Garden of Beasts

plant than he figured he’d ever learn in college. But he told her none of this.
    “I am a teacher. That is to say, I was a teacher. I taught literature to youngsters. As well as the difference between ‘will’ and ‘shall’ and ‘may’ and ‘can.’ Oh, and ‘good’ and ‘well.’ Which I am now embarrassed about.”
    “English literature?”
    “No, German. Though I love many English books.”
    There was silence for a moment. Paul reached into his pocket, took out his passport, handed it to her.
    She frowned, turning it over in his hand.
    “I’m really who I say I am.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “The language . . . You asked me about speaking English to see if I’m really an American. Not a National Socialist informer. Am I right?”
    “I . . .” Her brown eyes quickly examined the floor. She was embarrassed.
    “It’s all right.” He nodded. “Look at it. The picture.”
    She started to return it. But then she paused, opened it up and compared the picture to his face. He took the booklet back.
    “Yes, you are right. I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Schumann.”
    “Paul.”
    Then a smile. “You must be quite a successful journalist to be so . . . ‘perceptive’ is the word?”
    “Yes, that’s the word.”
    “The Party is not so diligent, nor so wealthy, as to hire Americans to spy on little people like me, I am thinking. So I can tell you that I am not in favor.” A sigh. “It was my fault. I was not thinking. I was teaching Goethe, the poet, to my students and I mentioned simply that I respected his courage when he forbade his son to fight in the German war of independence. Pacifism is a crime in Germany now. I was fired for saying that, and all my books were confiscated.” She tossed her hand. “Forgive me. I am complaining. Have you read him? Goethe?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You would like him. He is brilliant. He spins colors out of words. Of all the books taken from me, his are the ones I miss the most.” Käthe glanced hungrily at the plate of strudel. She hadn’t eaten any. Paul held the plate out to her. She said, “No, no, thank you.”
    “If you don’t eat one, then I’ll think that you ’re the National Socialist agent trying to poison me.”
    She eyed the pastry and took one. She ate it quickly. When Paul looked down to reach for his coffee cup he noted from the corner of his eye that she touched up pastry flakes from the tabletop on her fingertips and lifted them to her mouth, staring at him to make sure he wasn’t looking.
    When he turned back, she said, “Ah, but now, we have been careless, you and I, as often happens on first meetings. We must be more cautious. This reminds me.” Shepointed toward the telephone. “Always keep it unplugged. You must be aware of listening devices. And if you do make a call, assume that you are sharing your conversation with a National Socialist lackey. That is true especially for any long-distance calls you make from the post office, though phone kiosks on the street are, I’m told, relatively private.”
    “Thanks,” Paul said. “But if anybody listened to my conversations all they’d hear is pretty boring talk: What’s the population of Berlin, how many steaks will the athletes eat, how long did it take to build the stadium? Things like that.”
    “Ach,” Käthe said softly, rising to leave, “what we have said this afternoon, you and I, would be considered boring by many but would easily merit a visit from the Gestapo. If not worse.”

Chapter Twelve
    Willi Kohl’s battered Auto Union DKW managed the twenty kilometers to the Olympic Village west of the city without overheating, despite the relentless sunlight that forced both officers to shed their jackets—contrary both to their natures and to Kripo regulations.
    The route had taken them through Charlottenburg and, had they continued southwest, would have led them toward Gatow, the two towns near which the Polish workers and the Jewish families had died. The terrible pictures of the murders continued to toss about in Kohl’s memory like bad fish in his gut.
    They arrived at the main entrance of the village, which was bustling. Private cars, taxis and buses were dropping off athletes and other personnel; trucks were delivering crates, luggage and equipment. Jacketed once more, they walked to the gate, showed their ID cards to the guards—who were regular army—and were let inside the spacious, trimmed grounds. Around them men