Garden of Beasts

was at a loss for words. Finally she said, “No, no, there is no one. But—”
    Paul said firmly, “No ‘but’s. I’m not in Berlin for very long. I could use somebody to show me around town.” He gave her a smile. In English: “I’ll tell you, miss, I ain’t taking no for an answer.”
    “I don’t understand ‘ain’t,’” she said. “But I have not been to a restaurant for a long time. Perhaps such an evening could be enjoyable.”
    Paul frowned. “You’ve got the English wrong.”
    “Oh, what should it be?” she asked.
    “The proper word is ‘ will ’ be enjoyable, not ‘could.’”
    She gave a faint laugh and agreed to meet him in a half hour. She returned to her room, while Paul showered and changed.
    Thirty minutes later, a knock on the door. When he opened it he blinked. She was an entirely different person.
    Käthe was wearing a black dress that would have satisfied even fashion goddess Marion in Manhattan. Close fitting, made from a shimmery material, a daring slit up the side and tiny sleeves that barely covered her shoulders. The garment smelled faintly of mothballs. She seemed slightly ill at ease, embarrassed almost to be wearing such a stylish gown, as if all she’d worn recently were housedresses. But her eyes shone and he had the same thought as earlier: how a subdued beauty and passion radiated from within her, wholly negating the matte skin and the bony knuckles and pale complexion, the furrowed brow.
    As for Paul, his hair was still dark with lotion but was now combed differently. (And when they went out, it would be hidden by a hat very different from his brown Stetson: a dark, broad-brimmed trilby he’d purchased that afternoon after leaving Morgan.) He was wearing a navy blue linen double-breasted suit and a silver tie over his white Arrow shirt. At the department store where he’d bought the hat he’d also picked up more makeup to cover the bruise and cut. He’d discarded the sticking plaster.
    Käthe picked up the book of poems, which she’d left in his room to go change, and flipped through the pages. “This is one of my favorites. It’s called ‘Proximity of the Beloved One.’” She read it aloud.
    I think of you when upon the sea the sun flings her beams.
    I think of you when the moonlight shines in silvery streams.
    I see you when upon the distant hills the dust awakes;
    At night when on a fragile bridge the traveler quakes.
    I hear you when the billows rise on high,
    With murmur deep.
    To tread the silent grove where wander I,
    When all’s asleep.
    She read in a low voice and Paul could picture her up in front of a classroom, her students spellbound by her obvious love of the words.
    Käthe laughed and looked up with bright eyes. “This is very kind of you.” She then took the book in both strong hands and ripped the leather binding off. This part she threw into the trash bin.
    He stared at her, frowning.
    She smiled sadly. “I will keep the poems but should dispose of the portion that shows most obviously the title and the poet’s name. That way a visitor or guest will not accidentally see who wrote it and won’t be tempted to turn me in. What a time we live in! And I will leave it in your room for now. Best not to carry some things with you on the streets, even a naked book. Now, let’s go out!” she said with girlish excitement. She switched to English as she said, “I want to do the town. That is what you say, is it not?”
    “Yep. Do the town. Where do you want to go? . . . But I’ve got two requirements.”
    “Please?”
    “First, I’m hungry and I eat a lot. And, second, I’d like to see your famous Wilhelm Street.”
    Her face again went still for a moment. “Ach, the seat of our government.”
    He supposed that, being someone persecuted by the National Socialists, she would not enjoy that particular sight. Yet he needed to find the best location for touching off Ernst, and he knew that a man by himself was always far more suspicious than one with a woman on his arm. This had been Reggie Morgan’s second mission today—not only had he looked into Otto Webber’s past but he’d gotten the wire on Käthe Richter too. She had indeed been fired from a teaching job and had been marked down as an intellectual and a pacifist. There was no evidence that she’d ever informed for the National Socialists.
    Now, watching her gaze at the poetry book, he felt pangs of guilt about employing her in this way, but he consoled himself with