Garden of Beasts

learned the good professor’s name and had now found out that he had Yid blood in his veins. The consequences of all this? That largely depended on what Göring wished those consequences to be. Keitel, a part-Jew intellectual, would be sent to the camp at Oranienburg. There was no doubt about that. But Ernst? Göring decided it would be better to keep him visible. He’d be ousted from the top ranks of government but retained in some lackey position. Yes, by next week the man would be lucky to be employed scurrying after Defense Minister von Blomberg, carting the bald man’s briefcase.
    Ebullient now, Göring took several more painkillers, shouted for another plate of spaghetti and rewarded himself for his successful intriguing by turning his attention back to his Olympic party. Wondering: Should he appear in the costume of a German hunter, an Arab sheik, or Robin Hood, complete with a quiver and a bow on his shoulder?
    Sometimes it was next to impossible to make up one’s mind.
    •   •   •
    Reggie Morgan was troubled. “I don’t have the authority to approve a thousand dollars. Jesus Lord. A thousand? ”
    They were walking through the Tiergarten, past a Stormtrooper on a soapbox sweating fiercely as he hoarsely lectured a small group of people. Some clearly wished to be elsewhere, some looked back with disdain in their eyes. Butsome were mesmerized. Paul was reminded of Heinsler on the ship.
    I love the Führer and I’d do anything for him and the Party. . . .
    “The threat worked?” Morgan asked.
    “Oh, yes. In fact, I think he respected me more for it.”
    “And he can actually get us useful information?”
    “If anybody can, he’s the one. I know his sort. It’s astonishing how resourceful some people can be when you wave money toward them.”
    “Then let’s see if we can come up with some.”
    They left the park and turned south at the Brandenburg Gate. Several blocks farther on they passed the ornate palace that would, when the repairs after the fire were finished, become the U.S. embassy.
    “Look at it,” Morgan said. “Magnificent, isn’t it? Or it will be.”
    Even though the building wasn’t officially the U.S. embassy yet, an American flag hung from the front. The sight stirred Paul, made him feel good, more at ease.
    He thought of the Hitler Youth back at the Olympic Village.
    And the black . . . the hooked cross. You would say swastika. . . . Ach, surely you know. . . . Surely you know. . . . 
    Morgan turned down an alleyway and then another and, with a look behind them, unlocked the door. They entered the quiet, dark building and walked down several corridors until they came to a small door beside the kitchen. They stepped inside. The dim room was sparse: a desk, several chairs and a large radio, bigger than any Paul had ever seen. Morgan flipped on the unit and as the tubes warmed up it began to hum.
    “They listen to all the overseas shortwave,” Morgan said,“so we’re going to transmit via relays to Amsterdam and then London and then be routed through a phone line to the States. It’ll take the Nazis a while to get the frequency,” the man said, pulling on earphones, “but they could get lucky so you have to assume they’re listening. Everything you say, keep that in mind.”
    “Sure.”
    “We’ll have to go fast. Ready?”
    Paul nodded and took the set of headphones Morgan offered him, then plugged the thick jack into the socket he pointed to. A green light finally came to life on the front of the unit. Morgan stepped to a window, glanced out into the alleyway, let the curtain fall back. He pulled the microphone close to his mouth and pushed the button on the shaft. “I need a transatlantic connection to our friend in the south.” He repeated this then released the transmit button and said to Paul, “Bull Gordon’s ‘our friend in the south.’ Washington, you know. ‘Our friend in the north’ is the Senator.”
    “Roger that,” said a young voice. It was Avery’s. “Be a minute. Hold on. Placing the call.”
    “Howdy,” Paul said.
    A pause. “Hey there,” Avery responded. “How’s life treating you?”
    “Oh, just swell. Good to hear your voice.” Paul couldn’t believe that he’d said good-bye to him just yesterday. It seemed like months. “How’s your other half?”
    “Staying out of trouble.”
    “That’s hard to believe.” Paul wondered if Manielli had been mouthing off to any Dutch soldiers the same way