Garden of Beasts

Nutcracker and the Mouse King —so much darker and more real than what Tchaikovsky did with it. That ballet is pure puff, don’t you think?”
    “Definitely,” Paul agreed. He thought he’d seen it one Christmas as a boy. He wished he’d read the book so he could discuss it intelligently. How he enjoyed simply talking with her. As they sipped their cocktails, he reflected on the “sparring” he’d done with Käthe on the walk here. He’d meant what he’d said about arguing with her. It was exhilarating. He didn’t think he’d had a disagreement with Marion in all the months they’d gone out. He couldn’t even remember her getting angry. Sometimes a new stocking would run and she’d let go with a “darn” or “damnation.” Then she’d press her fingers to her mouth, like the prelude to blowing someone a kiss—and apologize for cussing.
    The waiter brought menus and they ordered: pig knuckles and spaetzle and cabbage and bread (“Ach, real butter!” she whispered in astonishment, staring at the tiny yellow rectangles). To drink, she ordered a sweet, golden wine. They ate leisurely, talking and laughing the whole time. After they’d finished, Paul lit a cigarette. He noticed she seemed to be debating. As if speaking to her students she said, “We have been too serious today. I will tell a joke.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Do you know Hermann Göring?”
    “Some official in the government?”
    “Yes, yes. He is Hitler’s closest comrade. He’s an odd man. Very obese. And he parades around in ridiculous costumes in the company of celebrities and beautiful women. Well, he finally got married last year.”
    “Is that the joke?”
    “Not yet, no. He really did get married. This is the joke.” Käthe gave an exaggerated pout. “Did you hear about Göring’s wife? The poor thing’s given up religion. You must ask me why.”
    “Please, tell me: Why has Göring’s wife given up religion?”
    “Because after their wedding night she lost her belief in the resurrection of the flesh.”
    They both laughed hard. He saw that she was blushing crimson. “Ach, my, Paul. I’ve told a naughty joke to a man I don’t know. And one that could land us in jail.”
    “Not us, ” he said, straight-faced. “Only you. I didn’t tell it.”
    “Oh, even laughing at a joke like that will get you arrested.”
    He paid the bill and they left, forgoing the tram and returning to the boardinghouse on foot, along the sidewalk that skirted the south boundary of the Tiergarten.
    Paul was tipsy from the wine, which he rarely drank. The sensation was nice, better than a corn whisky zing. The warm breeze felt good. So did the pressure of Käthe’s arm through his.
    As they walked, they spoke of books and politics, arguing some, laughing some, an unlikely couple maneuvering through the streets of this immaculate city.
    Paul heard voices, men coming their way. About a hundred feet ahead he saw three Stormtroopers. They were boisterous, joking. In their brown uniforms, with their youthful faces, they resembled happy schoolboys. Unlike the belligerent thugs he’d taken on earlier in the day, this trio seemed bent only on enjoying the fine night. They paid no attention to anyone on the street.
    Paul felt Käthe slowing. He looked down at her. Her face was a mask and her arm began to tremble.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “I don’t wish to pass them.”
    “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
    She looked to the left, panicked. The traffic on the street was busy and they were some blocks from a pedestrian crossing. To avoid the Brownshirts they had only one choice: the Tiergarten.
    He said, “Really, you’re safe. There’s no need to worry.”
    “I can feel your arm, Paul. I can feel you ready to fight them.”
    “That’s why you’re safe.”
    “No.” She looked at the gate that led into the park. “This way.”
    They turned into the park. The thick foliage cut out much of the sound of the traffic, and soon the creek-creek of insects and the baritone call of frogs from the ponds filled the night. The Stormtroopers continued along the sidewalk, ignoring everything but their ebullient conversation and their singing. They passed by without even glancing into the park. Still, Käthe kept her head down. Her stiff gait reminded Paul of the way he’d walked after breaking a rib in a sparring session.
    “Are you all right?” he asked.
    Silence.
    She looked around, shivering.
    “Are you afraid