat, tie and suit jacket into the satchel, then pulled on the green jacket.
    Paul set the bag at his feet and took out the pistol. He checked to make certain the gun was loaded and a round chambered. Bracing his arm against the wall, he rested the weapon on his forearm and leaned out slowly, aiming at the man who was in the lead—Felstedt.
    It would be difficult for them to figure out where the shot had come from and Paul hoped they’d scatter for cover, giving him the chance to lam through the rows of nearby pushcarts. Risky . . . but they’d be at this alley in a few minutes; what other choices did he have?
    Closer, closer . . .
    Touching the ice . . .
    Pressure slowly increasing on the trigger as he aimed atthe center of the man’s chest, the sights floating on the spot where the diagonal leather strap from belt to shoulder covered his heart.
    “No,” the voice whispered urgently in his ear.
    Paul spun around, leveling the pistol at the man who’d come up silently behind him. He was in his forties, dressed in a well-worn suit. His thick hair was swept back with oil and he had a bushy mustache. He was some inches shorter than Paul, his belly protruding over his belt. In his hands was a large cardboard carton.
    “You may point that elsewhere,” he said calmly, nodding down at the pistol.
    The American didn’t move the gun. “Who are you?”
    “Perhaps we may converse later. We have more urgent matters now.” He stepped past Paul and looked around the corner. “A dozen of them. You must have done something quite irksome.”
    “I beat up three of them.”
    The German lifted a surprised eyebrow. “Ach, well, I assure you, sir, if you kill one or two, there will be hundreds more here within minutes. They’ll hunt you down and they may kill a dozen innocent people in the process. I can help you escape.”
    Paul hesitated.
    “If you don’t do as I say they will kill you. Murder and marching are the only things they do well.”
    “Put the box down.” The man did and Paul lifted his jacket, looked at the waistband then gestured for him to turn in a circle.
    “I have no gun.”
    The same gesture, impatient.
    The German turned. Paul patted his pockets and ankles. He was unarmed.
    The man said, “I was watching you. You removed your jacket and hat—that’s good. And you stood out like a virgin on Nollendorf Plaza in that gauche tie. But it is likely you’ll be searched. You must discard the clothes.” A nod toward the satchel.
    Running footsteps sounded nearby. Paul stepped back, considering the words. The advice made sense. He dug the items out of the satchel and stepped to a trash bin.
    “No,” the man said. “Not there. If you wish to dispose of something in Berlin don’t throw it into food bins because people foraging for scraps will find it. And don’t throw it into the waste containers or the Gestapo or the V-men or A-men from the SD will find it; they regularly go through