Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  Fichte waited for the waiter to move off. “And you knew it was the Polpo?”

  “No. I thought maybe the KD was getting anxious. I even thought you might have been putting in some extra hours, bizarre as that might sound.” Fichte ignored the comment. “Either one would have been preferable.” Fichte let this all sink in as Hoffner suffered through a few more sips. “It means,” said Hoffner, “that you’ll have to be just as careful this afternoon.” Hoffner looked for a sugar bowl. There was none to be found.

  “This afternoon? What are we doing this afternoon?”

  “We aren’t doing anything.” Hoffner settled on a spoonful of cinnamon: for some reason, cinnamon was making it through to Berlin in truckloads. “You are hunting down all the places in town that do business with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel.”

  “All?” said Fichte.

  “Relax, Hans. There can’t be more than ten in the entire city that handle this kind of lace.” Hoffner tried another sip; the combination of cinnamon and chicory was truly dreadful. “And I don’t want any of them thinking that someone from the Kripo has been asking them questions. Comprends?”

  Fichte sat slightly amazed. “You want me to do this on my own?” Before Hoffner could answer, Fichte said, “I mean, of course I can do it on my own. I just want to make sure that’s what you meant.”

  “Surprised, Hans? I would have thought your instinct would have seen this coming a long way off.”

  Again, Fichte let the comment pass. “And what exactly will the Herr Kriminal-Kommissar be doing while I’m racing around town?”

  Hoffner stood and placed a few coins on the table. “Mechlin Rseau. Write it down, Reiner.” He then picked up his hat, ducked under the awning, and stepped out into the rain.

  IM SÜDENDE

  Her last known address was a matter of record; it took Hoffner less than two hours to find it. Even so, Luxemburg had spent too many years in and out of prison to make anything completely verifiable: five out of the last seven, from what he had read. There was the flat on Cranachstrasse that she had shared with a Leo Jogiches, but the lease there had run out in June of 1911. She had reappeared later that year in police postal records for the South End section of town, but, given the war and recent events, it was anybody’s guess how often she had called Number 2 on the tree-lined Lindenstrasse her home. Probably better that way: less chance that someone might be taking an interest in Hoffner’s unannounced visit.

  The building was typical for this part of town, five or six stories, a flat on each floor, comfortable bourgeois living. Hoffner had imagined Red Rosa in something grittier. In fact, he remembered how he and Martha had thought about this part of town for themselves, but had found it too expensive. Maybe he had chosen the wrong profession, he thought. Hoffner mounted the steps and rang the porter’s bell.

  Characteristically efficient, the man had wasted no time in attending to the nameplate for the top-floor flat. A lone L and u were all that remained of the torn strip of paper.

  The door opened and an older woman appeared from the shadows. She was painfully thin, and the wisps of her gray, bunned hair seemed to create a small halo above her head. She looked gentle enough, though the last weeks had evidently taken their toll. “Yes?” she said tentatively.

  “So sorry to trouble you, Madame, but I was hoping to take a look at the top-floor flat. You are the landlady?”

  “My husband is the porter. That flat is not available.” She started to close the door, when Hoffner reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his badge. He kept it close to his body as he showed it to her. Her discomfort grew. She stared at the badge, then up at Hoffner. For some reason, she brought her hand up to her neck. It seemed to calm her. “My husband isn’t here,” she said. “He said you wouldn’t be back for another few days.”

  Hoffner showed no sign of surprise. “Other policemen were here this morning?” he said as he returned the badge to his pocket.

  The woman looked confused. “No. A few days ago. I told them Frau Luxemburg hasn’t been here in weeks. We—” She stopped. “May I see your badge again?”

  Hoffner reached into his pocket. “Of course,” he said, and handed it to her. She examined it closely. “Would it be better if I came inside?” he said. “Out of the rain?”

  She seemed torn between apprehension and decorum. She quickly found what she was looking for and handed the badge back to Hoffner. “Forgive me,” she said. “Of course. Please come in.”

  The hall had a few touches to liven it up—a small table by the stairs, a lamp with a colored glass shade—but it remained a rather bleak introduction to the building. Behind her, the door to her own flat stood ajar.

  “So you say Frau Luxemburg hasn’t been here in several weeks,” said Hoffner.

  “She was living closer in to town—near to where her newspaper was published, I think.” The hand returned to her neck. “I don’t know. I don’t know the address.” Her discomfort grew. “I told this all to the other men.”

  “Yes,” said Hoffner calmly. “But it’s always good to hear it again. Make sure you haven’t remembered something new in the meantime.” This seemed to make sense to her. “Did the men take a look upstairs?” Again she nodded. “I’ll need to do that, as well.”

  Luxemburg’s flat was as large as his own, although the decor tended to stifle the space under a thick, middle-class charm: dark velvet curtains and oriental rugs followed him from room to room, as did endless rows of photographs and books that were placed along the shelves and bureaus; pillows of every size, color, and origin seemed to be lounging on whatever surface was available—twin settees, chairs, window seats, even by the fireplace; and the smell of dried wood hung in the air. This, thought Hoffner, had been a home for gatherings, a place of deep warmth. It emanated most vividly from the faces in the pictures, a few of which he recognized—Karl Liebknecht, Franz Mehring—but most told of a life unseen by the newspapers: laughter, a kiss, things incompatible with the iron stare of socialist zeal. He noticed, too, that Luxemburg had had a taste for things Japanese, a silk screen in her bedroom, a series of candid photos in kimono and jaunty parasol. Even so, it felt odd seeing her like this. Not that Hoffner was new to spending hours rummaging through the lives of any number of victims, but this was his first taste of one so public. It made even a cursory investigation seem somehow indiscreet.

  He moved from dining room to parlor, then back to the bedroom, unsure what it was that he had come to see. He looked in her closet: he noticed that a suitcase’s worth of clothing was missing; the rest hung neatly in rows. He leafed through several stacks of papers and books on her desk—from what he could tell, the bound drafts of speeches she had never delivered—and then made his way to the kitchen. The cabinets were reasonably well stocked; a teacup sat in the sink. The decision to live closer into town had obviously been a last-minute one.

  The porter’s wife remained by the front door, waiting nervously as Hoffner made his way from room to room. She said nothing; she could barely bring herself to look inside. As he passed by her for a second time, Hoffner thought that perhaps the prospect of entering the house of the dead—the newspapers had said as much—was too much for her. On closer examination, however, he saw it was something far less primal: this was where the end of her Germany had been plotted, where revolution and destruction and terror had first been conceived, and as much as she wanted to believe that Frau Luxemburg’s absence over the last weeks had mitigated her own responsibility, she could not. Hoffner sensed how much the flat’s untouched gentility served only to compound her guilt.

  He was about to say something when he suddenly realized what it was that was out of place: nothing. The rooms were exactly as they had been the day Luxemburg had left them. And yet, if the Polpo had been here only a few days ago, there should have been some trace of their visit: at least the papers should have gone missing. Hoffner spoke as he walked toward her: “How long were the policemen here the other day?”

  The sound of his voi
ce momentarily startled the woman. She peered in through the doorway. “I don’t know. My husband—”

  “Five minutes?” he cut in bluntly as he drew up to her. “Ten? An hour? You were here, weren’t you?”

  The woman began to nod nervously. “Yes. Of course I was here, but my husband let them in.”

  Hoffner kept at her: “Did he stay with the men while they were up here?”

  “Of course.”

  “To lock the door after them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  She looked confused. “The men?”

  “Yes,” said Hoffner. “Did they take anything?”

  The woman became more flustered. “I don’t—no. They took nothing.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, yes.” The nodding became more insistent. “I would have seen. My husband would have seen.”

  “So how long was he up here?”

  The nodding became a shaking of the head. “My husband? I don’t know. Five minutes?” Her eyes went wide. “Yes, five minutes. No more than that. Why is this of any importance?”

  “And you haven’t been up to the rooms since?”

  Once again she began to shake her head vigorously. Her answers became clipped. “No. Of course not. Why should I come—”

  “And neither has your husband? To straighten up, remove anything?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. Of course. Why would he come up to this flat?” She had reached her limit; her words spilled out of their own accord. “We did what we were told to do. We took the name away. We’ve been to the post office and to the local precinct to tell them that she no longer lives here. Why would we come up to these rooms? We’re to wait until her family writes us about the furnishings, the clothing, everything else. Until then, we’re to touch nothing.”

  The orders had been precise, thought Hoffner: the woman and her husband had followed them to the letter. Hoffner knew why, but he asked anyway. “You were told,” he said, his tone less strident.

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you?”

  She hesitated. “The men who came.” There was a hint of defiance in her voice, as if their very mention exonerated her. “They told us.”

  It was clear that even the name frightened her. Hoffner decided to make things easier. “The Polpo,” he said.

  With a short, swift nod, the woman said, “Yes.”

  “And they’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Yes. A few days. I don’t know.”

  Hoffner knew it was best to let it go. He could see the conversation still spinning in her eyes. He waited, then said quietly, “I see.” He then turned back into the flat and let his eyes wander from space to space.

  Five minutes, he thought. What could they have wanted with only five minutes? And why days before her disappearance? That made no sense. And why nothing since then? More than that, why announce that they’d be back? Not like the Polpo, at all.

  Hoffner felt suddenly ashamed of the way he had treated the woman. She had been hiding nothing, except perhaps her own fear, and even that had been too much for her. He considered an apology, but knew that would only embarrass her. Instead, he turned and, with a warm smile, slowly reached out for her hand. Uncertain for a moment, she let him take it; he cupped it in his own and said, “Thank you, Madame.” His tone was once again reassuring. “You’ve been very helpful.” Still uneasy, she nodded. “Extremely helpful.” There was a genuine tenderness in the way he spoke to her. “Especially given how difficult it is these days to know everything that goes on inside a building. Not like the old days.” Again she nodded. He said, “Who could expect you to know everything that goes on?”

  The woman tried to find the words. “That’s right,” she said, convincing herself as much as agreeing with him. “I can’t know everything.”

  “How could you?” Hoffner said kindly. “So I want to thank you for being so perceptive, even when it’s not your job to know everything that goes on inside these walls.” For the first time, she smiled. “Even before all of this, Madame,” he said with greater emphasis. “That wasn’t for you to know, either. Or for you to do anything about.” He paused and then squeezed her hand. “You understand?”

  She stared up at him. For a moment it looked as if she might say something. Instead she pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and turned her head away.

  Downstairs, she insisted he stay for a cup of coffee—a real coffee, she said. Hoffner thanked her, but instead headed for the front door.

  Twenty minutes on, the dense, sweet smell of adolescent exertion filtered through as Hoffner made his way along the corridors of Sascha’s school. The walls were dotted in a row of saluting wooden pegs, half of them buried under the hanging clumps of boys’ athletic gear. Hoffner had forgotten how quiet the place could be in the late afternoon; its stillness and scent walked with him like old friends. Even the memories of untold torments within its walls—those simple cruelties that all boys endure, yet which seem so uniquely pointed at the time—blurred into a larger sense of belonging. What was here remained fixed, his—for good or ill—and even Hoffner could take solace in that. Martha was convinced that they had sent Sascha here for the fine education, the family ties—even if it was out of the way—but Hoffner knew otherwise: survive this and survive anything. Already, Sascha was doing a far better job at it than his father ever had.

  As he approached the Sports Halle doors, Hoffner heard the familiar clink of foil on foil, along with the occasional cheer and applause for a touch. He checked his watch: he was over forty minutes late. He had gone to Luxemburg’s flat because of its proximity to the school. He now knew that had been a mistake. What Hoffner was still debating was how conscious a mistake it had been.

  One or two spectators—seated along the hall’s risers—peered over as the groan from the doors’ hinges announced his arrival. Hoffner ignored the stares and instead scanned the line of boys sitting in full gear off to the side; Sascha was the second one in. It was clear he had already fenced: his hair was matted in sweat, and his cheeks were flushed. He sat staring at the bout in progress. Even so, Hoffner could tell that his son had seen him come in: Sascha’s eyes were too intent on the action as Hoffner continued over to the stands. He found a seat in the front row, sat, and, for a few minutes, allowed himself to slip into the easy rhythm of the match.

  It was the footwork he had always enjoyed most. The rest—mano di ferro, braccio di gomma (iron hand, rubber arm)—had never really been his strength. What had set him apart was his uncanny ability to keep just enough space between himself and his opponents: close enough for the quick touch; nimble enough to make that closeness disappear instantly. Over the years, Hoffner had often wondered how much of that talent he had taken with him beyond the fencing strip.

  A hit. The boys on the bench stamped their feet; they shouted out for their teammate. Hoffner applauded politely with the rest of the crowd, one of whom was clapping loudly enough to draw his attention. Instinctively, Hoffner glanced over his shoulder. What he saw nearly made him blanch: there, staring directly down at him from three rows behind, sat Polpo Kommissar Ernst Tamshik. Neither man showed the least reaction. Tamshik stopped clapping. The two exchanged a cold nod, and Hoffner turned back to the match.

  For the next several minutes, Hoffner did his best to follow the movements on the strip, but his mind was racing to images of Luxemburg’s flat, the porter’s wife—he was sure he had been careful there. He pieced through the details of last night’s conversation, anything that might have brought the Polpo to Sascha’s school. A message? Was Weigland’s little chat insufficient? And here: why?

  Hoffner forced himself to refocus on the boys, both clearly too green to do much damage. As if divinely inspired, the smaller of the two suddenly tripped on the matting and unwittingly managed something resembling a hit. For a moment the director stood motionless, unsure what to do. Then, wit
h a look of genuine relief, he raised the flag and awarded a point to the boy. It gave him the bout, and gave Sascha’s side the match. There was another chorus of foot-stamping—along with a mighty cheer and the requisite handshakes—before the two teams dispersed to the waiting crowd.

  Hoffner decided to follow protocol: without a thought for Tamshik, he headed over to Sascha. The boy was packing up his gear when Hoffner approached. “The squad looks strong,” said Hoffner.

  Sascha remained in a crouch; he was busy fitting his foil into its canvas bag. “Not really,” he said. “The other school was weak.”

  “Still,” said Hoffner. “A victory’s a victory. Always worse to lose to the weak ones.”

  Sascha pulled the bag together and stood. “I suppose.” He looked directly at his father. Up until this moment, Hoffner had never realized how tall Sascha had grown. They were standing nearly eye to eye.

  “So,” said Hoffner. “You won your bout?”

  “Yes. Fifteen to two.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I’m second on the team now, Father.”

  “Yes. Your mother told me. Excellent.”

  This only seemed to make things worse. Sascha said, “It means I fence second, Father.” Sascha knew his father already understood this. At fifteen, however, he was still impatient with the subtlety of his jabs. “That means early, Father,” he said. “Did Mother fail to tell you that?”

  Sascha might still have believed that, with enough goading, he could provoke a response. Somewhere along the way, however, Hoffner had seen his son lose sight of that hope and instead settle for cruelty. Given the setting, it seemed only fitting; besides, Hoffner knew he deserved it. “She didn’t mention it, no.”

  Sascha looked as if he had something else to say. Instead he brought the bag up to his shoulder and waited; father and son quickly slipped into silence, which Hoffner took as his cue to glance back for Tamshik: he saw him standing with a small boy, smaller even than the recent victor on the strip. Nodding over, Hoffner said, “Do you know that boy?”