Garden of Beasts

satchel and they continued up the street.
    Two blocks farther on, the German nodded across the street. “In there.” The place he indicated appeared to be a nightclub decorated with Nazi flags. A wooden sign read: The Aryan Café.
    “Are you mad?” Paul asked.
    “Have I been right so far, my friend? Please, inside. It’s the safest place to be. Dung-shirts aren’t welcome here, nor can they afford it. As long as you haven’t beaten any SS officers or senior Party officials, you’ll be safe. . . . You haven’t, have you?”
    Paul shook his head. He reluctantly followed the man inside. He saw immediately what the man meant about the price of admission. A sign said: $20 U.S./40 DM. Jesus, he thought. The ritziest place he went to in New York, the Debonair Club, had a five-buck cover.
    How much dough did he have on him? That was nearly half the money Morgan had given him. But the doorman looked up and recognized the mustachioed German. He nodded the men inside without charging them.
    They pushed through a curtain into a small dark bar, cluttered with antiques and artifacts, movie posters, dusty bottles. “Otto!” the bartender called, shaking the man’s hand.
    Otto set his carton on the bar and gestured for Paul to do the same with his.
    “I thought you were delivering one case only.”
    “My comrade here helped me carry a second one, ten bottles only in his. So that makes the total seventy marks now, does it not?”
    “I asked for one case. I need only one case. I will pay for only one case.”
    As the men dickered, Paul focused on the loud words coming from a large radio behind the bar. “. . . modern science has found myriad ways to protect the body from disease and yet if you don’t apply those simple rules of hygiene, you can fall greatly ill. With our foreign visitors in town, it is likely that there may be new strains of infection, so it is vital to keep in mind rules of sanitation.”
    Otto finished the negotiation, apparently to his satisfaction, and glanced out the window. “They’re still there, prowling. Let us have a beer. I will let you buy me one.” He noticed Paul looking at the radio, which no one in the bar seemed to be paying attention to, despite the high volume. “Ach, you like the deep voice of our propaganda minister? It’s dramatic, yes? But to see him, he’s a runt. I have contacts all over Wilhelm Street, all the government buildings. They call him ‘Mickey Mouse’ behind his back. Let us go in the back. I can’t stand the droning. Every establishment must have a radio to broadcast the Party leaders’ speeches and must turn the sound up when they are transmitting. It’s illegal not to. Here they keep the radio up front to satisfy the rules. The real club is in the back rooms. Now, do you like men or women?”
    “What?”
    “Men or women? Which do you prefer?”
    “I’m not interested in—”
    “I understand, but since we must wait for the Brownshirts to grow tired of their pursuit, please tell me: Which would you rather look at while we have the beer you’ve so generously agreed to buy me? Men dancing as men, men dancing as women or women dancing as themselves?”
    “Women.”
    “Ach, me too. It’s illegal to be a homosexual in Germanynow. But you would be surprised how many National Socialists seem to enjoy one another’s company for reasons other than discussing rightist politics. This way.” He pushed through a blue velvet curtain.
    The second room was for men who enjoyed women, it seemed. They sat down at a rickety wicker table in the black-painted room, decorated with Chinese lanterns, paper streamers and animal trophies, as dusty as the Nazi flags hanging from the ceiling.
    Paul handed back the canvas cap; it disappeared into the man’s pocket with the others. “Thanks.”
    Otto nodded. “Ach, what are friends for?” He looked for a waiter or waitress.
    “I’ll be back in a moment.” Paul rose and went to the lavatory. He washed the smudges and blood off his face and combed his hair back with lotion, which shortened and darkened it, making him appear somewhat different from the man the Brownshirts were seeking. His cheek was not badly cut but a bruise had formed around it. He stepped out of the washroom and slipped backstage. He found the dressing room for performers. A man sat at the far end, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. He didn’t pay any attention as Paul dipped his finger into a pot of makeup. Returning to the lavatory