Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Who are you?

A clamor from the front hall. The boys were returning. Feet thudded powerfully on the stairs. Younger Herman was first through the doorway, swinging it shut on Günter, who blocked the door and started for a tackle. They then noticed their father, and the wrestling match ceased.

“Papa!” Herman cried and hugged his father. Günter lifted his head in greeting. The sixteen-year-old had stopped hugging his parents exactly eighteen months ago. Kohl supposed sons had behaved according to that schedule since the days of Otto I, if not forever.

“You will wash before dinner,” Heidi called.

“But we swam. We went to the Wilhelm Marr Street pool.”

“Then,” their father added, “you will wash the swimming water off of you.”

“What are we having for supper, Mutti?” Herman asked.

“The sooner you bathe,” she announced, “the sooner you’ll find out.”

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, Günter, 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, “Günter, 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?

“Günter, 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?

Günter 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,” Günter 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.

Günter 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.”

Günter 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.”