“The what?” said Fichte.
Hoffner smiled quietly. “Yes. She was popular, Hans.”
Fichte nodded and then said cautiously, “You’re . . . 0A0; not a Red, are you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”
Hoffner dug his hands deeper inside his coat pockets. “And what did you have in mind?”
“Well, you know . . .” Fichte had been given the go-ahead. “Blowing up buildings, marching in the streets, chaos, that sort of thing.”
“‘That sort of thing,’” Hoffner echoed. “Sounds a bit more like anarchy, don’t you think?”
“Anarchy. Socialism. Same thing.”
“I’ll leave the distinctions to you, shall I?”
Fichte hesitated. “She was a Jew,” he said with surprising certainty.
Hoffner nodded to himself. “Well, then, there you have it. The complete picture.” They ducked in behind a cart and headed across the street. Hoffner said, “You know, your anarchist wasn’t always waving her fists from balconies, Hans, but then you’re probably too young to remember that.” Hoffner hopped up onto the curb.
“Really?” said Fichte, following.
“Really.”
They continued to walk in silence until Fichte managed, “How so?”
The boy was genuinely keen on the subject. Hoffner said, “It might do you to pick up a newspaper now and then, Hans.”
Fichte nodded. “It might, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, but then I’ve always got you if I don’t.”
Hoffner had never heard Fichte’s playful side: the prospect of seeing his girl was evidently working wonders. “Fair enough,” said Hoffner. “It was before the war, around the time they hanged that Hennig fellow for the Treptow murders. You remember the case?” Fichte nodded. “Frulein Luxemburg printed an article in one of her papers, something about how the average soldier was being mistreated by his officers. Not that this was any great news to anyone, but she claimed that it had gotten out of hand. Lots of press after that. A Red coming to the aid of the army’s downtrodden. Powerful stuff.”
Fichte was skeptical. “Luxemburg did that . . . 0A0; for the soldiers?”
“She wasn’t trying to scrap the whole business, Hans—she wasn’t angling for them to disband the army or hang the culprits—she just wanted a bit of fair play.”
“Oh,” Fichte conceded.
“Naturally, the General Staff didn’t like it. They said that she’d insulted the entire breed—from the lowest scrub all the way up to General von Falkenhayn himself—so they put her on trial. Wanted to teach her a lesson, show her how easily a little Red could be crushed by the might of the Imperial Army. Except the soldiers started showing up in droves to give testimony, and all of them saying that she’d gotten it right. Something of a humiliation for the boys on top.”
“I don’t remember hearing—”
“Reading, Hans. It required a bit of reading. Anyway, Rosa came out of it the most popular girl in town. First the workers, then the soldiers. She had a little army behind her, this little Jewess with the funny walk. That’s why they threw her in prison when the war broke out. And why those same boys she’d helped all those years before were so eager to hunt her down once the war was over. They were officers by then. Not terribly appreciative, were they?”
Fichte waited before answering with a grin, “You’re sure you’re no Red, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”
Hoffner smiled with him. “It’s not all wild Russians and unwashed masses, Hans. There was a bit of courage in what she did—even for a socialist—and you have to respect that.”
The two walked past the darkened shops of Konigsstrasse and up alongside the walls of the Royal Palace—recent victim of its own revolutionary clash, and now forced to play the role of impotent relic. This, thought Hoffner, was to be the home of the new government. Already it seemed to be screaming out “bureaucracy!” to the socialist upstarts champing at the bit—rococo and baroque ousted by the dull gray furnishings of reform. From a certain angle, the four-block behemoth actually looked like a massive legion of filing cabinets. Maybe the social democrats knew more than they were letting on?
Wilhelmine Berlin reemerged as they crossed the Platz and started down the always-vibrant Unter den Linden. Hoffner marveled that, even in the aftermath of revolution, the avenue maintained an almost pristine elegance: trams, buses, people, were all decorously in tune with each other. Not a single tree within the dual column at its center had fallen—to battle or to firewood—although a few limbs had snapped under the push of onlookers during those first wild forays in late December. Those not lucky enough to have merited access to the upper floors of the various stores and hotels—or who had simply been daring enough to venture outside—had been forced up into the bigger branches for their vantage points. Thus had the twin line succumbed to the weight of rebellion. Still, Hoffner had to concede that, socialist or not, Berliners had known themselves well enough to leave the avenue in one piece. It was, after all, far more than just another rendering of the grand European boulevard. It was—it would always be—the city’s conduit between east and west, between the grind of labor and the gate of privilege, between his own world and the world of nobility. Revolution or not, Hoffner knew that that line could never be broken. It had made a certainty of defeat even before the first shots had been fired.
Unbreakable, however, was not the way the avenue presented itself to him tonight. Where stone and light and trees sprouted, Hoffner saw only the rising shoulder blades of the Alex and the Brandenburg Gate, the crisscrossing carvings of the well-lamped Friedrich and Spandau and Charlotten Strassen; even the elfin spire of Hedwig Church seemed now like a jagged imperfection dug out by a flawed blade. Hoffner gazed at the passing bodies, trams, automobiles, all of them caught inside the impenetrable pattern of a madman’s imagination, their movements dictated by the sudden twists and turns, and all perfectly synchronous and smooth. Variations in speed, angle, and direction faded as the avenue breathed life into the design. And within it walked Nikolai Hoffner, a willing speck in its circulation. He had allowed himself to believe that the pattern would rise up, reveal its meaning, if only he could maintain the ruse, convince it that he, too, belonged on the diameter-cut.
A child darted away from its mother; a man dropped to his knee; a tram screeched to a stop. And the pattern dissolved.
The Brandenburg Gate—once again stone—loomed above, and Hoffner heard words. Fichte was saying something. Hoffner continued to walk: he decided to let Fichte’s droning die out on its own.
As it turned out, Fichte was merely pointing out a tram and, expecting no response, had raced off to hold the door. It took another moment for Hoffner to catch on before he put some life into his legs, ran up, and jumped on. He was greeted by several muted hrumphs from the seated passengers. A flash of his badge to the conductor quieted any further commentary.
Hoffner moved to the back of the car and gazed out at the receding avenue. He tried to find the pattern again, but it was gone. Another lost opportunity, he thought. He closed his eyes and let his body sway to the tram’s motion as Fichte checked his watch.
It was another fifteen minutes before Hoffner felt a tug on his sleeve. He opened his eyes to see Fichte moving to the door, the lighted sign of Café Jostin growing nearer and nearer through the tram’s window. They had arrived in Potsdamer Platz. Two uniformed Schutzis stood at either end of the square’s traffic circle, trying to impose order. Hoffner smiled at their ineptitude: even the buses seemed to be ignoring them. He moved toward the door where Fichte was waiting impatiently. The tram came to a stop and the two hopped off.
“I didn’t know the badge gets us a free ride,” said Fichte, quickening his pace as they crossed the square.
“Only mine,” said Hoffner, aware that Fichte was too far ahead to hear him.
Hoffner let Fichte lead the way as they approached the caf’s large front windows, several long panes of glass that stretched nearly half a block. The bodies inside were packed in tightly, standing an
d sitting, an amorphous mass on view for the curious passerby. Pieces of conversation spilled out onto the street with each opening and closing of the door, at this hour in constant flux from the young clerks and salesgirls recently unchained from their posts at Wertheim’s and the other stores along the avenue. A slightly rougher crew—those who had left carts and other street-front enterprises—milled about around the bar. By eight o’clock it would be a different crowd altogether, a touch more sophisticated and with a few extra marks in their pockets for the second page of the menu. Until then, however, beer, not wineglasses, sat atop the marble tables; paper napkins served in place of the cloth; and those immaculately bleached white coats remained on their hooks—the long, if slightly dingy, waiters’ aprons sufficient for the early clientele.
From the eagerness in his stride, Fichte was clearly hoping to escape the changing of the guard. By then, if all had gone well, Hoffner expected him to have little Lina on his arm for a walk in the Tiergarten, her coat too thin for the cold, a needed arm around her shoulder—better yet—around her waist. Hoffner saw the evening’s performance playing out in Fichte’s eyes as his young assistant stepped over to the door.
“You go on in,” said Hoffner, still lagging behind. “I’m going to have a quick smoke.” Before Fichte could answer, Hoffner had a cigarette in his hand. “Come on, Hans. She’ll want a minute or two alone with you. You have to give her that, don’t you?” Fichte’s confusion gave way to a look of reluctant appreciation. Maybe an old detective inspector had more to offer than Fichte realized, than any of the young guns back at headquarters realized? If not, at least Hoffner was feeling himself back in the game. Or vindicated. Or not.
Fichte shrugged with a nod, opened the door, and moved inside. Hoffner watched him go as he tongued the end of his cigarette, lit it, and stepped over to the window, just out of reach of the lights. Taking in a long draw, he peered in from the shadows.
He saw her almost at once, even before Fichte did, impossible to miss her by the side wall. She was seated alone, with a small glass of beer perched at the edge of her table. She could have been any number of girls—a younger version of this morning’s encounter, perhaps—but Hoffner knew better. This one had a long way to go before stepping up to those ranks, her reputation clearly still her own. Even so, it was a plain face that gazed out, small nose, full mouth, with a curling of brown-blond hair pulled back and parted at the side. Her shoulders, slouching forward just enough, gave her slight bosom some depth, and, with her coat draped over the back of her chair, her slender arms lay bare as they disappeared into her lap. She sat, neither charmed nor daunted by the affectation all around her. Fichte had chosen well: maybe he would be the one to save her? From the look of her, she might even save herself.
She took a sip of beer, licked her lower lip—the tongue lingering just an instant too long—and sat back. She caught sight of Fichte and raised an arm, and Hoffner realized that perhaps he had underestimated her. The face transformed with a smile. Her eyes, unremarkable to this moment, sparked at the sight of Fichte, not with an adolescent excitement, but with something far more self-possessed. It gave her entire face a brightness. It would have been difficult to call it beauty, but it was no less riveting. Hoffner watched as Fichte maneuvered his way through the tables, as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, and sat beside her. She offered him her beer. He looked around for a waiter. When none could be found, Fichte coyly accepted the glass and began to speak between sips.
There was something fascinating in the way she watched Fichte talk, something Hoffner had not expected: she was leaning back. There was no need to perch forward, no attempt to show her undying interest, no sudden laughter, no distractions to sate her vanity. That scene was playing itself out at too many of the other tables. Here, she was actually listening. When she finally spoke, it was with a genuine conviction that, to Hoffner, was as out of place as it was compelling. He found himself drawn in, watching her speak, her every word, closer and closer to the glass, until, with a start, he saw her staring back at him. He stood there, suddenly aware of the shadows no longer around him.
A piece of ash dropped from his cigarette: it glanced off his hand and he flicked it away. It was only then that he noticed Fichte signaling for him to join them. Hoffner wondered which of the two had spotted him first.
Hoffner took a last drag, then tossed the cigarette to the ground. It fizzed in the puddled pavement as he stepped over to the door and pushed his way through.
The din of chatter rose up at once as if personally welcoming him, an imagined “Nikolai!” drawing his attention to a swarm of bodies off to his right. Hoffner turned back and pointed his way past the matre d’ as he made his way over to the table and Fichte, who was standing. Hoffner waited for Fichte to present her, and then offered a short bow. “Frulein.” Before Lina could respond, Hoffner had lassoed a waiter and was ordering three glasses of Engelhardt’s. Fichte moved around to the other side of the table and allowed Hoffner to take his chair. The two men sat. “I’m sure your girl can do with a glass of her own,” said Hoffner. He placed his hat on the empty seat across from her.
Lina said, “You didn’t have to smoke outside, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Her voice was low and inviting, and just as self-assured as Hoffner had imagined. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
“No,” said Hoffner, reaching in his pocket and retrieving the pack, “I don’t think you would have, Frulein.” He took a cigarette for himself, then offered one to Fichte. “The rain’s let up. I thought I’d take advantage of it.” He saw Fichte’s hesitation. “Come on, Hans. Better than that mll you’ve been smoking. Do us all some good.” Fichte looked at Lina, smiled sheepishly, and took the cigarette. “Can’t understand why he smokes them,” said Hoffner, striking a match and lighting Fichte’s. Not giving her time to answer, Hoffner said, “Must have some reason, eh, Frulein?” He lit his own and tossed the match into the ashtray.
Fichte cut in quickly. “I don’t usually smoke around Lina.”
“That’s a noble fellow,” said Hoffner. He picked at a piece of stray tobacco on his tongue.
“She says she doesn’t mind,” said Fichte. “Naturally, I can do what I like.”
“Well,” said Hoffner, “that’s very open-minded of you, Frulein.”
“Thank you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” she said. “Hans tells me your case is getting more and more interesting. That must be exciting.”
The word “exciting” had never sounded so raw. Hoffner smiled. “Nikolai. Please. For such a close friend of Hans.”
Fichte perked up. “Thank you, Herr Krim . . . 0A0; Hoff . . . 0A0; Nikolai.”
“And you must call me Lina,” she said, her eyes fixed on him.
Hoffner felt her gaze as he tapped out a head of ash into the tray. “That’s very kind, Frulein Lina.”
“Not at all, Nikolai.”
Again, he peered at her. Hoffner wondered if Fichte knew what he was dealing with here.
The beers arrived. Fichte tossed back what remained of his first glass and handed the empty to the waiter. He then picked up his new glass and proposed a toast. “To . . .” It was as much as he had prepared.
“To new friends,” said Lina.
“Yes,” said Fichte enthusiastically. “New friends.”
Hoffner raised his glass, then took a sip. He placed his glass back on the table and said, “So, you’ve never told me how the two of you met.”
It was all the prompting Fichte needed; with an occasional “Really, Hans—an ice-skating rink?” Hoffner had bought himself another few minutes to study Lina.
He now realized that the view from the window had not come close to doing the girl justice. Not that she was all that much more attractive. True, there were a pair of rather nice legs that had been lost under the table—her dress had risen to just above the knee and hinted at an even greater loveliness higher up the thigh—but it was nothing so mundane as a physical reappraisal that intrigued Hoffner. Lina had an energy, instantly per
ceptible, that told of a past and a future filled with daring and, above all, conquest, none of it garish or cheap, but intensely real, like the eyes that stared across at Hans and his stories of their recent present. The only mystery for Hoffner was why she had lighted upon his assistant, his well-meaning, young, very young, Hans as her escort.
“Hans exaggerates that part,” said Lina as she took his hand. “It was a little jump, and I almost fell.”
“She was magnificent, Nikolai,” said Fichte. “Truly.”
It was the first time Hoffner had heard Fichte sound comfortable using his name: remarkable thing, the touching of hands.
Hoffner took a long swig of beer. He stopped for breath, finished off the glass, and then placed it on the table. “It all sounds very romantic,” he said as he patted at his pockets for some coins. “Sadly . . .”
“Oh, no,” said Fichte. “You’re not going yet. And you’re certainly not paying when you do.” It was clear Fichte was already feeling the effects of the alcohol. Before Hoffner could stop him, Fichte was on his feet. “We have to find you some company. We can’t share Lina, you know, if we’re going dancing.”
Fichte was lost to the melee of tables and waiters before Hoffner could put out a hand to stop him. Even so, Hoffner swatted at the air before sitting back.
“He knows you won’t stay,” said Lina. “But he wants to make the effort.”
Hoffner started looking for a waiter. “Another mouth to feed.”
“You don’t have to do that, Nikolai.”
The mention of his name stopped Hoffner. The sound of it now felt wrong, not that hearing it had ever stopped him in the past. A waiter appeared. “Four more glasses,” said Hoffner.
“Three,” said Lina.
“Three,” said Hoffner, “and a dish of ice cream, vanilla, for the lady.” He turned to her. “Do you like nuts?”
“We have no nuts, mein Herr,” said the waiter.
Hoffner continued to stare at Lina. “Then we don’t want any.” Lina smiled. Hoffner tried not to enjoy it as much as he did.
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