Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Kurt Fischer answered his brother’s question with a despairing shake of his head.

He too was heartsick at the thought of what their neighbor had done. Why, Mrs. Lutz! To whom they took a loaf of their mother’s warm stollen, lopsided and overfilled with candied fruit, every Christmas Eve, whom their parents had comforted as she cried on the anniversary of Germany’s surrender – that date a surrogate for the day her husband was killed during the War, since no one knew exactly when he died.

“How could she do it?” Hans whispered again.

But Kurt Fischer was unable to explain.

If she had denounced them because they had been planning to post dissident billboards or to attack some Hitler Youth, he might have understood. But all they wanted to do was leave a country whose leader had said, “Pacifism is the enemy of National Socialism.” Like so many others, he supposed, Mrs. Lutz had become intoxicated by Hitler.

The prison cell at Columbia House was about three by three meters, made of rough-hewn stone, windowless, with metal bars for a door, opening onto the corridor. Water dripped and the young men heard the scuttle of rats nearby. There was a single bare, glaring bulb overhead in the cell, yet none in the corridor so they could see few details of the dark forms that occasionally passed. Sometimes the guards were alone, other times they escorted prisoners, who were barefoot and made no sound except their occasional gasps or pleas or sobs. Sometimes the silence of their fear was more chilling than the noises they uttered.

The heat was unbearable; it made their skin itch. Kurt couldn’t understand why – they were underground and it should have been cool here. Then he noticed a pipe in the corner. Hot air streamed out fiercely. The jailors were pumping it in from a furnace to make sure the prisoners didn’t get even a small respite from their discomfort.

“We shouldn’t’ve left,” Hans muttered. “I told you.”

“Yes, we should have stayed in our apartment – that would have saved us.” He was speaking with sharp irony. “Until when? Next week? Tomorrow? Don’t you understand she’s been watching us? She’s seen the parties, she heard what we’ve said.”

“How long will we be here?”

And how does one answer that question? Kurt thought; they were in a place where every moment was forever. He sat on the floor – there was nowhere else to perch – as he stared absently into the dark, empty cell across the corridor from theirs.

A door opened and boots sounded on the concrete.

Kurt began counting the steps – one, two, three…

At twenty-eight the guard would be even with their cell. Counting footsteps was something he’d already learned about being a prisoner; captives are desperate for any information, for any certainty.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…

The brothers regarded each other. Hans balled up his fists. “They’ll hurt. They’ll taste blood,” he muttered.

“No,” Kurt said. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

Twenty-five, twenty-six…

The steps slowed.

Blinking against the glare from the light overhead, Kurt saw two large men in brown uniforms appear. They looked at the brothers.

Then turned away.

One of them opened the cell opposite and harshly called, “Grossman, you will come out.”

The darkness in the cell moved. Kurt was startled to realize that he’d been staring at another human being. The man staggered to his feet and stepped forward, using the bars as support. He was filthy. If he’d gone inside clean-shaven, the stubble on his face told Kurt that he had been in the cell for at least a week.

The prisoner blinked, looked around him at the two large men, then at Kurt across the hallway.

One of the guards glanced at a piece of paper, “Ali Grossman, you have been sentenced to five years in Oranienburg camp for crimes against the State. Step outside.”

“But I-”

“Remain quiet. You are to be prepared for the trip to the camp.”

“They deloused me already. What do you mean?”

“I said quiet!”

One guard whispered something to the other, who replied, “Didn’t you bring yours?”

“No.”

“Well, here, use mine.”

He handed some light-colored leather gloves to the other guard, who pulled them on. With the grunt of a tennis player delivering a powerful serve, the guard swung his fist directly into the thin man’s belly. Grossman cried out and began to retch.

The guard’s knuckles silently struck the man’s chin.

“No, no, no.”

More blows, finding their targets on his groin, his face, his abdomen. Blood flowed from his nose and mouth, tears from his eyes. Choking, gasping. “Please, sir!”

In horror, the brothers watched as the human being was turned into a broken doll. The guard who’d been doing the hitting looked at his comrade and said, “I’m sorry about the gloves. My wife will clean and mend these.”

“If it’s convenient.”

They picked the man up and dragged him up the hall. The door echoed loudly.

Kurt and Hans stared at the empty cell. Kurt was speechless. He believed he’d never been so frightened in his life. Hans finally asked, “He probably did something quite terrible, don’t you think? To be treated like that.”

“A saboteur, I’d guess,” Kurt said in a shaky voice.

“I heard there was a fire in a government building. The transportation ministry. Did you hear that? I’ll bet he was behind it.”

“Yes. A fire. He was surely the arsonist.”

They sat paralyzed with terror, as the blistering stream of air from the pipe behind them continued to heat the tiny cell.

It was no more than a minute later that they heard the door open and slam closed again. They glanced at each other.

The footsteps began, echoing as leather met concrete…six, seven, eight…

“I will kill the one who was on the right,” Hans whispered. “The bigger. I can do it. We can get the keys and-”

Kurt leaned close, shocking the boy by gripping his face in both of his hands. “No!” he whispered so fiercely that his brother gasped. “You will do nothing. You will not fight them, you will not speak back. You will do exactly what they say and if they hit you, you will take the pain silently.” All his earlier thoughts of fighting the National Socialists, of trying to make some difference, had vanished.

“But-”

Kurt’s powerful fingers pulled Hans close. “You will do as I say!”…thirteen, fourteen…

The footsteps were like a hammer on the Olympic bell, each one sending a jolt of fear vibrating within Kurt Fischer’s soul.

…seventeen, eighteen…

At twenty-six they would slow.

At twenty-eight they would stop.

And the blood would begin to flow.

“You’re hurting me!” But even Hans’s strong muscles couldn’t shake off his brother’s grip.

“If they knock out your teeth you will say nothing. If they break your fingers you can cry and wail and scream. But you will say nothing to them. We are going to survive this. Do you understand me? To survive we cannot fight back.”

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…

A shadow fell on the floor in front of the bars.

“Understand?”

“Yes,” Hans whispered.

Kurt put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and they faced the door.

The men stopped at the cell.

But they weren’t the guards. One was a lean gray-haired man in a suit. The other was heavier, balding, wearing a brown tweed jacket and a waistcoat. They looked the brothers over.

“You are the Fischers?” the gray-haired man asked.

Hans looked at Kurt, who nodded.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read. “Kurt.” He looked up. “You would be Kurt. And you, Hans.”