Garden of Beasts

and nonsense about their racial inferiority. The covers featured grotesque caricatures of Jews. Embarrassing even to most National Socialists, it was published only because Hitler enjoyed the tabloid.
    “Sadly, I missed it,” Kohl said dryly. “And he spoke German?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he have an accent?”
    “A Jew accent.”
    “Yes, yes, but perhaps another accent. Bavarian? Westphalian? Saxon?”
    “Maybe.” A nod of the big man’s head. “Yes, I think so. You know, he would not have hurt us if he’d come at us like a man. Not a cowardly—”
    Kohl interrupted. “Might his accent have been from another country?”
    The three regarded one another. “We wouldn’t know, would we? We’ve never been out of Berlin.”
    “Maybe Palestine,” one offered. “That could have been it.”
    “All right, so he attacked you from behind with his truncheon.”
    “And these too.” The third held up a pair of brass knuckles.
    “Are those his?”
    “No, they’re mine. He took his with him.”
    “Yes, yes. I see. He attacked you from behind. Yet it’s your nose that has bled, I see.”
    “I fell forward after he struck me.”
    “And where was this attack exactly?”
    “Over there.” He pointed to a small garden jutting into the sidewalk. “One of our comrades went to summon aid. He returned and the Jew coward took off, fleeing like a rabbit.”
    “Which way?”
    “There. Down several alleys to the east. I will show you.”
    “In a moment,” Kohl said. “Did he carry a satchel?”
    “Yes.”
    “And he took it with him?”
    “That’s right. It’s where he had his truncheons hidden.”
    Kohl nodded to the garden. He and Janssen walked to it. “That was useless,” his assistant whispered to Kohl. “Attacked by a huge Jew with brass knuckles and truncheons. And probably fifty of the Chosen People right behind him.”
    “I feel, Janssen, that the account of witnesses and suspects is like smoke. The words themselves are often meaningless but they might lead you to the fire.”
    They walked around the garden, looking down carefully.
    “Here, sir,” Janssen called excitedly. He’d found a small guidebook to the men’s Olympic Village, written in English.
    Kohl was encouraged. It would be odd for foreign tourists to be in this bland neighborhood and coincidentally lose the booklet in just the spot where the struggle had taken place. The pages were crisp and unstained, suggesting it had lain in the grass for only a short time. He lifted it with a handkerchief (sometimes one could find fingerprints on paper). Opening it carefully, he found no handwriting on the pages and no clue to the identity of the person who’d possessed it. He wrapped up the booklet and placed it in his pocket. He called to the Stormtroopers. “Come here, please.”
    The three men wandered to the garden.
    “Stand there, in a row.” The inspector pointed to a spot of bare earth.
    They lined up precisely, as Stormtroopers were exceedingly talented at doing. Kohl examined their boots and compared the size and shape to the sole prints in the dirt.He saw that the assailant had larger feet than they and that his heels were well worn.
    “Good.” Then to Felstedt he said, “Show us where you pursued him. You others can leave now.”
    The man with the bloody face called, “When you find him, Inspector, you will call us. We have a cell at our barracks. We will deal with him there.”
    “Yes, yes, perhaps that can be arranged. And I will give you plenty of time so that you can have more than three men to handle him.”
    The Stormtrooper hesitated, wondering if he was being insulted. He examined his crimson-stained shirt. “Look at this. Ach, when we get him, we’ll drain all the blood out of him. Let’s go, comrade.”
    The two walked off down the sidewalk.
    “This way. He ran this way.” Felstedt led Kohl and Janssen down two alleys into crowded Gormann Street.
    “We were sure he went down one of these other alleys. We had men covering the far ends of them all but he disappeared.”
    Kohl surveyed them. Several alleys branched off from the street, one a cul-de-sac, the others connecting to different streets. “All right, sir, we will take over from here.”
    With his comrades gone, Felstedt was more candid. In a low voice he said, “He is a dangerous man, Inspector.”
    “And you feel that your description is accurate?”
    A hesitation. Then: “A Jew. Clearly he was a Jew, yes. Crinkly hair like an Ethiopian, a Jew