Garden of Beasts

smelled smoke and was grown concerned.”
    “Just getting the fire going.”
    “Nothing like steam for achin’ muscles,” added his friend.
    Kohl stared through the glass door of the stove. The damper was wide open and the flames raged. He saw some sheets of white paper curling to ash inside.
    “Sir,” Janssen began sharply in German, “what are they—?” But Kohl cut him off with a shake of his head and glanced at the first man who’d spoken. “You are . . . ?” Kohl squinted and his eyes went wide. “Yes, yes, you are Jesse Owens, the great runner.” In Kohl’s German-accented English, the name came out “Yessa Ovens.”
    The surprised man extended his sweaty hand. Shaking the firm grip, Kohl glanced to the other Negro.
    “Ralph Metcalfe,” the athlete said, introducing himself. A second handshake.
    “He’s on the team too,” Owens said.
    “Yes, yes, I have heard of you, as well. You won in Los Angeles in the California state at the last Games. Welcome to you too.” Kohl’s eyes dipped to the fire. “You take the steam bath before you exercise?”
    “Sometimes before, sometimes after,” Owens said.
    “You a steam man, Inspector?” Metcalfe asked.
    “Yes, yes, from time to time. Mostly now I soak my feet.”
    “Sore feet,” Owens said, wincing. “I know all about that. Say, why don’t we get outa here, Inspector? It’s a heck of a lot cooler outside.”
    He held the door open for Kohl and Janssen. The Kripo men hesitated then followed Metcalfe into the grassy area behind the dorm.
    “You’ve got a beautiful country, Inspector,” Metcalfe said.
    “Yes, yes. That is true.” Kohl watched the smoke rise from the metal duct above the steam room.
    “Hope you have luck finding that fellow you’re looking for,” Owens said.
    “Yes, yes. I am supposed it is not useful to ask if you know of anyone who weared a Stetson hat and a green tie. A man of large size?”
    “Sorry, I don’t know anyone like that.” He glanced at Metcalfe, who shook his head.
    Janssen asked, “Would you know anyone who came here with the team and perhaps left soon? Went on to Berlin or somewhere else?”
    The men glanced at each other. “Nope, afraid not,” Owens replied.
    “I sure don’t either,” Metcalfe added.
    “Ach, well, it is being an honor to meet you both.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “I was followed news of your races in, was it the Michigan state? Last year—the trials?”
    “Ann Arbor. You heard about that?” Owens laughed, again surprised.
    “Yes, yes. World records. Sadly, now we are not getting much news from America. Still, I look forward to theGames. But I am having four tickets and five children and my wife and future son-in-law. We will be present and attending in . . . shifts, you would say? The heat will not be bothering you?”
    “I grew up running in the Midwest. Pretty much the same weather there.”
    With sudden seriousness Janssen said, “You know, there are a lot of people in Germany who hope you don’t win.”
    Metcalfe frowned and said, “Because of that bull—what Hitler thinks about the coloreds?”
    “No,” the young assistant said. Then his face broke into a smile. “Because our bookmakers will be arrested if they accept bets on foreigners. We can only bet on German athletes.”
    Owens was amused. “So you’re betting against us?”
    “Oh, we would bet in favor of you,” Kohl said. “But, alas, we can’t.”
    “Because it’s illegal?”
    “No, because we are only poor policemans with no money. So run like the Luft, the wind, you Americans say, right? Run like the wind, Herr Owens and Herr Metcalfe. I will be in the stands. And cheering you on, though perhaps silently. . . . Come, Janssen.” Kohl got several feet then stopped and turned back. “I must ask again: You are being certain no one has worn the brown Stetson hat? . . . No, no, of course not, or you would have telled me. Good day.”
    They walked around to the front of the dormitory and then toward the exit to the village.
    “Was that the ship’s manifest with the name of our killer on it, sir? What the Negroes burned in the stove?”
    “It is possible. But say ‘suspect,’ remember. Not ‘killer.’”
    The smell of the burning paper wafted through the hot air and stung Kohl’s nose, taunting him and adding to the frustration.
    “What can we do about it?”
    “Nothing,” Kohl said simply, sighing angrily. “We can do nothing. And it was my fault.”
    “Your