Garden of Beasts

sun.
    “Hail, Colonel.”
    Ernst nodded to the two guards, armed with bayonet-mounted Mausers. He was amused at their greeting. It was customary for anyone near cabinet rank to be addressed by his full title. But “Mr. Plenipotentiary” was laughably cumbersome.
    Down Wilhelm Street, past Voss Street then Prince Albrecht Street, with a glance to his right at No. 8—Gestapo headquarters in the old hotel and arts-and-crafts school. Continuing south to his favorite café, he ordered a coffee. He sat for only a moment and then walked to the phone kiosk. He called a number, dropped some pfennigs into the slot and was connected.
    A woman’s voice answered. “Good day.”
    “Please, Dame Keitel?”
    “No, sir. I am the housekeeper.”
    “Is Doctor-professor Keitel available? This is Reinhard Ernst.”
    “One moment, please.”
    A moment later a man’s soft voice came through the line. “Good day, Colonel. Though a hot one.”
    “Indeed, Ludwig. . . . We need to meet. Today. An urgent matter has come up about the study. You can make yourself available?”
    “Urgent?”
    “Extremely so. Can you come to my office? I’m awaiting word on some matters from England. So I must be at my desk. Four P.M . would be convenient?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    They rang off and Ernst returned to his coffee.
    What ridiculous measures he needed to resort to simply to find a phone not monitored by Göring’s minions. I have seen war from the inside and from the out, hethought. The battlefield is horrible, yes, inconceivably horrible. But how much purer and cleaner, even angelic, is war, compared with a struggle where your enemies are beside, not facing, you.
    •   •   •
    On the fifteen-mile ride from downtown Berlin to the Olympic Village, along a wide, perfectly smooth highway, the taxi driver whistled happily and told Paul Schumann that he was anticipating many well-paying fares during the Olympics.
    Suddenly the man grew silent as some ponderous classical music poured from a radio; the Opel was equipped with two, one to dispatch the driver and one for public transmissions. “Beethoven,” the driver commented. “It precedes all official broadcasts. We will listen.” A moment later the music faded and a raw, passionate voice began speaking.
    “In the first place, it is not acceptable to treat this question of infection frivolously; it must be understood that good health would depend and does depend on finding ways to treat not only the symptoms of the disease, but the source of the illness, as well. Look at the tainted waters of a stagnant pond, a breeding ground for germs. But a fast-moving river does not offer the same climate for such danger. Our campaign will continue to locate and drain these stagnant pools, thereby offering germs and the mosquitoes and flies that carry them no place to multiply. Moreover—”
    Paul listened for a moment longer but the repetitious rambling bored him. He tuned out the meaningless sound and looked at the sun-baked landscape, the houses, the inns, as the pretty suburbs west of the city gave way to more sparse areas. The driver turned off the Hamburghighway and pulled up in front of the Olympic Village’s main entrance. Paul paid the man, who thanked him by lifting an eyebrow but said nothing, remaining fixed on the words streaming from the radio. He considered asking the driver to wait but decided it would be wiser to find someone else to take him back to town.
    The village was hot in the afternoon sun. The wind smelled salty, like ocean air, but it was dry as alum and carried a fine grit. Paul displayed his pass and continued down the perfectly laid sidewalk, past rows of narrow trees perfectly spaced, rising straight from round disks of mulch in the perfect, green grass. The German flag snapped smartly in the hot wind: red and white and black.
    Ach, surely you know . . .
    At the American dorms he bypassed the reception area, with its German soldier, and slipped into his room through the back door. He changed his outfit, burying the green jacket in a basket full of dirty laundry, there being no sewers handy, and putting on cream-colored flannels, a tennis shirt and a light cable-knit sweater. He brushed his hair differently—to the side. The makeup had worn off but there was nothing he could do about that now. As he stepped out the door with his suitcase and satchel a voice called, “Hey, Paul.”
    He glanced up to see Jesse Owens, dressed in gymnasium clothes,