Garden of Beasts

nodded at the woman, who looked out cautiously. “Good afternoon,” he said in German.
    “You are Paul Schumann?”
    “That’s right.”
    She was in her late thirties, early forties, he guessed. A slim figure in a flowery dress with a hemline well below the knees, which Marion would have labeled “pretty unstylish,” a couple of years out of date. Her dark blonde hair was short and waved and, like most of the women he’d seen in Berlin, she wore no makeup. Her skin was dull and her brown eyes tired, but those were superficial qualities that a few square meals and a couple of nights’ undisturbed sleep would take care of. And, curiously, because of these distractions it made the woman behind them appear all the more attractive to him. Not like Marion’s friends—Marion herself too—who sometimes got so dolled up that you never knew what they really looked like.
    “I am Käthe Richter. Welcome to Berlin.” She thrust a red, bony hand forward and shook his firmly. “I didn’t know when you’d be arriving. Mr. Morgan said sometime this weekend. In any case, your quarters are ready. Please, come in.”
    He stepped into the foyer, smelling naphtha from moth repellent and cinnamon and just a hint of lilac, perhaps her perfume. After she closed and locked the door she looked through the curtained side window once again and examined the street for a moment. Then she took the suitcase and the leather satchel from him.
    “No, I—”
    “I will carry them,” she said briskly. “Come this way.”
    She led him to a door halfway down the dim corridor, which still had the original gas lamps installed next to the newer electric fixtures. A few faded oil paintings of pastoral scenes were on the walls. Käthe opened the door and motioned him inside. The apartment was large, clean andsparsely furnished. The front door opened onto the living room, a bedroom was in the back, to the left, and along the wall was a small kitchen, separated from the rest of the living area by a stained Japanese screen. Tables were covered with figurines of animals and dolls, chipped, lacquered boxes and cheap paper fans. There were two unsteady electric lamps. A gramophone was in the corner, next to a large console radio, which she walked to and turned on.
    “The smoking room is in the front of the building. I am sure you are used to a men-only smoking room but here everyone may use it. I insist on that.”
    He wasn’t used to smoking rooms at all. He nodded.
    “Now, tell me if you like the rooms. I have others if you do not.”
    Glancing quickly at the place, he said, “It will suit me fine.”
    “You don’t wish to see more? The closets, run the water, examine the view?”
    Paul had noted that the place was on the ground floor, the windows were not barred and he could make a quick exit from the bedroom window, the living room window or the hallway door, which would lead to other apartments and other means of escape. He said to her, “Provided the water doesn’t come out of that canal I passed, I’m sure it will be fine. As for the view I’ll be working too hard to enjoy it.”
    The radio tubes warmed up and a man’s voice filled the room. Brother! The health lecture was still going on, more talk of draining swamps and spraying to kill mosquitoes. At least FDR’s fireside chats were short and sweet. He walked over to the set and turned the dial, looking for music. There was none. He shut it off.
    “You don’t mind, do you?”
    “It’s your room. Do as you wish.” She glanced at the silent radio uncertainly then said, “Mr. Morgan said you’re an American. But your German is very good.”
    “Thanks to my parents and grandparents.” He took the suitcase from her, walked into the bedroom and set it on the bed. The bag sank deep into the mattress, and he wondered if it was filled with down. His grandmother had told him that she’d had a down bed in Nuremberg before they immigrated to New York, and as a boy Paul had been fascinated at the thought of sleeping on bird feathers.
    When he returned to the living room Käthe said, “I serve a light breakfast, across the hall, from seven to eight A.M. Please let me know the night before when you’d like to be served. And there is coffee in the afternoon, of course. You’ll find a basin in the bedroom. The bathroom is up the hall, to be shared, but for now you are our only guest. Closer to the Olympics it will be much more crowded. Today you are the king of number twenty-six