Garden of Beasts

he smoothed the cosmetic over the bruise. He had some experience with makeup; all good boxers knew the importance of concealing injuries from their opponents.
    He returned to the table, where he found Otto gesturing toward the waitress, a pretty, dark-haired young woman. But she was busy and the man sighed in irritation. He turned back, regarding Paul closely. “Now, you are obviously not from here because you know nothing of our ‘culture.’ I’m speaking of the radio. And of the dung-shirts,whom you would not have antagonized by fighting had you been a German. But your language is perfect. The faintest of accents. And not French or Slav or Spanish. What breed of dog are you?”
    “I appreciate the help, Otto. But some matters I’ll keep to myself.”
    “No matter. I’ve decided you’re American or English. Probably American. I know from your movies—the way you make your sentences . . . Yes, you are American. Who else would have a troop of dung-shirts after him but a brash American with big balls? You are from the land of heroic cowboys, who take on a tribe of Indians alone. Where is that waitress?” He looked about, smoothing his mustache. “Now, introductions. I am presenting myself to you. Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber. And you? . . .  But perhaps you wish to keep your name to yourself.”
    “I think that’s wiser.”
    Webber chuckled. “So you beat up three of them and earned the endless affection of the Brownshirts and the bitch brood?”
    “The what?”
    “Hitler Youth. The boys scurrying among the legs of the Stormtroopers.” Webber eyed Paul’s red knuckles. “You perhaps enjoy the boxing matches, Mr. Nameless? You look like an athlete. I can get you Olympic tickets. There are none left, as you know. But I can get them. Day seats, good ones.”
    “No thanks.”
    “Or I can get you into one of the Olympic parties. Max Schmeling will be at some.”
    “Schmeling?” Paul raised an eyebrow. He admired Germany’s most successful heavyweight champ and had been in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium just last month tosee the bout between Schmeling and Joe Louis. Shocking everyone, Schmeling knocked out the Brown Bomber in the twelfth round. The evening had cost Paul $608, eight for the ticket and the six C-notes for the bum bet.
    Webber continued. “He will be there with his wife. She is so beautiful. Anny Ondra. An actress, you know. You will have a truly memorable evening. It would be quite expensive but I can arrange it. You need a dinner jacket, of course. I can provide that too. For a small fee.”
    “I’ll pass.”
    “Ach,” Webber muttered, as if Paul had made the mistake of his life.
    The waitress stopped at their table and she stood close to Paul, smiling down at him. “I am Liesl. Your name is?”
    “Hermann,” Paul said.
    “You would like what?”
    “Beers for us both. A Pschorr for me.”
    “Ach,” Webber said, sneering at the choice. “Berlin lager for me. Bottom-fermented. A large.” When she glanced at him her look was cool, as if he’d recently stiffed her on a check.
    Liesl gazed into Paul’s eyes a moment longer then offered a flirtatious smile and walked to another table.
    “You have an admirer, Mr. Not-Hermann. Pretty, yes?”
    “Very.”
    Webber winked. “If you like, I can—”
    “No,” Paul said firmly.
    Webber raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to the stage, where a topless woman gyrated. She had loose disks of breasts and flabby arms, and even from a distance Paul could see creases around her mouth, which kept up a fierce smile as she moved to the scratchy sound of a gramophone.
    “There is no live music here now, in the afternoon,” Webber explained. “But at night they have good bands. Brass . . . I love brass. I have a gramophone disk I play often. The great British bandleader, John Philip Sousa.”
    “Sorry to tell you: He’s American.”
    “No!”
    “It’s true.”
    “What a country that must be, America. They have such wonderful cinema and millions of motorcars, I hear. And now I learn they have John Philip Sousa too.”
    Paul watched the waitress approach, slim hips rocking back and forth. Liesl set the beers down. She’d put on fresh perfume, it seemed, in the three or four minutes she’d been away. She smiled at Paul and he grinned back then glanced at the check. Not familiar with German currency and not wishing to draw attention to himself fumbling with coins, Paul gave her a five-mark note, which was