“Are you bleeding?” Hoffner said coldly.
Georg was no kinder. “No.”
“Then you should probably change. You’re sopping wet. We’ll wait.”
“Look,” Georg said, “I’m sorry your American friend is dead. I’m sorry you didn’t manage to protect her as well as you clearly seem intent on protecting me”—the word sounded so cruel in his mouth—“but I think you missed your chance. On both of us.”
“Georg. Listen. Please.” A desperation began to creep in. “You’re involved with this. The message you left at the Alex tonight—it connects you.”
“The message?” Georg looked only slightly more concerned. “Fine. So you and the operator know I’ve done some poking around.” He looked at Pimm. “And this fellow here. I’m not sure why that—”
“The people who killed her think you know far more than you do. Please, Georgi.” It had come to begging, thought Hoffner: How much more self-contempt could he take? “Do what I’m asking you to do.”
The boy’s resolve showed a moment’s hesitation. “Just like that?”
Hoffner spoke almost in a whisper. “Yes. Just like that. Please.”
Georg heard the fear in his father’s voice. He looked at Pimm, who remained perfectly still; in fact, the man barely seemed to breathe. Georg finally turned back and said, “We’re done throwing glasses for the night?” Hoffner said nothing, and Georg stood silently. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll change.”
Hoffner watched as the boy disappeared into the bedroom. He then turned on the tap and filled another glass. Pimm said, “I’ve got a few places he can stay. Send some of my boys—”
“No,” said Hoffner. “I have a place.” He drank. “Don’t worry. It’s on the way out to Wannsee.”
THE GRAVEL YARD and garden looked almost cheery under the snow. It was a lie. The windows in the building above—blackened by soot and decay—deflected whatever charm there might have been in the untouched white. The snow that streaked the gray stone disappeared instantly, as if the walls themselves had lost the will to sustain even such tiny flecks of life as these. Hoffner pressed the bell.
Upstairs, it rang in a dream—as a train whistle that seemed to be drawing closer and closer—until her eyes opened and she saw the outline of the small table at her feet, the bed beyond it where Frau Rudzinsky lay with her silk pillowcases and her heavy breathing. Somewhere farther on—almost to the window—a body stirred, but Rokel Hoffner knew that most of these would hear nothing. The bell could ring for hours and never pierce their aging silence. She thought to get up, but reckoned that Herr Läbsohn would do that: handyman, night watchman, so pathetic in the way he took pleasure in making her feel older than she was. It was always that way with the bald, so ashamed of their own deformity, taking it out on the sick and the old and the not so old. Läbsohn was a dreadful little man, and she was pleased to know he would be dragging himself out of bed for this.
The bell rang again, and a light flicked on somewhere down the hallway. A thin crease of it edged its way through her half-opened door. A moment later the ringing stopped, and its absence filled her ears until she heard a group of voices rising on the stairway. They were muffled at first.
“Go back to bed, Herr Sluparov,” Läbsohn whispered in an appalling Russian. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Rokel Hoffner lay back down and, seconds later, sensed the door to her room pushing open behind her. She recognized the footfall even before she felt the hand on her shoulder.
“Mama?” Hoffner whispered. She continued to pretend sleep. He shook her again and said, “Mama—you need to wake up.”
Without turning she said, “Is it Monday?” She waited and then looked up at him. “What time is it?”
“You’re awake.”
“What time is it?”
“A little past four.”
“Really?” She could smell the liquor on his clothes. “Well, if you’d waited another half hour or so you would have found me downstairs.” She peered past him and saw Läbsohn’s outline at the door. There was another figure standing with him, but she didn’t recognize it. “Yes, Läbsohn, it’s my plate of cheese you always complain about finding in the morning. There’s the mystery solved.” She looked back at Hoffner. “And then I come up here until they wake us. What a treat that always is. This, I imagine, is better.”
Hoffner nodded as if he had been listening. “Yes, very clever. I need a favor.”
“Who’s the other one with you?”
Hoffner said, “We’ll wait outside for you to dress. Then we’ll go downstairs.”
“They’re all deaf, Nikolai. And I wouldn’t care if you woke them. Who’s at the door?”
Hoffner hesitated before saying, “We’ll be outside.”
She flung back the blanket and edged her legs over the side. “It’s a robe, Nikolai.” She sat up and reached across to her chair. “And house shoes. Very elegant.” She looked past him again as she slipped her arms through the sleeves. “We’re done with you, Läbsohn. You can go now. At least someone’s managed to get you up on time for a change.” She stood, steadying herself before flicking her free hand in Läbsohn’s direction. “I said push off, Läbsohn. Put some coal in those stoves, and maybe we’ll have a cup of hot coffee this morning.” She looked at Hoffner. “Honestly, Nikolai, I’m not coming if he’s still here.”
Hoffner turned, but Läbsohn already had his hands up in retreat. “Not to worry, gnädige Frau,” Läbsohn said. “All is in order. Good night.”
“And put a hat on that head,” she said as Läbsohn disappeared into the hall. “It’s disgusting to look at.” She took hold of Hoffner’s arm and slipped her feet into her shoes. She then walked with him to the door. Out in the hall she asked, “Who’s this?” She had barely looked at the boy.
“Georg,” Hoffner said. “Your grandson.”
Rokel Hoffner slowed, then stopped. She refused to look over.
Georg finally said, “Hello, Oma. You look well.”
She continued to stare ahead. “Do I?” Her sense of betrayal seemed even more impressive than usual. Hoffner felt the grip on his arm tighten. Even at eighty she still had the stamina to induce physical pain. “Why is he here, Nikolai?”
Hoffner said, “I thought you said you wanted to see him?”
She waited for her shoulders to find their usual tautness before turning to the boy. “You thought I was dead, didn’t you?” When Georg said nothing, she prodded, “Well?”
Georg said, “I hadn’t really thought about it, one way or the other. I gather you’re alive.”
There had always been something clever and disarming with this one. She did her best to ignore it. “You’re tall,” she said. “You’ll be taller than him. He was small at your age. What are you, twenty, twenty-two?”
“You know how old I am, Oma.”
“Yes, I’m sure I do.” She began to walk. “What did he tell you?”
“Not much.”
“He’s very good at that, isn’t he?” They reached the stairs and slowly began to make their way down. “Did he mention this is a place for Jews—for old Russian Jews?” Georg was a step behind, but Hoffner felt the boy’s gaze even without turning. “Bit of a shocker, that,” she continued. “Granny a Jew, which makes Papi a Jew, which makes—well, only a quarter Jew, Georgi. That’s not so bad.” They came to the second-floor landing and continued their way around.
Hoffner said, “Georg needs to stay with you for a few hours. He’ll keep you company.”
“I don’t like company.”
“You’ll like it today. You can tell him all the horrible things I’ve done.”
They began the last flight down. Hoffner felt more of her weight on his arm as they moved in silence: this time she needed all of her focus for the stairs. When they finally reached the bottom she said, “Only a few hours, Nikolai? That hardly seems enough time for all the horrible things.” The corridor to the kitchen was off the main hall. She flicked on the light and
led them through.
Hoffner said, “You’ll manage to squeeze in enough, I think.”
They stepped through to the kitchen, and she turned on the overhead light. “I’ll certainly try.”
Industrial stoves and sinks stood along the far wall, cabinets everywhere, with a long wooden table planted at the center. There was a smell of ammonia and garlic rising off the tile floor. She pulled back one of the stiff-backed chairs and said, “Sit down, Georg. You’ll want something to eat.”
She headed to the icebox, and Hoffner leaned into the boy. “She’s frightened enough,” he whispered. “She doesn’t need to know why you’re here.”
Georg had his hands tucked under his thighs. “I’m a little unclear on that myself,” he said. “Do you smell bacon? Why would Jews—”
“Nikolai,” she called over, “I can’t find it. The cheese. Läbsohn’s probably hidden it in the back.”
Hoffner walked over and began to rummage through the shelves. She said quietly, “You’re all right, then?” It was the first hint of concern she allowed herself.
“I will be.”
“And the boy?”
“Just keep him here.”
He pulled out the plate, and she took his arm, not for support, only to hold it. He stood there, and she said more quietly, “You could stay. Just for a while. Make him feel better.”
Even comfort came with a price with her. What made it worse was that she was right. He waited before stepping over to the table. “We’ll have a proper visit when I get back,” he said as he set the plate down. He thought to look at her, but why see the disappointment when he could feel it like one more sodden layer of wool on his back? He tried a pat on Georg’s shoulder, but that, too, felt pointless. Moving to the door, he said, “It’ll give me a chance to defend myself.” And, daring a look—she was already at a cabinet, having forgotten him—Hoffner wondered if any of them believed that was possible anymore.
“Be safe, Papi,” said Georg.
Hoffner looked at the boy and tried to imagine where he had learned his kindness.
PIMM WAS WAITING in the backseat of the car. Läbsohn had been good enough to let him use the telephone. The boys were on their way out to Wannsee.
Pimm said, “I’ve circled the ones that are missing.” He handed Hoffner the ledger as the car pulled out. “Everything all right in there?”
Hoffner scanned the page. Not that any of these helped: first names, with only an initial for the last, hardly made the films a threat to the men who had produced them. Even so, they had broken into his office to get them. There had to be some leverage in that.
Pimm asked again, “So the boy’ll be all right with her?”
Hoffner nodded absently.
Pimm said, “I had no idea she was still alive. What other secrets are you keeping from me?”
Hoffner began to glance through the uncircled names. “It’s the last place they’d look,” he said. “The last place they’d ever step foot inside—a home for old Jews. Even the boy didn’t know.”
“He’ll thank you later, I’m sure.”
Hoffner continued to scan the pages. “You met her once, I think?”
Pimm watched as Hoffner read. “I had that pleasure. At Martha’s funeral. She told me I had good hair.”
“She likes her hair.”
“We had a conversation about Sascha and how he would lose his one day. She said that would upset her.”
“I imagine it would.”
“And has he?”
Hoffner stopped at one of the entries. It caught him momentarily off guard. “Did you see this?” he said.
Pimm was grinning as Hoffner looked up. Pimm said, “I wondered how long it would take you to find it.”
“And there’s a reel?”
Pimm nodded.
“You’ve looked at it?”
“It’s not bad,” Pimm said. “Considering she’s close to forty. Not that there’s much to see from a few frames held up in this light.”
“But you managed.”
“I had to make sure, didn’t I? She has surprisingly large hands.”
“You could tell that in a few frames?”
“Unless everything else in the film was especially small.” He saw Hoffner’s expression and said, “Fruit, Nikolai. She’s naked and eating fruit. I’m sure it gets more involved after that.”
“Yes, I’m sure it does. Does he know?”
“Who?”
“Lang.”
Pimm shrugged. “I doubt it. She writes well. That’s all Fritz cares about.”
“It’s a charming marriage, isn’t it? Did he know about the films?”
Pimm shook his head. “It was all about the device for Fritz. How they were testing it really didn’t concern him.”
“If he’s a fruit lover, he might be sorry he didn’t take more of an interest.” Hoffner closed the ledger and tossed it into the bag. “But you knew she was involved.”
“I had my suspicions. Thyssen floating in a tub flew a little too close to home. Such an obvious threat.”
“So Lang must have known as well.”
“Even if he did . . .” Pimm didn’t bother to finish the thought. “As I said, she writes well. I’m sure that makes Fritz very forgiving.”
The car hit a rough patch of road, and the two bounced along. Pimm grabbed on to the seat strap and said, “He’s not the only one with family links to these people, though, is he?”
Hoffner had taken hold of his own strap. He let the leather dig into the flesh of his palm. “No,” he said, as if confessing a crime. “He’s not.”
“At least Sascha made it easy on you by using another name.”
The car bounced up again, and Hoffner said, “Yah—that’s a great comfort.”
“You can’t blame yourself for it.”
“Can’t I?” The road leveled out, and Hoffner said, “So—how long have you known?”
“Same as you,” said Pimm. “The Pharus Hall. I hear it was a rather tender reunion.”
“Radek was right. You really do have eyes everywhere.” Hoffner realized too late what he had said: no point, though, in trying to hide it. “And speaking of sons,” he said.
Pimm chuckled. It was completely unexpected. “Wouldn’t it be nice to see him in that light? Give what I do a human touch.”
“Radek seems to look at it that way.”
“Does he?” Pimm actually had to think about this. “How very Greek of him. Maybe that’s where he’s from. I should probably gouge out his eyes or—” He shook his head. “Isn’t that the price for betrayal?”
“He wasn’t betraying you. He was trying to save you.”
“Was he?”
“All right, I was trying to save you.”
“Then I should probably start by gouging out something of yours.”
Hoffner had expected the more ruthless Pimm. This seemed almost playful. Hoffner said, “So Radek gets a pass on this one. I’m glad to hear it.”
Again Pimm chuckled. “You’re that concerned, Nikolai? That’s what makes you the father, and me not.” Hoffner felt an odd pleasure at hearing himself described as such, even if it was guilt alone that redeemed him. Pimm said, “Of course I do nothing to Radek, and not for the reasons you think.” He hesitated and then bobbed a nod at Hoffner’s crotch. “He’s got nothing down there.” He spoke with a quiet intensity. “I saw it once. Horrible. Just a tube to piss through. From the war. Not sure what he does with his heroin boys at night. At least he doesn’t know I’ve seen it. So, yes, he gets a pass. He wants to think it’s something else, let him.”
Hoffner might have explained how much crueler it was to leave Radek living like that; or maybe it was just another twinge of that untried fatherly instinct, limited as it was. Either way, Hoffner knew to move on. “The other night,” he said. “At the wharves. Radek was taking care of something. Tossing something in. What was it?”
Pimm shrugged as if he didn’t remember. “Nothing to do with this.” He
turned to the window.
“Come on, Alby. What was Radek tossing in?”
Pimm continued to stare out. Finally he said, “A body, Nikolai. What else do you throw in a river?”
K.
TWO OF PIMM’S CARS were parked in the driveway, with one of his men poised on a running board. He held a tommy gun at his side and was finishing a cigarette as Pimm and Hoffner pulled up.
“Anything?” said Pimm through the window.
The man shook his head. “He was asleep when we got inside. Earplugs. Says he never hears the telephone. Little Franz and Tomas are doing the walk-arounds. Kurt has the back.”
“Who’s inside?”
Again the man shook his head. “He said he was fine. He was pretty clear on that.”
Pimm looked as if he might tear into the man; instead, he took in a long breath and nodded. “Fine. He’s a son of a bitch. I don’t blame you.”
The driver pulled up to the door, and half a minute later, Hoffner pressed the bell.
Pimm said, “He’s going to make us wait. He thinks he’s above all this. I should probably let him get shot just to teach him a lesson.” The door opened, and Pimm was suddenly all smiles. “Fritz,” he said, his arms opened wide for a hug. Hoffner had never seen Pimm so much as shake a hand before. “You must be furious.”
Lang was standing in a long silk robe, his hair perfectly greased, the monocle at its usual perch. Only the stubble on his cheeks suggested anything was amiss. “Get inside, you little prick.” His tone might have been another hint. Lang turned and headed in. Pimm and Hoffner followed.
“Hello, Detective,” Lang said, not bothering to look around. “Thank you for all your brilliant work on this. I actually had faith in you, which makes me a rather stupid man.”
They stepped through to a large living room. It had a vaulted ceiling with a balcony that stretched along all four sides. Medieval tapestries and framed film posters filled the walls, with a few more African trinkets thrown in to shake things up. Lang stopped by a side table that sported two enormous black wooden breasts engulfing a half-filled decanter of whiskey. “Drink, gentlemen?” he said as he poured himself a tall one and headed for a sofa by the piano. “I imagine you can get it yourselves.” He sat on an angle and crossed his legs, the knee peeking out through the silk of the robe. Lang slowly adjusted the monocle and cocked his head back, just so.
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