The Zookeeper's War Page 3

  ‘I know, but this way we get rid of them sooner.’

  He asked how she’d gone at the Air-raid Damage Office and was relieved when she launched into a story about queues. He was thinking about that empty map, and all the ways he might fill it. Vera described her trek from the Mitte to the zoo. ‘On the Linden, a surrealist could have painted straight from life.’

  He would explain his thoughts another time—Vera had enough to manage. Marriage had long ago taught him the importance of knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.

  TWO

  Cutting up an elephant was like demolishing a shed, Axel decided: the same search for weak points to bring down the structure and, if you could overlook the gore and the sadness, the same satisfaction in a job well done. By rights this should have been Herr Winzens’ job, but for years the old man had worked as the elephants’ mahout, taking children for sedan rides on top of old Siam, the bull of the herd, and it would have been heartless to make him pack Siam off for soap.

  Beyond the western gate, trains were lumbering in and out of Bahnhof Zoo—whatever might be said against the authorities, they could work miracles with transport and public utilities.

  Through trial and error the men from the Ministry had streamlined the job, first hacking off the legs and head and loading them onto a lorry with a block and tackle. The next part was awkward and had caused the most grief: slicing the hide but not the membrane of the belly, which had to be opened by someone fast on his feet.

  With the muck of the belly cleared away, the hide became a tent you could crouch in. They’d left Siam to last, and half from curiosity and half to ward off the cold Axel took up a cleaver, cutting the meat and the hide away in sections. The task was absorbing, and when he stopped and saw Vera he had no idea how long she’d been watching. Axel gave the cleaver to the next man, took off his gloves and went to her side. ‘Liebling, you don’t need to put yourself through this.’

  She was staring at the carcass. ‘No, but I ought to.’

  Axel couldn’t see why.

  ‘To remember,’ she explained.

  And then to brood, he suspected, though from experience he knew that trying to persuade her to leave would be pointless. The men began sawing the weakest joints and knocking down bones still shaggy with meat. He would have liked to do his part but hesitated, sensing that Vera wanted him at her side while she paid her respects.

  ‘Isn’t it time to go back to the Ministry?’ she asked.

  The Ministry again. He wasn’t sure he could face another futile visit.

  ‘They’ll have other priorities.’

  ‘What about your Oberinspektor? You’ve co-operated. Surely he owes you.’

  ‘I doubt he’d see it that way.’

  ‘Axel, I’m asking for the animals.’

  It was arguable whether an evacuation would help any more, given the risks of transportation, and with rationing in force throughout Germany. A lingering death in some provincial pen would be little better than what the animals faced here. The truth was the rest of the stock was probably doomed, though he couldn’t say this to Vera. To salvage something from the wreck, he had placed the studbooks and his father’s photographs in the shelter.

  The men from the Ministry swung Siam’s carcass onto the back of the lorry. Axel looked sideways and promised to go to the Ministry if that was what she wanted. Vera smiled a little—in satisfaction, he thought, and perhaps also to apologise for stubborness. She kissed him, and they arranged to meet at nightfall.

  The workmen collected their cleavers and saws and climbed aboard the lorry, and though Axel knew they’d come for their own purposes, he felt strangely abandoned. He stared into the ruins. The elephant pagoda had been hit dead centre, scattering granite and coloured roofing tiles. Two of the herd were still under the rubble and would have to stay and rot. The lorry started up, pulled away between the craters and disappeared through the western gate.

  The Oberinspektor rose from his chair, shook Axel’s hand and smiled, something his colleagues had never done. Times had changed. The Reich’s defeats had triggered one of two reactions from public officials: redoubled callousness or growing circumspection. The Oberinspektor seemed like one of the latter breed. On his leather-topped desk were two trays marked in and out, both filled with documents. A file lay open on his blotting pad, showing Axel’s most recent letter. Behind him hung the Führer’s portrait.

  The Oberinspektor motioned Axel into a seat and drew up his own chair nearby, more like a friend in a café than a public official. ‘Herr Director,’ he said, ‘please forgive me, but I must say straight away that your request has been denied.’

  This was no surprise. Axel would have liked to leave immediately but wanted to tell Vera he’d tried his best. In a polite tone he reminded the Oberinspektor that the Ministry had already agreed in principle to evacuate the big cats if the bombing worsened. ‘The big cats are now dead. I’m asking you to evacuate our other stock.’

  The Oberinspektor leafed through the file, scanned a page then raised his head.

  ‘The concern was for public safety. It was thought the bombing might release dangerous animals.’ His long face was composed.

  ‘My point is that having agreed to an earlier evacuation there’s no reason to oppose one now. The zoo is closed. Defeatism is no longer an issue.’

  ‘That may be, Herr Director, but to be frank there are other obstacles—the shortage of cattle cars, for one.’ The Oberinspektor fingered both ends of a pen and then suddenly set it down. ‘Furthermore, I regret to inform you that the zoo must lose more staff. Remaining men between the ages of sixteen and fifty are to be called up for service.’

  This was a shock—he’d expected disappointment, not punishment. Already he’d attended too many funerals of former zookeepers killed at the front. ‘Without those staff the stock will die,’ he said. ‘If that’s your aim, just say so, and we’ll pack off the animals to an abattoir. They’d suffer less, and the Ministry would save on fodder.’ Stripped of sarcasm, he realised, the idea was unpleasantly plausible.

  The Oberinspektor replied with exaggerated patience. ‘Herr Director, you’re upset. That’s natural. The zoo’s plight is regrettable, but you must understand that the war effort comes first.’

  Axel stood up. ‘Then thank you for your time.’

  The Oberinspektor waved him down. ‘There is something we can do for you. After reading your letter I approached the Reich Labour Front, and I am happy to say that they have agreed to give you twelve Ostarbeiter, all males, mostly from Poland and the Protectorate of Bohemia.’

  Axel’s shoulders stiffened. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t accept.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘We want our existing staff, not foreign workers.’

  ‘The Wehrmacht’s needs are paramount, Herr Director.’ In a perfunctory tone he added, ‘Your staff will be returned at the end of the war. Until then you can use the Ostarbeiter. You will find that they cost far less to employ.’

  ‘Cost is not the issue.’

  The Oberinspektor examined him closely. ‘I see. And do you wish to explain the issue?’ From the wall the Führer stared into the room with unfocused discontent.

  Axel could barely explain it to himself. Vera wouldn’t like it, he was sure of that, but he could hardly say that he’d be in trouble with his wife.

  ‘It’s a question of training. And there’s the language barrier. Inexperienced staff would be a burden.’

  The Oberinspektor raised his palm. ‘Forgive me, Herr Director. You don’t understand. This is not an offer but accomplished fact. Cynics maintain that a letter posted to a government ministry is destined for oblivion, Vergessenheit, that it vanishes like vapour.’ His hands mimed a puff of air then settled together on the blotting pad. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. A letter reaches in-trays. It clogs pneumatic tubes. Eventually it necessitates a response.’ The Oberinspektor waggled a forefinger. ‘Now you, Herr Director, have sent not one but ma
ny letters.’

  ‘Simple. I withdraw them.’

  The Oberinspektor shook his head. ‘Even now, the Reich Labour Front is diverting the Ostarbeiter from other projects.’ He closed the file. ‘Go back to the zoo and await your new workers. Try to be more grateful. Foreign labour is better than no labour at all.’ He rose to his feet, performed the salute, picked up the file and transferred it to the out-tray.

  Axel stood up and inclined his head, determined not to utter another word. He crossed the room and grasped the doorknob.

  ‘Herr Director.’

  Axel stopped, half turning around. The Oberinspektor was standing with studied casualness, busying his hands with a fresh pile of papers.

  ‘There’s no need to blame yourself, you know. You needn’t be concerned. No one, niemand, who survives this war will escape with honour wholly intact.’

  ‘It’s wrong,’ said Vera, ‘that’s all there is to say.’

  Axel doubted it was this simple, but as usual when Vera took to arguing he was stumped for a reply. What came to mind first was one of his mother’s maxims, though she had been dead for more than twenty years. ‘Vera, what can’t be changed must be endured.’

  She set her iron back down on the stove. ‘We’re not discussing the weather. This is slavery.’

  ‘They are paid.’ This was quibbling, but accuracy mattered.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘It’s a pittance, a fig leaf. They’re forced to hand the money back to pay for their own konzentrationslager.’

  ‘Barracks. They’re kept in barracks.’

  Vera scoffed. ‘This will count against us when the war is over—whoever’s in charge.’

  Flavia was due home soon, and Axel hoped she’d be on time. ‘The Ostarbeiter will be better off at the zoo than a factory. Whoever’s in charge when the war is over will see that we’ve tried to look after these men.’

  ‘But how? With what food? Whose money?’ A worrying quaver of emotion filled her voice. ‘Anyway, this goes beyond all that. What you’re proposing will diminish our souls.’

  Metaphysics now—she was impossible in this mood. Oddly, she resumed ironing.

  ‘You’re better than this,’ she said, ‘that’s the frustrating thing. Good heart, thick head. A Marxist would rank you with the unschooled peasants.’

  So her sense of humour hadn’t disappeared. Axel spoke in a gentle voice. ‘Now that the other keepers are going, we really have no choice.’

  ‘Even the zoo isn’t worth this.’

  ‘Maybe so. But someone has to look after the animals.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Suddenly she seemed beside herself with despair. He changed the subject.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about where the zoo goes from here. After the war,’ he explained.

  ‘After?’

  ‘We need a plan. Fortunately, I’ve had some ideas.’ Vera seemed troubled, but he persevered. ‘For years you’ve wanted to build more Freigehege, and what’s stopped us is lack of space. Remember what you once called the animal houses? Mausoleums. “What idiot thought of houses for animals?” you said. A lot of those houses are gone now, and in a way the British have done us a favour because when the war is over we can start again, without walls, without cages.’ Vera frowned and drove the iron over one of his shirts. Even to his own ears the speech sounded gushing. ‘Fewer displays, but larger. Proper breeding, not the half-hearted kind we’ve done before…’

  ‘And the animals we have now?’

  ‘There’s a limit to what we can do for them. There’s not enough food. We can’t stop the bombing. Some species could have priority: the hamadryas baboons, or any others that might be bred later—but for individuals there may be little we can do.’

  She worked in silence until Axel couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Well?’

  She set down the iron. ‘It’s all so calculated—“These ones are done for, so let’s plan for the next lot.’”

  ‘Vera, you know that’s not it.’

  ‘It sounds like that.’

  ‘I’m saying we may have to sacrifice some to save others.’

  ‘By sacrifice you mean starve?’

  ‘If needs be, yes.’

  ‘I don’t want that on my conscience,’ she said, ‘any more than I want to exploit slave labour.’

  He took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if they had choices. He had meant to inspire, but instead they were back on the Ostarbeiter. He tried one last time. ‘Vera, for years you’ve argued for redesign. The bombing, the Ostarbeiter—I wouldn’t have chosen any of it, but can’t you see it’s an opportunity?’

  Through the door came the sound of Flavia pounding up the stairs, and Vera answered him quickly. ‘We didn’t build Freigehege for beautification. It was all for the animals. The zoo’s for them, not us, or we’re no better than gaolers.’

  The door flew open and Flavia swept in, and without hesitation Vera asked about her day, ironing as she spoke. Flavia launched into an obscene anecdote about an actor at the Theatre Rose, but though Axel chuckled at all the right moments he was also still puzzling over Vera’s reaction to his plans. How could she champion the animals and yet reject the Ostarbeiter, the only way of keeping them fed? And what did the issue have to do with his plans to rebuild, something she’d wanted for years? The more he recalled what they’d said to each other, the more it seemed like a pantomime for the venting of emotions.

  They ate some dinner, then he settled down and tried to read the newspaper, but the paw prints of the Propaganda Minister were on every page, and the words stopped making sense. Flavia was cursing at a needle and thread, while Vera laboured over a government form.

  How he hated arguing—Vera could be reckless when angry. Their one-sided rows reminded him of one of his worst mistakes in zookeeping, when he had herded chamois and ibex together, only to learn that the chamois’ rearing challenge laid it fatally open to the horns of the ibex, whose fighting instinct was to charge.

  At least arguments with Vera were rare, and really he couldn’t complain about her forthright nature, since he’d known about it from the start.

  They had met in Sydney, April 1934, in a Salvation Army Hall in Woolloomooloo. He was on a collecting trip, and in return for help from the German Consul he had agreed to make a speech to the Australian–German Friendship Society, which had been established to mend relations after the war. His speech was remedial Darwinism—meant to correct the impression formed by a film like Tarzan that species such as lions and pythons commonly fought to the death. In the wild, he’d argued, aggression was never pointless: lions and pythons were no threat to one another’s vital interests and therefore had no need to fight. Aside from hunting, most aggression occurred within species, usually in competition for territory or mates.

  After the speech, all the questions concerned man-eaters, terrestrial or aquatic, and venomous snakes or spiders, and he’d all but given up on a sensible question when a woman at the back of the hall raised her hand. Her German was halting but accurate. He had mentioned that aggression within species was caused by struggles for territory or mates, said the woman, instincts that presumably benefited the species in some way. Axel nodded. In the case of humans, continued the woman, what possible benefit could have accrued from the slaughter on the western front?

  The audience shifted uneasily, and the Consul, Axel noticed, was visibly irked—no doubt it was awkward representing Germany in the country of a former foe.

  Axel met the young woman’s eye—for a short time in Belgium he’d faced Australians in battle. The last war, he said, could indeed be interpreted as a contest for territory, however she was right to imply that the loss of life seemed disproportionate to the amount of land that ultimately changed hands.

  ‘And competition for mates?’ asked the woman. ‘Surely the men who chose not to fight—those who were free to choose—survived in greater numbers to procreate. Hasn’t the machine gun made Darwinism obsolete?’

  The Consul rose but Axel
waved him down. He looked at the young woman. ‘I’m not sure we can say that. For all the randomness of death in the trenches, natural selection may have done its brutal work. It’s arguable that returning soldiers enjoy a higher social standing, and as a result secure more desirable wives.’ Some of the audience tittered. ‘But I see that I’m straying into sociology—a vice of many of us who make a study of animals. To speak in strictly Darwinian terms—and with apologies to those here who may have lost relatives—the men who died in the Great War were expendable. Among mammals, it’s the survival of females that’s paramount.’

  As he was speaking, Axel watched the young woman’s face—nods of comprehension, a wrinkled brow. It seemed natural when she challenged him again.

  ‘And female aggression? What accounts for that?’

  In the front rows people turned around, craning to see the questioner’s face.

  ‘The same, I’d say—territory and mates. And hunting, of course, among carnivores. As a rule, though, aggression is less marked in the female. All too often, in the animal kingdom, it’s the fate of the female to be a prize for the aggression of males.’

  He fell silent, aware that some in the audience looked uncomfortable, perhaps even hostile—not about his views on aggression, he suspected, so much as his suggestion that the glorious dead were dispensable. The Consul stood up and moved a vote of thanks, and Axel glanced again at the young woman. She had straight black hair, a well-formed face, dark eyes and probing questions.

  When the applause subsided and the audience began to leave, the Consul approached the lectern and shook Axel’s hand. Vera was lingering at the rear of the hall, rearranging books in a bag. Axel could see that she was beautiful, though perhaps too young. Cutting short the Consul’s thanks, he strode up the aisle. Propositioning strangers wasn’t really his thing, but one of the advantages of visiting a foreign country was not having to face the consequences of mistakes. He invited her to tea, and she smiled and said yes.