Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  Sascha looked over. “Why?” Hoffner repeated the question. “Krieger,” Sascha said grudgingly. “Reinhold Krieger. Hasn’t even made it into a junior match yet. Terrible. Why?”

  “Let’s go over.”

  Sascha let out a forced breath. “I have to get out of my gear, Father, and I’m meeting—”

  “Come on, Alexander,” Hoffner said, and started to walk. “Let’s go say hello.” It might have been the surprise at hearing his full name, but Sascha gave in without another word. When they were within earshot, Hoffner called over, “Herr Tamshik?”

  Tamshik looked up. He did what he could with a smile and said, “Herr Hoffner. What a coincidence.”

  “Yes.” Neither man believed it. Hoffner motioned to Sascha. “This is my son Alexander. Second year.”

  Sascha snapped his head with an efficient bow.

  “An excellent fencer,” said Tamshik. “You must have been sorry to miss it.”

  Hoffner wondered how long it took a man to develop so acute a sense of viciousness. Tamshik made it seem effortless; perhaps he had simply been born with it. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “I was.”

  “You were a fencer, as well? As a boy?” said Tamshik.

  Hoffner did his best to hide his surprise; Tamshik had evidently done his homework. “I was.”

  “Easy to tell. Something like that gets passed on. The flair.” Tamshik nodded to the other boy. “This is my nephew. Reinhold Krieger. First year. My sister’s son.”

  Hoffner could hardly have imagined a less likely duo. Tamshik’s physical power, apparent in his every gesture, seemed capable of crushing the boy simply by its proximity. Reinhold was tiny. He tried his best to mimic Sascha, but on one so small and awkward, the quick drop of the chin gave the impression of a marionette fighting against its twisted strings. Hoffner knew the boy would be hopeless as a fencer. He could only guess at whose insistence he had signed on for his imminent torture.

  “Reinhold is small,” said Tamshik, staring down at the boy without the least thought for his feelings. “And quite weak. But he has an agile mind. I think the one can help the other, at least on the fencing strip. Isn’t that right, Reinhold?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” To his credit, the boy seemed equally dedicated to the ideal of improvement.

  “And a strong will,” said Tamshik. “Which the boy has.” He looked at Hoffner. “Something he shares with your Alexander.”

  Hoffner nodded. He was not quite sure how to answer. “Alexander is very dedicated,” he said.

  “That much is clear.” He turned to Sascha. “Your footwork is most impressive, young Hoffner.”

  “Thank you, mein Herr.”

  “Herr Kommissar,” Hoffner corrected.

  “Herr Kommissar,” said Sascha.

  “Not at all,” said Tamshik. “A pleasure to give such a compliment.”

  Reinhold spoke up: “If I could watch or train with someone like you, Hoffner, I’m sure I would become much better.”

  Hoffner senior wondered how many versions of the script Tamshik had worked on before coming up with this one. At least Reinhold was remembering his lines. That notwithstanding, the prospect of a direct link between his own son and a Polpo surrogate—no matter how junior—hardly sat well with Hoffner, especially after last night. He was about to make some excuse, when Sascha spoke up.

  “All right,” said Sascha casually. “If you want. You can watch.”

  The answer stunned Hoffner.

  “You mean it?” said Reinhold, equally dumbfounded.

  “Why not?” said Sascha. “Maybe you’ll pick up a thing or two. I don’t know.”

  “Thank you, Hoffner,” said Reinhold eagerly. “Thank you, indeed. I’ll certainly try. I’ll give it my best effort.” He was back on script.

  “That’s very good of you,” said Tamshik to Sascha. He turned to Hoffner. “You have a fine boy there.”

  “Yes,” said Hoffner, still mystified by Sascha’s response. “I do.”

  Almost at once, Tamshik found a reason to break up the little gathering: mission accomplished, Hoffner imagined. The good-byes were brief. Out in the corridor, as father and son headed for the changing rooms, Hoffner said quietly, “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “What what was all about?”

  “The sudden generosity of Herr Alexander Hoffner.”

  “The what?” Sascha said coolly.

  Hoffner spoke more deliberately: “Little Krieger? Your new training partner?”

  “I said he could watch.”

  “Yes, I heard. You don’t have five minutes for your own brother, who asks about it every day, but for Krieger, suddenly he could ‘pick up a thing or two’?”

  “I said he could watch,” Sascha repeated.

  Hoffner heard the first strain of irritation in his son’s voice. “You know what I’m saying.”

  Sascha stopped as they reached the entryway. He looked at his father: the boy was well beyond irritation. “Are you joking?” he said defiantly. When Hoffner failed to answer, Sascha said, “I did it because I thought that’s what you wanted me to do, Father.”

  It was the last thing Hoffner had expected to hear. “What I wanted you to do?”

  “You are joking.” When Hoffner again said nothing, Sascha said, “What did you think, Father? That I actually cared about some first-year stmper? We went over so you could make good with your Kripo friend. I thought you’d be happy.”

  Hoffner had no idea what to answer. He was trying to figure out which was worse: the fact that his son thought that he had been using him, or Sascha’s conviction that going along had been his only way to please his father. Neither left Hoffner with much to say. “He’s not Kripo,” said Hoffner. “He’s Polpo.”

  The word seemed to spark an immediate interest. “The fellows who got rid of the Reds?”

  “Among others. Yes.”

  “And he’s a friend of yours?”

  The sudden level of enthusiasm troubled Hoffner. “No. I just wanted to know what he was doing here.”

  As quickly as it had come, Sascha’s fascination vanished. “And that’s the reason you came today?” he said with renewed venom.

  It took Hoffner a moment to follow the boy’s train of thought. “No, of course not,” he said, trying to dismiss the absurdity. “I had no idea he’d be here.”

  Sascha stared at his father. He then said, “I have to go.” He started for the door.

  Hoffner moved to block his path. “I can wait. Take you home.” The silence returned. “If you like.”

  Sascha’s eyes had gone cold. He said, “Today’s Friday, Father. There’s a concert. After that, I’m at Kroll’s house for the night. Mother knows all about it.”

  Hoffner nodded as if he had just now remembered: he had never been told. “I saw his father today,” he said for some reason. When Sascha continued to stare at him blankly, Hoffner said almost apologetically, “You know you don’t have to help with that Krieger boy, now. No reason for you to waste your time on some stmper.” The word sounded so forced on his tongue.

  In a strangely detached tone, Sascha said, “No, I think I’d like to, Father. Who knows? Could be fun.” He brought the bag back up to his shoulder. “But I really do have to go now. Kroll’s waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for coming, Father.”

  Before Hoffner could answer, Sascha had sidestepped his way to the door and was pushing his way through. Hoffner was left to face the corridor alone.

  Idiot, he thought as he began to walk. Pushed him right into Tamshik’s hands, didn’t I? Sometimes Hoffner wondered if it might not have been better never to have met Martha at all.

  ASCOMYCETE 4

  It was Wednesday when he finally got back to headquarters. The weekend had disappeared into a Schwarzschild black hole of family commitments: Martha’s sisters on Saturday, his mother on Sunday. Sascha had been present for both events and had worn his potential Tamshik-connection like a light summer cardigan: casually draped over hi
s shoulder in a posture of smug defiance. Hoffner had sat through the long afternoons hoping for a ring of the telephone. It had never come. Monday and Tuesday had found him at the Reichstadt Court giving expert testimony and presentation of evidence for three separate cases. By himself, Hoffner had sent two men to the gallows. The third, a minor trafficker in Pimm’s organization, had gotten off with a slap on the wrist. Evidently, Weigland enjoyed his sugar cubes more than he was letting on.

  In the meantime, Fichte had found nothing among the various stores that dealt with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel et Fils; not that Hoffner had been expecting anything. The trade lines between the former Central and Entente powers were just now beginning to resurface: French cheese was finding its way to Salzburg, Umbrian wine to Cologne. Given that everyone’s focus was on Paris and the peace talks, the lace market remained slightly less pressing. On the helpful side, Hoffner’s fawning friend at KaDeWe—Herr Taubmann—had been kind enough to take a stab at when the gloves had been made: kind enough once Hoffner had ordered a single pair for himself. They had cost him nearly half a week’s salary. He would, of course, cancel the order in a few day’s time. Still, the money was out of pocket until then, but the information had been worth it.

  Herr Taubmann had estimated that, given the lower-than-usual quality of the dye, the gloves had been produced in the last six months: the war had forced everyone to cut corners, which meant that the gloves had been purchased no earlier than the summer of 1918. The question of where was equally limited: before the war, Troimpel et Fils had sold in Berlin, Milan, London, and Paris, and, of course, Brussels and Bruges, but given Belgium’s fate during the first few weeks of the war, export to friend or foe had been out of the question. A pair or two might have been brought back to Berlin by a soldier on leave, but the chances of an officer’s gift—and a rather pricey one at that—ending up on the hands of, at best, a middle-class girl were beyond remote.

  The gloves had been purchased in Belgium, that much was clear. And, given the girl’s unique characteristics when compared with those of the other victims—her age, her clothes, the preserving grease—Hoffner was guessing that she, too, had originated elsewhere. He had sent out a wire to both the Brussels and Bruges police on Monday before leaving for the courts.

  On the unlikely chance that he was wrong, however, Hoffner had sent Fichte out this morning to the Missing and Displaced Persons Office in Hessiche Strasse. For some reason, the powers that be had decided to set up the bureau directly across the street from the morgue: someone’s idea of efficiency, no doubt. There was still the possibility that a photo or description of the girl had come in sometime in the last six weeks: a slim one, thought Hoffner, but at least it was giving Fichte a chance to familiarize himself with one of the more depressing offices in town, and one of the busiest since the revolution.

  Hoffner picked up the telephone and dialed the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. The KWI operator was infamous for misdirecting calls, and Hoffner spent a good ten minutes waiting for her to find the right extension. He was still adrift in static when a messenger appeared at his door, holding a small envelope. Hoffner ushered the boy into his office just as Kroll was picking up the line.

  “Uwe Kroll here.”

  Hoffner took the envelope, then motioned for the boy to wait. “Uwe, hello. Any news?” There was an unexpected silence on the other end. “It’s Nikolai.”

  “Yes,” said Kroll. “I know who it is.” Again, Kroll seemed content to leave it at that.

  “Is this a bad time?” Hoffner said skeptically.

  “You’re calling about the material.”

  Hoffner stated the obvious: “Yes.”

  Kroll paused. “You’re going to need to come down to the Institute, Nikolai. All right?”

  There was something odd in Kroll’s voice. Hoffner had been bringing him goops and oozes to analyze for years, and not one of them had ever provoked more than a playful curiosity. This, however, had the ring of seriousness to it. Hoffner considered pressing for more, but knew better. “All right,” he said. “An hour?”

  “Fine,” said Kroll. “I’ll see you then.”

  Hoffner hung up and he turned to the boy. “From the wire room?”

  “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  “No? . . . Interesting.” Hoffner peered at his own name written across the front of the envelope. There was no return address, no office number, just the name. The boy started to go. “Wait,” said Hoffner. The boy planted himself by the door as Hoffner opened the envelope. The note was brief, and to the point. It read:

  You should go back to the flat, Detective Inspector.

  It was signed “K” and nothing else.

  Hoffner flipped the card over and scanned it more closely. There was nothing distinctive to it: a card to be found in any stationers in Berlin. He rubbed his finger across the ink. Luxemburg’s flat, he thought. He felt the little ridges of raised cloth. Someone other than the landlady knew he had been there.

  “How are you, Franz?” said Hoffner, his eyes still on the card.

  The boy seemed genuinely pleased at the recognition. “Very well, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  Hoffner had always held a soft spot for these runners, the boy messengers who were as old a tradition at the Alex as any he could recall. The installation of telephones—along with the recent child labor laws—had helped to thin their numbers, but for boys with no hope of schooling beyond the age of nine or ten, this was one of the few chances they had to get themselves off the streets. There were even a few beds up in the attic where the most promising, and most desperate, spent their nights.

  Hoffner gazed over. He knew this boy well; he had worked with him before: always the same placid stare. Hoffner imagined that Franz could have blended in to any background. The boy saw Hoffner staring at him; his expression remained unchanged. Hoffner found that rather impressive. Going on a year, guessed Hoffner, maybe longer. A few more months, and Franz might find himself assisting a junior clerk, or even in filing, if none of the syndicates had lured him away by then. “So, tell me, Franz—who received the note?”

  “The security desk, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  “From whom?”

  The boy was momentarily at a loss. “I don’t know, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I could find out.”

  “Yes, why don’t you do that.” Before the boy was through the door, Hoffner stopped him again. “Just to the security desk and back. And not too many questions. If they don’t remember who brought it in, they don’t remember. All right?”

  “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  “Good.” Hoffner nodded him out and then sat back. He again turned to the note.

  There was nothing aggressive in its tone, nothing leading, or mocking. It was a simple suggestion. Though neat, the handwriting was clearly that of a man. The s was too compressed, and the K too severe, to have come from a woman’s pen. More than that, the ink was thick, the point heavy, not like the delicate line produced by a woman’s narrower nib. There was also nothing of the pathological in the script. Hoffner had seen too many messages from maniacs not to be able to discern the subtle shadings in the angle and height of the letters. The language was also wrong for that. No, this had come from an educated man—no doubt a secretive one, from his method of delivery—but aside from that, Hoffner had little to go on. The phrase “Detective Inspector” struck him as odd. There might even have been something encouraging in that.

  Hoffner stood and moved over to the map. He located Luxemburg’s flat and stared at the little street for nearly a minute. He then looked up at the area where his pins were sprouting: over six kilometers away. There was no connection. He was about to return to his desk when he realized that he had yet to put a pin into the spot along the Landwehr Canal where Luxemburg’s body had been discovered. He picked one up from the box on the shelf and held it in his fingers as he traced the canal’s winding path. It cut across most of the city: impossible, naturally, to determine where the body had gone in. W
hat, then, was the point of marking where it had come out, he thought. He continued to stare. Maybe that was the point.

  The boy reappeared, slightly out of breath. He stood waiting at the door until Hoffner motioned him in. “They think a man with a beard, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  “They think?”

  “It was busy, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. The letter was dropped at the desk. The Sergeant thinks he saw a man with a beard around the time it came in.”

  “Nothing else?” said Hoffner.

  “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  Hoffner nodded slowly, then said, “All right, Franz. You can go.”

  The boy bobbed his head in a quick bow, and was almost out the door, when Hoffner again stopped him. “Wait.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out a pfennig. He held it out to the boy. The men of the Kripo were strictly forbidden to give taschgeld to the boys, but Hoffner had never seen the harm in a little pocket money. Franz hesitated; he, too, knew the rules. Hoffner brought his finger up to his lips as if to say it would be their secret. Again the boy hesitated; he then took the coin and, just as quickly, was gone.

  Hoffner turned back to the map and dropped the pin into its box. Another time, he thought. He checked his watch and, placing the card in his pocket, grabbed his coat and headed for the stairs.

  This time, Kroll was in his office when Hoffner knocked. A quick “Come” ushered him in: Kroll looked up from behind his desk and immediately stood. From the abruptness of the movement, he seemed oddly tense. “Hello, Nikolai,” he said as he stepped out to extend a hand. It was all far more formal than Hoffner had expected. Not sure why, and not wanting to break the mood, Hoffner took his hand.

  “Uwe.”

  No less forced, Kroll said, “We saw your Alexander, Friday. Charming boy, Nikolai. Really. He’s grown into quite a young man.”