They charged off down the corridor, teenage-calamity-in-motion.
A few moments later Heinrich arrived with Charlotte. Kohl liked the fellow (he would never have let a daughter marry someone he did not respect). But the handsome blond man's fascination with police matters prompted him to query Kohl enthusiastically and at length about recent cases. Normally the inspector enjoyed this but the last thing he wanted tonight was to talk about his day. Kohl brought up the Olympics--a sure conversation deflector. Everyone had heard different rumors about the teams, favorite athletes, the many nations represented.
Soon they were seated at the table in the dining room. Kohl opened two bottles of Saar-Ruwer wine and poured some for everyone, including small amounts for the children. The conversation, as always in the Kohl household, went in many different directions. This was one of the inspector's favorite times of the day. Being with those you loved... and being able to speak freely. As they talked and laughed and argued, Kohl looked from face to face. His eyes were quick, listening to voices, observing gestures and expressions. One might think he did this automatically because of his years as a policeman. But in fact, no. He made his observations and drew his conclusions because this was an aspect of parenthood. Tonight he noted one thing that troubled him but filed it away in his mind, the way he might a key clue from a crime scene.
Dinner was over relatively early, in about an hour; the heat had dampened everyone's appetite, except Kohl's and his sons'. Heinrich suggested card games. But Kohl shook his head. "Not for me. I will smoke," he announced. "And soak my feet, I think. Please, Gunter, you will bring a kettle of hot water."
"Yes, Father."
Kohl fetched his foot-soaking pan and the salts. He dropped into his leather chair in the den, the very chair his father had sat in after a long day working in the fields, charged a pipe and lit it. A few minutes later his oldest son walked into the room, easily carrying the steaming kettle, which must have weighed ten kilos, in one hand. He filled the basin. Kohl rolled up his cuffs, removed his socks and, avoiding looking at the gnarled bunions and yellow calluses, eased his feet into the hot water and poured in some salts.
"Ach, yes."
The boy turned to go but Kohl said, "Gunter, wait a moment."
"Yes, Father."
"Sit down."
The boy did, cautious, and set the kettle on the floor. In his eyes was a flash of adolescent guilt. Kohl wondered, with amusement, what transgressions were fluttering through his son's mind. A cigarette, a bit of schnapps, some fumbling exploration of young Lisa Wagner's undergarments?
"Gunter, what is the matter? Something was bothering you at dinner. I could see it."
"Nothing, Father."
"Nothing?"
"No."
In a soft but firm voice Willi Kohl now said, "You will tell me."
The boy examined the floor. Finally he said, "School will start soon."
"Not for a month."
"Still... I was hoping, Father. Can I be transferred to a different one?"
"But why? The Hindenburg School is one of the best in the city. Headmaster Muntz is very respected."
"Please."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know. I just dislike it."
"Your grades are good. Your teachers say you are a fine student."
The boy said nothing.
"Is it something other than your lessons?"
"I don't know."
What could it be?
Gunter shrugged. "Please, can't I just go to a different school until December?"
"Why then?"
The boy wouldn't answer and avoided his father's eyes.
"Tell me," Kohl said kindly.
"Because..."
"Go on."
"Because in December everyone must join the Hitler Youth. And now... well, you won't let me."
Ah, this again. A recurring problem. But was this new information true? Would Hitler Youth be mandatory? A frightening thought. After the National Socialists came to power they folded all of Germany's many youth groups into the Hitler Youth and the others were outlawed. Kohl believed in children's organizations--he'd been in swimming and hiking clubs in his teen years and loved them--but the Hitler Youth was nothing more than a pre-army military training organization, manned and operated, no less, by the youngsters themselves, and the more rabidly National Socialist the junior leaders, the better.
"And now you wish to join?"
"I don't know. Everyone makes fun of me because I'm not a member. At the football game today, Helmut Gruber was there. He's our Hitler Youth leader. He said I better join soon."
"But you can't be the only one who isn't a member."
"More join every day," Gunter replied. "Those of us who aren't members are all treated badly. When we play Aryans and Jews in the school yard, I'm always a Jew."
" What do you play?" Kohl frowned. He had never heard of this.
"You know, Father, the game Aryans and Jews. They chase us. They aren't supposed to hurt us--Doctor-professor Klindst says they aren't. It's supposed to be tag only. But when he isn't looking they push us down."
"You're a strong boy and I've taught you how to defend yourself. Do you push them back?"
"Sometimes, yes. But there are many more who play the Aryans."
"Well, I'm afraid you can't go to another school," Kohl said.
Gunter looked at the cloud of pipe smoke rising to the ceiling. His eyes brightened. "Maybe I could denounce someone. Maybe then they'd let me play on the Aryan side."
Kohl frowned. Denunciation: another National Socialist plague. He said firmly to his son, "You will denounce no one. They would go to jail. They could be tortured. Or killed."
Gunter frowned at his father's reaction. "But I would only denounce a Jew, Father."
His hands trembling, heart pounding, Kohl was at a loss for words. Forcing himself to be calm, he finally asked, "You would denounce a Jew for no reason?"
His son seemed confused. "Of course not. I would denounce him because he is a Jew. I was thinking... Helen Morrell's father works at Karstadt department store. His boss is a Jew but he tells everyone he's not. He should be denounced."
Kohl took a deep breath and, weighing his words like a rationing butcher, said, "Son, we live in a very difficult time now. It is very confusing. It's confusing to me and it must be far more confusing to you. The one thing that you must always remember--but never must say out loud--is that a man decides for himself what is right and wrong. He knows this from what he sees about life, about how people live and act together, how he feels. He knows in his heart what is good and bad."
"But Jews are bad. They wouldn't teach us that in school if it weren't true."
Kohl's soul shivered in rage and pain to hear this. "You will not denounce anyone, Gunter," he said sternly. "That is my wish."
"All right, Father," the boy said, walking away.
"Gunter," Kohl said.
The boy paused at the door.
"How many in your school have not joined the Youth?"
"I can't say, Father. But more join every day. Soon there won't be anyone left to play the Jew but me."
The restaurant that Kathe had in mind was the Lutter and Wegner wine bar, which, she explained, was well over a hundred years old and an institution in Berlin. The rooms were dark, smoky and intimate. And the place was devoid of Brownshirts, SS and suited men wearing red armbands with the hooked, surely-you-know cross.
"I brought you here because, as I said, it used to be the haunt of people like you and me."
"You and me?"
"Yes. Bohemians. Pacifists, thinkers, and, like you, writers."
"Ah, writers. Yes."
"E.T.A. Hoffmann would find inspiration here. He drank copious champagne, whole bottles of it! And would then write all night. You've read him, of course."
Paul hadn't. He nodded yes.
"Can you think of a better writer of the German romantic era? I can't. The 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 Kathe 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 Goring?"
"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." Kathe gave an exaggerated pout. "Did you hear about Goring's wife? The poor thing's given up religion. You must ask me why."
"Please, tell me: Why has Goring'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 Kathe'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 Kathe 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, Kathe 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 here?" he asked. "Do you want to leave?"
Still, she said nothing. They came to an intersection of sidewalks, one of which would take them to the left, south, out of the park and back to the boardinghouse. She stopped. After a moment she said, "Come. This way." Turning, Kathe led him farther into the park, north, along winding paths. They finally came to a small boathouse on a pond. Dozens of for-hire boats rested upside down, nestled against one another. Now, in the hot night, the area was deserted.
"I haven't been inside the Tiergarten for three years," she whispered.
Paul said nothing.
At last she continued. "That man who has my heart?"
"Yes. Your journalist friend."
"Michael Klein. He was a reporter for the Munich Post. Hitler got his start in Munich. Michael covered his rise and wrote much about him, about his tactics--the intimidation, the beatings, the murders. Michael kept a running count of the unsolved murders of people who were opposed to the Party. He even believed that Hitler had his own niece killed in thirty-two because he was obsessed with her and she loved someone else.
"The Party and the Stormtroopers threatened him and everybody at the Post. They called the paper the 'Poison Kitchen.' But before the National Socialists came to power they never hurt him. Then there was the Reichstagfire.... Oh, look, you can just see it. There." She pointed to the northeast. Paul caught a glimpse of a tall domed building. "Our parliament. Just weeks after Hitler was named chancellor, someone lit a fire inside. Hitler and Goring blamed the Communists and they rounded up thousands of them, Social Democrats too. They were arrested under the emergency decree. Michael was among them. He went to one of the temporary prisons set up around the city. They kept him there for weeks. I was frantic. No one told me what happened, no one told me where he was. It was terrible. He told me later that they beat him, fed him once a day at the most, made him sleep naked on a concrete floor. Finally a judge let him go since he hadn't committed any crime.
"After he was released I met him at his apartment, not far from here. It was a spring day in May, a beautiful day. Two in the afternoon. We were going to hire a boat. Right here, at this lake. I'd brought some stale bread to feed the birds. We were standing there and four Stormtroopers came up to us and pushed me to the ground. They'd followed us. They said they'd been watching him since he'd been released. They told him that the judge had acted illegally in releasing him and they were now going to carry out the sentence." She choked for a moment. "They beat him to death right in front of me. Right there. I could hear his bones break. You see that--"
"Oh, Kathe. No..."
"--you see that square of concrete? That was where he fell. That one. The fourth square from the grass. That was where Michael's head lay as he died."
He put his arm around her. She didn't resist. But neither did she find any comfort in the contact; she was frozen.
"May is now the worst month," she whispered. Then she looked around, at the textured canopy of summer trees. "This park is called the Tiergarten."
"I know."
In English she said, "' Tier ' means 'animal' or 'beast.' And ' Garten, ' of course, is 'garden.' So, this is the garden of beasts, where the royal families of imperial Germany would hunt game. But in our slang ' Tier ' also means thug, like a criminal. And that's who killed my lover, criminals." Her voice grew cold. "Here, right here in the garden of beasts."
His grip tightened around her.
She glanced once more at the pond then at the square of concrete, the fourth from the grass. Kathe said, "Please take me home, Paul."
In the hallway outside his door they paused.
Paul slipped his hand into his pocket and found the key. He looked down at her. Kathe in turn was staring at th
e floor.
"Good night," he whispered.
"I've forgotten so much," she said, looking up. "Walking through the city, seeing lovers in cafes, telling ribald jokes, sitting where famous writers and thinkers have sat... the pleasure in things like those. I've forgotten what that's like. Forgotten so much..."
His hand went to the tiny scallop of cloth covering her shoulder, and then he touched her neck, felt her skin move against her bones. So thin, he thought. So thin.
With his other hand he brushed her hair out of her face. Then he kissed her.
She stiffened suddenly and he realized he'd made a mistake. She was vulnerable, she'd seen the site of her lover's death, she'd walked through the garden of beasts. He started to back away but suddenly she flung her arms around him, kissing him hard, teeth met his lip and he tasted blood. "Oh," she said, shocked. "I'm sorry." But he laughed gently and then she did too. "I said I've forgotten much," she whispered. "I'm afraid this is one more thing lost from my memory."
He pulled her to him and they remained in the dim hallway, their lips and hands frantic. Images flashing past: a halo around her golden hair from the lamp behind her, the cream lace of her slip over the lighter lace of her brassiere, her hand finding the scar left by a bullet fired from Albert Reilly's hidden Derringer, a .22 only but it tumbled when it hit bone and exited his biceps sideways, her keening moan, hot breath, the feel of silk, of cotton, his hand sliding down and finding her own fingers waiting to guide him through complicated layers of cloth and straps, her garter belt, which had been worn threadbare and stitched back together.
"My room," he whispered. In a few seconds the door was open and they were staggering inside, where the air seemed hotter even than in the hot corridor.
The bed was miles away but the rose-colored couch with gull-wing arms was suddenly beneath them. He fell backward onto the cushions and heard a crack of wood. Kathe was on top of him, holding him in a vise grip by the arms as if, were she to let go, he might sink beneath the brown water of the Landwehr Canal.
A fierce kiss, then her face sought his neck. He heard her whisper to him, to herself, to no one, "How long has this been?" She began to unbutton his shirt frantically. "Ach, years and years."
Well, he thought, not such a long time in his case. But as he lifted off her dress and slip in one smooth sweep, his hands sliding to the sweating small of her back, he realized that, while, yes, there'd been others recently, it had been years since he'd felt anything like this.