Garden of Beasts

the thought that she was no fan of the Nazis, and by helping him in this unwitting way she’d be doing her part to stop the war Hitler was planning.
    She said, “Yes, of course. I will show you. And for your first requirement I have just the restaurant in mind. You will like it.” She added with a mysterious smile, “It’s just the place for people like you and me.”
    You and me . . .
    He wondered what she meant.
    They walked out into the warm evening. He was amused to note that as they took the first step toward the sidewalk both their heads swiveled from side to side, looking to see if anyone was watching.
    As they walked, they spoke about the neighborhood, the weather, the shortages, the Inflation. About her family:Her parents had passed away and she had one sister, who lived in nearby Spandau with her husband and four children. She asked him about his life too, but the cautious button man gave vague answers and continually steered the conversation back to her.
    Wilhelm Street was too far to walk to, she explained. Paul knew this, recalling the map. He was still cautious about taxis but, as it turned out, none was available; this was the weekend before the Olympics began and people were pouring into town. Käthe suggested a double-decker bus. They climbed aboard the vehicle and walked up to the top deck, where they sat close together on the spotless leather seat. Paul looked around carefully but could see no one paying particular attention to them (though he half-expected to see the two policemen who’d been tracking him all day, the heavy cop in the off-white suit, the lean one in green).
    The bus swayed as they drove through the Brandenburg Gate, narrowly missing the stone sides, and many of the passengers gave a gasp of humorous alarm, like on the roller coaster at Coney Island; he supposed the reaction was a Berlin tradition.
    Käthe pulled the rope and they disembarked on Under the Lindens at Wilhelm Street, then walked south along the wide avenue that was the center of the Nazi government. It was nondescript, with monolithic gray office buildings on either side. Clean and antiseptic, the street exuded an unsettling power. Paul had seen pictures of the White House and Congress. They seemed picturesque and amiable. Here the facades and tiny windows of the rows upon rows of stone and concrete buildings were forbidding.
    And, more to the point tonight, they were heavily guarded. He’d never seen such security.
    “Where’s the Chancellory?” he asked.
    “There.” Käthe pointed toward an old, ornate building with a scaffolding covering much of the front.
    Paul was discouraged. His quick eyes took in the place. Armed guards in front. Dozens of SS and what appeared to be regular soldiers were patrolling the street, stopping people and asking for papers. On the tops of the buildings were other troops, armed with guns. There must have been a hundred uniformed men nearby. It would be virtually impossible to find a shooting position. And even if he were able to, there was no doubt that he’d be captured or killed trying to get away.
    He slowed. “I think I’ve seen enough.” He eyed several large, black-uniformed men demanding papers from two men on the sidewalk.
    “Not as picturesque as you’d expected?” She laughed and started to say something—perhaps “I told you so,” but then thought better of it. “If you have more time, don’t worry; I can show you many parts of our city that are quite beautiful. Now, shall we go to dinner?” she asked.
    “Yes, let’s.”
    She directed him back to a tram stop on Under the Lindens. They got aboard and rode for a brief while then climbed off at her direction.
    Käthe asked what he’d thought of Berlin so far in his short time here. Paul again gave some innocuous answers and turned the conversation back to her. He asked, “Are you going with anyone?”
    “ ‘Going’?”
    He’d translated literally. “I mean romantically involved.”
    Straightforward, she answered, “Most recently I had a lover. We no longer are together. But he still owns much of my heart.”
    “What does he do?” he asked.
    “A reporter. Like you.”
    “I’m not really a reporter. I write stories and hope to sell them. Human interest, we’d say.”
    “And you write about politics?”
    “Politics? No. Sports.”
    “Sports.” Her voice was dismissive.
    “You don’t like sports?”
    “I am sorry to say I dislike sports.”
    “Why?”
    “Because there are so