Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver Page B

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. Göring 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 Göring, 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 Göring 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, Göring 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