Garden of Beasts

eyebrow to the terrified man—“things will go badly for you, Mr. Heydrich. Very badly.”
    The man blinked and wiped his tears. “But, sir—”
    “Yes, yes, they will indeed . . .” Kohl’s voice faded. He looked at the ID card again. “You are . . . where were you born?”
    “Göttburg, outside of Munich, sir.”
    “Ah.” Kohl’s face remained placid. He nodded slowly. Krauss glanced at him.
    “But, sir, I think—”
    “And the town is small?”
    “Yes, sir. I—”
    “Please, silence,” Kohl said, continuing to stare at the identity card.
    Krauss finally asked, “What is it, Willi?”
    Kohl gestured the Gestapo inspector aside. He whispered, “I think the Kripo is no longer interested in this man. You can do with him as you wish.”
    Krauss was silent for a moment, trying to make sense of Kohl’s sudden change of heart. “Why?”
    “And, please, as a favor, don’t mention that Janssen and I detained him.”
    “Again, I must ask why, Willi?”
    After a moment Kohl said, “SD Leader Heydrich came from Göttburg.”
    Reinhard Heydrich, head of the SS’s intelligence division and Himmler’s number two, was considered the most ruthless man in the Third Empire. Heydrich was a heartless machine (he’d once impregnated a girl then abandoned her because he detested women with loose morals). It was said that Hitler disliked inflicting pain but tolerated its use if it suited his needs. Heinrich Himmler enjoyed inflicting pain but was inept at using it to further his goals. Heydrich both enjoyed inflicting pain and was a craftsman at its application.
    Krauss glanced at the baker and asked uneasily, “Are they . . . are you saying they’re related, you think?”
    “I prefer not to take the chance. At the Gestapo you have a far better relation with SD than the Kripo does. You can question him without much risk of consequence. If they see my name connected to him in an investigation, my career could be over.”
    “But still . . . interrogating one of Heydrich’s relatives?” Krauss looked down at the sidewalk. He asked Kohl, “Do you think that he knows anything valuable?”
    Kohl studied the miserable baker. “I think there is perhaps more he knows but nothing particularly helpful to us. I have a feeling what you sense him being evasive about is nothing more than his practice of thinning flour with sawdust or using black-market butter.” The inspector glanced around the neighborhood. “I’m sure that if Janssen and I keep at it here we can learn whatever information might be found regarding the Dresden Alley incident and at the same time”—he lowered his voice—“keep our jobs.”
    Pacing, Krauss was perhaps trying to recall if he’d mentioned his own name to this man, who might in turn relay it to his cousin Heydrich. He said abruptly, “Remove the cuffs.” As the young officer did, Krauss said, “We’ll need a report on the Dresden Alley matter soon, Willi.”
    “Of course.”
    “Hail Hitler.”
    “Hail.”
    The two Gestapo officers climbed into their Mercedes, circled the statue of the Leader and sped into traffic.
    When the car had gone Kohl handed the baker back his ID card. “Here you are, Mr. Rosenbaum. You may go back to work now. We will not trouble you again.”
    “Thank you, oh, thank you,” the baker said effusively. His hands were shaking and tears dripped into the creases around his mouth. “God bless you, sir.”
    “Shhhhh,” Kohl said, irritated at the indiscreet gratitude. “Now get back into your store.”
    “Yes, sir. A loaf of bread for you? Some strudel?”
    “No, no. Now, your store.”
    The man hurried back inside.
    As they walked to their car Janssen asked, “His name was not Heydrich? It was Rosenbaum?”
    “Regarding this matter, Janssen, it is better for you not to inquire. It will not help you become a better inspector.”
    “Yes, sir.” The young man nodded in a knowing way.
    “Now,” Kohl continued, “we know that our suspect got out of a taxi there and sat in the square before he went on his mission here, whatever that might have been. Let’s ask the benchwarmers if they saw anything.”
    They had no luck with this crowd, many of whom were, as Kohl had explained to Janssen, not the least sympathetic to the Party or police. No luck, that is, until they came to one man sitting in the shadow of the bronze Leader. Kohl looked him over and smelled soldier—either regular army or Free Corps, the informal militia that