Garden of Beasts Read online

  He now heard, from downstairs, the clatter of activity in the kitchen. The time was 7 A . M . Ernst had had just over four hours of sleep.

  Ernst stretched, lifting his damaged arm as far as he could, massaging it and feeling the triangular piece of metal lodged near the shoulder. There was a familiarity and, curiously, a comfort about the shrapnel. Ernst believed in embracing the past and he appreciated all the emblems of years gone by, even those that had nearly taken his limb and his life.

  He climbed from the bed and pulled off his nightshirt. Since Frieda would be in the house by now Ernst tugged on beige jodhpurs and, forgoing a shirt, stepped into the study next to the bedroom. The fifty-six-year-old colonel had a round head, covered with cropped gray hair. Creases circled his mouth. His small nose was Roman and his eyes set close together, making him seem both predatory and savvy. These features had earned him the nickname "Caesar" from his men in the War.

  During the summer he and his grandson Rudy would often exercise together in the morning, rolling the medicine ball and lifting Indian clubs, doing press-ups and running in place. On Wednesdays and Fridays, though, the boy had holiday-child-school, which began early, so Ernst was relegated to solo exercise, which was a disappointment to him.

  He began his fifteen minutes of arm press-ups and knee bends. Halfway through, he heard: "Opa!"

  Breathing hard, Ernst paused and looked into the hallway. "Good morning, Rudy."

  "Look what I've drawn." The seven-year-old, dressed in his uniform, held up a picture. Ernst didn't have his glasses on and he couldn't make out the design clearly. But the boy said, "It's an eagle."

  "Yes, of course it is. I can tell."

  "And it's flying through a lightning storm."

  "Quite a brave eagle you've drawn."

  "Are you coming to breakfast?"

  "Yes, tell your grandmother I'll be down in ten minutes. Did you eat an egg today?"

  The boy said, "Yes, I did."

  "Excellent. Eggs are good for you."

  "Tomorrow I'll draw a hawk." The slight, blond boy turned and ran back down the stairs.

  Ernst returned to his exercising, thinking about the dozens of matters that needed attending to today. He finished his regimen and bathed his body with cold water, wiping away both sweat and alkaline dust. As he was drying, the telephone buzzed. His hands paused. In these days no matter how high one was in the National Socialist government, a telephone call at an odd hour was a matter of concern.

  "Reinie," Gertrud called. "Someone has telephoned for you."

  He pulled on his shirt and, not bothering with stockings or shoes, walked down the stairs. He took the receiver from his wife.

  "Yes? This is Ernst."

  "Colonel."

  He recognized the voice of one of Hitler's secretaries. "Miss Lauer. Good morning."

  "And to you. I am asked to tell you that your presence is required by the Leader at the chancellory immediately. If you have any other plans I'm asked to tell you to alter them."

  "Please tell Chancellor Hitler that I will leave at once. In his office?"

  "That is correct."

  "Who else will be attending?"

  There was a moment's hesitation then she said, "That's all the information I have, Colonel. Hail Hitler."

  "Hail Hitler."

  He hung up and stared at the phone, his hand on the receiver.

  "Opa, you have no shoes on!" Rudy had come up beside Ernst, still clutching his drawing. He laughed, looking at his grandfather's bare feet.

  "I know, Rudy. I must finish dressing." He looked for a long moment at the telephone.

  "What is it, Opa? Something is wrong?"

  "Nothing, Rudy."

  "Mutti says your breakfast is getting cold."

  "You ate all your egg, did you?"

  "Yes, Opa."

  "Good fellow. Tell your grandmother and your mutti that I'll be downstairs in a few moments. But tell them to begin their breakfast without me."

  Ernst started up the stairs to shave, observing that his desire for his wife and his hunger for the breakfast awaiting him had both vanished completely.

  Forty minutes later Reinhard Ernst was walking through the corridors of the State Chancellory building on Wilhelm Street at Voss Street in central Berlin, dodging construction workers. The building was old--parts of it dated to the eighteenth century--and had been the home of German leaders since Bismarck. Hitler would fly into tirades occasionally about the shabbiness of the structure and--since the new chancellory was not close to being finished--was constantly ordering renovations to the old one.

  But construction and architecture were of no interest to Ernst at the moment. The one thought in his mind was this: What will the consequences of my mistake be? How bad was my miscalculation?

  He lifted his arm and gave a perfunctory "Hail Hitler" to a guard, who had enthusiastically saluted the plenipotentiary for domestic stability, a title as heavy and embarrassing to wear as a wet, threadbare coat. Ernst continued down the corridor, his face emotionless, revealing nothing of the turbulent thoughts about the crime he had committed.

  And what was that crime?

  The infraction of not sharing all with the Leader.

  This would be a minor matter in other countries, perhaps, but here it could be a capital offense. Yet sometimes you couldn't share all. If you did give Hitler all the details of an idea, his mind might snag on its most insignificant aspect and that would be the end of it, shot dead with one word. Never mind that you had no personal gain at stake and were thinking only of the good of the fatherland.

  But if you didn't tell him... Ach, that could be far worse. In his paranoia he might decide that you were withholding information for a reason. And then the great piercing eye of the Party's security mechanism would turn toward you and your loved ones... sometimes with deadly consequences. As, Reinhard Ernst was convinced, had now occurred, given the mysterious and peremptory summons to an early, unscheduled meeting. The Third Empire was order and structure and regularity personified. Anything out of the ordinary was cause for alarm.

  Ach, he should have told the man something about the Waltham Study when Ernst had first conceived it this past March. Yet the Leader, Defense Minister von Blomberg, and Ernst himself had been so occupied with retaking the Rhineland that the study had paled beside the monumental risk of reclaiming a portion of their country stolen away by the Allies at Versailles. And, truth be told, much of the study was based on academic work that Hitler would find suspect, if not inflammatory; Ernst simply hadn't wanted to bring the matter up.

  And now he was going to pay for that oversight.

  He announced himself to Hitler's secretary and was admitted.

  Ernst walked inside the large ante-office and found himself standing before Adolf Hitler--leader, chancellor and president of the Third Empire and ultimate commander of the armed forces. Thinking as he often did: If charisma, energy and canniness are the prime ingredients of power, then here is the most powerful man in the world.

  Wearing a brown uniform and glossy black knee boots, Hitler was bending over a desk, leafing through papers.

  "My Leader," Ernst said, nodding respectfully and offering a gentle heel tap, a throwback to the days of the Second Empire, which had ended eighteen years before, with Germany's surrender and the flight of Kaiser Wilhelm to Holland. Though giving the Party salute with "Hail Hitler" or "Hail victory" was expected from citizens, the formality was rarely seen among the higher echelon of officials, except from the drippier sycophants.

  "Colonel." Hitler glanced up at Ernst with his pale blue eyes beneath drooping lids--eyes that for some reason left the impression that the man was considering a dozen things at once. His mood was forever unreadable. Hitler found the document he sought and turned and walked into his large but modestly decorated office. "Please join us." Ernst followed. His still, soldier's face gave no reaction but his heart sank when he saw who else was present.

  Sweating and massive, Hermann Goring
lounged on a couch that creaked under his weight. Claiming he was always in pain, the round-faced man was continually adjusting himself in ways that made one want to cringe. His excessive cologne filled the room. The air minister nodded a greeting to Ernst, who reciprocated.

  Another man sat in an ornate chair, sipping coffee, his legs crossed like a woman's: the clubfooted scarecrow Paul Joseph Goebbels, the state propaganda minister. Ernst didn't doubt his skill; he was largely responsible for the Party's early, vital foothold in Berlin and Prussia. Still, Ernst despised the man, who couldn't stop gazing at the Leader with adoring eyes and smugly dishing up damning gossip about prominent Jews and Socis one moment then dropping the names of famous German actors and actresses from UFA Studios the next. Ernst said good morning to him and then sat, recalling a recent joke that had made the rounds: Describe the ideal Aryan. Why, he's as blond as Hitler, as slim as Goring and as tall as Goebbels.

  Hitler offered the document to puffy-eyed Goring, who read it, nodded and then put it into his sumptuous leather folder without comment. The Leader sat and poured himself chocolate. He lifted an eyebrow toward Goebbels, meaning he should continue with whatever he had been discussing, and Ernst realized his fate regarding the Waltham Study would have to remain in limbo for sometime longer.

  "As I was saying, my Leader, many of the visitors to the Olympics will be interested in entertainment."

  "We have cafes and theater. We have museums, parks, movie theaters. They can see our Babelsberg films, they can see Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow. And Charles Laughton and Mickey Mouse." The impatient tone in Hitler's voice told Ernst he knew exactly what kind of entertainment Goebbels had meant. There followed an excruciatingly long and edgy debate about letting legal prostitutes--licensed "control girls"--out on the streets again. Hitler was against this idea at first but Goebbels had thought through the matter and argued persuasively; the Leader relented eventually, on the condition that there be no more than seven thousand women throughout the metropolitan area. Similarly, the penal code provision banning homosexuality, Article 175, would be relaxed temporarily. Rumors abounded about Hitler's own preferences--from incest to boys to animals to human waste. Ernst had come to believe, though, that the man simply had no interest in sex; the only lover he desired was the nation of Germany.

  "Finally," Goebbels continued suavely, "there is the matter of public display. I am thinking that perhaps we might permit women's skirts to be shortened somewhat."

  As the head of Germany's Third Empire and his adjutant debated, in centimeters, the degree to which Berlin women might be allowed to conform to world fashion, the worm of ill ease continued to eat away at Ernst's heart. Why hadn't he at least mentioned the name of the Waltham Study some months ago? He could have sent a letter to the Leader, with a glancing reference to it. One had to be savvy about such things nowadays.

  The debate continued. Then the Leader said firmly, "Skirts may be raised five centimeters. That settles it. But we will not approve makeup."

  "Yes, my Leader."

  A moment of silence as Hitler's eyes settled in the corner of the room, as they often did. He then glanced sharply at Ernst. "Colonel."

  "Yes, sir?"

  Hitler rose and walked to his desk. He lifted a piece of paper and walked slowly back to the others. Goring and Goebbels kept their eyes on Ernst. Though each believed he had the special ear of the Leader, deep within him was the fear that the grace was temporary or, more frightening, illusory and at any moment he would be sitting here, like Ernst, a tethered badger, though probably without the quiet aplomb of the colonel.

  The Leader wiped his mustache. "An important matter."

  "Of course, my Leader. However I may help." Ernst held the man's eyes and answered in a steady voice.

  "It involves our air force."

  Ernst glanced at Goring, ruddy cheeks framing a faux smile. A daring ace in the War (though dismissed by Baron von Richthofen himself for repeatedly attacking civilians), he was presently both air minister and commander in chief of the German air force--the latter currently being his favorite among the dozen titles he held. It was on the subject of the German air force that Goring and Ernst met most frequently and clashed the most passionately.

  Hitler handed the document to Ernst. "You read English?"

  "Some."

  "This is a letter from Mr. Charles Lindbergh himself," Hitler said proudly. "He will be attending the Olympics as our special guest."

  Really? This was exciting information. Both smiling, Goring and Goebbels leaned forward and rapped on the table in front of them, signifying approval of this news. Ernst took the letter in his right hand, the back of which, like his shoulder, was shrapnel scarred.

  Lindbergh... Ernst had avidly followed the story of the man's transatlantic flight, but he'd been far more moved by the terrible account of the death of the aviator's son. Ernst knew the horror of losing a child. The accidental explosion on a ship's magazine that had taken Mark was tragic, wrenching, yes; but at least Ernst's son had been at the helm of a combat ship and had lived to see his own boy, Rudy, born. To lose an infant to the hands of a criminal--that was appalling.

  Ernst scanned the document and was able to make out the cordial words, which expressed an interest in seeing Germany's recent developments in aviation.

  The Leader continued. "This is why I have asked for you, Colonel. Some people think that it would be of strategic value to show the world our increasing strength in the air. I am inclined to feel this way myself. What do you think about a small air show in honor of Mr. Lindbergh, in which we demonstrate our new monoplane?"

  Ernst was greatly relieved that the summons had not been about the Waltham Study. But the relief lasted only a moment. His concerns rose once again as he considered what he was being asked... and the answer he had to give. The "some people" Hitler was referring to was, of course, Hermann Goring.

  "The monoplane, sir, ah..." The Me 109 by Messerschmitt was a superb killing machine, a fighter with a speed of three hundred miles per hour. There were other monowing fighters in the world but this was the fastest. More important, though, the Me 109 was of all-metal construction, which Ernst had long advocated because it allowed easy mass production and field repair and maintenance. Large numbers of the planes were necessary to support the devastating bombing missions that Ernst planned as precursors for any land invasion by the Third Empire's army.

  He cocked his head, as if considering the question, though he'd made his decision the instant he'd heard it. "I would be against that idea, my Leader."

  "Why?" Hitler's eyes flared, a sign that a tantrum might follow, possibly accompanied by what was nearly as bad: an endless, ranting monologue about military history or politics. "Are we not allowed to protect ourselves? Are we ashamed to let the world know that we reject the third-class role the Allies keep trying to push us into?"

  Careful, now, Ernst thought. Careful as a surgeon removing a tumor. "I'm not thinking of the backstabbers' treaty of 1918," Ernst answered, filling his voice with contempt for the Versailles accord. "I am thinking of how wise it might be to let others know about this aircraft. It's constructed in a way that those familiar with aviation would spot as unique. They could deduce that it is being mass produced. Lindbergh could easily recognize this. He himself designed his Spirit of St. Louis, I believe."

  Avoiding eye contact with Ernst, Goring predictably said, "We must begin to let our enemies know our strength."

  "Perhaps," Ernst said slowly, "a possibility would be to display one of the prototypes of the one-oh-nine at the Olympics. They were constructed more by hand than our production models and have no armament mounted. And they're equipped with British Rolls-Royce engines. The world could then see our technological achievement yet be disarmed by the fact that we are using our former enemy's motors. Which would suggest that any offensive use is far from our thoughts."

  Hitler said, "There is something to your point, Reinhard.... Yes, we will not put on an air show. And we will display t
he prototype. Good. That is decided. Thank you for coming, Colonel."

  "My Leader." Bathed in relief, Ernst rose.

  He was nearly to the door when Goring said casually, "Oh, Reinhard, a matter occurs to me. I believe a file of yours was misdirected to my office."

  Ernst turned back to examine the smiling, moonish face. The eyes, however, seethed from Ernst's victory in the fighter debate. He wanted revenge. Goring squinted. "I believe it had to do with... what was it? The Waltham Study. Yes."

  God in heaven...

  Hitler was paying no attention. He unfurled an architectural drawing and studied it closely.

  "Misdirected?" Ernst asked. Filched by one of Goring's spies was the true meaning of this word. "Thank you, Mr. Minister," he said lightly. "I'll have someone pick it up immediately. Good day to--"

  But the deflection, of course, was ineffectual. Goring continued. "You were fortunate that the file was delivered to me. Imagine what some people might've thought to see Jew writing with your name on it."

  Hitler looked up. "What is this?"

  Sweating prodigiously, as always, Goring wiped his face and replied, "The Waltham Study that Colonel Ernst has commissioned." Hitler shook his head and the minister persisted. "Oh, I assumed our Leader knew about it."

  "Tell me," Hitler demanded.

  Goring said, "I know nothing about it. I only received--mistakenly, as I say--several reports written by those Jew mind doctors. One by that Austrian, Freud. Someone named Weiss. Others I can't recall." He added with a twist of his lips, "Those psychologists."

  In the hierarchy of Hitler's hatred, Jews came first, Communists second and intellectuals third. Psychologists were particularly disparaged since they rejected racial science--the belief that race determined behavior, a cornerstone of National Socialist thought.

  "Is this true, Reinhard?"

  Ernst said casually, "As part of my job I read many documents on aggression and conflict. That's what these writings deal with."

  "You've never mentioned this to me." And with his characteristic instinct for sniffing out the merest hint of conspiracy Hitler asked quickly, "Defense Minister von Blomberg? Is he familiar with this study of yours?"