Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  He noticed that someone had done a halfhearted job of clearing out the snow: a frozen slab of speckled white rose to knee level just to the side of the door. Hoffner put it to use and sat. Three minutes on, he began to think that maybe the choice was being made for him—the cold was seeping through to the seat of his pants—when a figure appeared on the other side of the glass, coming down a set of stairs. The man was dressed in a neat suit and a bow tie, and had a drink in one hand. He opened the door.

  Hoffner stood and said, “Good evening, I’m looking for—”

  “You must be the policeman,” the man said jovially, too pleased with himself at his discovery. “You can’t be anything else.” He ushered Hoffner in and started up the stairs. “We’re up on the third floor. Not too crowded just yet. I’ll be very interested to hear what you think.”

  The man talked nonstop the rest of the way up, confiding in Hoffner that he was less than thrilled with the current showing, but then, she was working in a new medium, and that always took time. Hoffner continued to nod as they came to a small door on the third floor and stepped through into a large studio that was humming with conversation. “Get yourself a drink,” said the man. “Take a look around. Very casual. Enjoy.” And with that, he pressed on into the crowd, having spotted someone far more interesting than Hoffner.

  If Hoffner had been out of place on the street, he was now an eyesore up among the artistes. They were all postures and attitudes, geometric shapes in the guise of bodies, long sharp necks peering down at canvases, pencil-thin arms at angles in the service of a cigarette or a drink. There was a distinctly chiseled feel to everything: Hoffner chalked it up to a lack of food. He noticed Lina by one of the sculptures. She, too, was managing a triangular effect of her own, legs apart, arms straight at her sides, standing on the edge of a group intent on a man who was yammering away about one of the pieces. Hoffner quietly drew up to her side and pretended to be listening. It was several seconds before she realized he was standing next to her. Her reaction was not what he had expected.

  “Nikolai?” she said uncomfortably. “You came.”

  Hoffner saw the welt under her eye. It was fresh, and her powder was doing little to conceal it. “Yes,” he said, trying not to look too closely.

  “You didn’t get my note.”

  Evidently the day had been filled with notes. “No,” he said. He wanted to ask about the eye, but knew it would be a mistake. “Was it important?”

  She answered distractedly, “No. Not really.”

  “I can go if you like.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to do that.” She seemed to be convincing herself. “I don’t want you to go.”

  He tried to lighten things up. “Just wanted to see what your painter has done with you, that’s all.”

  Lina did her best with a weak smile; she could always appreciate the attempt. “It’s etchings, Nikolai. Lithographs. She’s not painting now.”

  “Oh,” he said, the distinction meaningless.

  She moved him over to a less crowded area. There were still bodies everywhere, but she managed to carve out a small circle for them.

  Hoffner kept close. He said, “So, which one are you, then?”

  She motioned carelessly to the far wall. He expected her to lead him over; instead, she looked directly at him and said, “You didn’t say anything to Hans, did you?” There was almost a hope in her tone, as if knowing it had come from him would have made things all right. Naturally, she knew better. “No, of course you didn’t.”

  “Did he do that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She was right, of course. He wasn’t likely to teach Fichte a lesson. By the look of things, Fichte had already mastered the tools by himself.

  “Lina!” a voice shouted out over the din. Both looked over to see a wide orb of a man heading toward them. A second, smaller ball rested atop his neck, and this was his head.

  “Oh God,” said Lina under her breath. She perked up and produced an engaging smile. “Herr Lamprecht,” she said. “What a pleasure.”

  Lamprecht plowed on. “There are people who want to gawk at the model, over by the drawings.” He managed to step out of himself for a moment. “Good God, what’s happened there?” He pointed tactlessly at her eye. “Has someone been slapping you about?”

  Hoffner cut in. “I’m Nikolai Hoffner.” He extended his hand. It was enough to distract Lamprecht.

  “Yes, hello there,” said Lamprecht; he took Hoffner’s hand. “Are you with our Lina?”

  “She asked me to come, yes.”

  Lamprecht refocused. “So look, dear. They’re the money, and they’re just over by the—”

  “By the drawings,” Hoffner cut in again.

  Lamprecht seemed confused by the interruption. “Yes,” he said. He was searching for something else to say; when nothing came, he settled for, “Well, all right, then.” He then forced a smile and—clearly outmatched—headed back into the crowd.

  Hoffner said, “Is he as unpleasant as he seems?”

  “Not always.” And with surprising energy, she added, “All right, I’ll take you for a look. But from a distance. I’m not that keen to be on display tonight.”

  The drawings were off on a side wall in a group of three, all of which seemed to be of the same subject in different stages of completion: mourners peering over the body of a dead man. There were variations in the facial details, in the number of mourners, in the angle of a torso or a hand, but the one constant was that of a mother and child gazing down into the dead man’s lifeless face. Hoffner quickly realized that the mother was the only woman in any of the drawings; more fascinating, she and the child were the only ones staring directly into the face. The rest of the gathering either gazed out or looked down into nothingness. It made it impossible not to stare with her.

  Hoffner knew the gaze. He had woken to it several times himself, but had said nothing. He never knew why Lina stared at him as he slept. He had never thought to ask.

  He said, “You’re right there in the middle in each of them. That must be good. She must like you to put you there.”

  Lina was less enthusiastic. “It looks like I haven’t eaten anything in weeks,” she said. “It’s not very flattering.”

  Hoffner knew that wasn’t the point. “You look fine. And it’s not supposed to be you.”

  Lina seemed ready for a nice sulk, when a voice just behind them said, “He’s right, you know, so stop your complaining.”

  They turned. A woman had appeared from behind a small door: by the sounds of the gurgling water beyond, Hoffner was guessing the toilet.

  It was a sad face with thin lips and well-manicured eyebrows. Hoffner would have said somewhere in her fifties, but the gray hair might have made her older.

  “Don’t move,” said the woman. “If we stay like this, no one can see me here, and then you’ll have made me very happy.”

  Hoffner said, “And if someone wants to use the toilet?”

  The woman liked the question. “There’s always the window, Herr Inspector.” Before Hoffner could respond, she said to Lina, “I’m assuming this is the older one, because if it’s the younger one”—she raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow—“my God, then you’re in trouble.”

  Lina made the unnecessary introductions: even a Kripo detective could visit a museum now and then. Hoffner had recognized Käthe Kollwitz the moment he saw her. Funny how Lina had never mentioned it: “A woman; two marks an hour.” That was all she had said.

  “You know who that is, of course,” said Kollwitz, peering past him at her drawings. “You’re probably the only one in here who does.”

  Hoffner looked over. He had been so focused on Lina’s figure that he had failed to pay any attention to the dead man. Even so, the face remained unfamiliar.

  “They let me see him the morning after he was shot,” Kollwitz continued. “At the morgue. The family brought me in, as if I could add anything more to their tragedy. It’s all rat
her nauseating, isn’t it?”

  Hoffner now recognized him, albeit without his customary beard and spectacles. “Liebknecht,” he said.

  “I saw him speak,” said Kollwitz. “Very passionate, very rousing. I didn’t much go in for the violence, but they did.” She nodded at the figures in the drawings. “The workers. So I gave him to them. I imagine they’ll be the ones to miss him most.” Her gaze deepened. “It’s all very rough, but I think some of it’s right.”

  Hoffner had never put much stock in fate. Lina, on the other hand, saw signs in everything. A girl selling flowers along Friedrichstrasse had no other choice: how else could she imagine a life beyond it? The coin placed in her basket from the year of her birth, the piece of newspaper blowing into her hand with a phrase that she had dreamt of the night before, the color of the coat on a man dashing over to buy a few roses for his wife: these were the markers along the way that told her that she was following the right course, that life had more in store for her than she could possibly know at present. All she needed was a bit of patience to see it through. She had mentioned one or two of her “sightings” to Hoffner and had laughed at them, admitting to their silliness, but with just enough hope in her voice to betray what she needed to be true.

  A drawing of Karl Liebknecht inspired nothing so fanciful in Hoffner. Not that he saw it as a random occurrence within a universe lost to chaos: that idea, now all the rage, was equally absurd. Coincidence was born of proximity. Kollwitz was simply the perfect candidate for Liebknecht’s memorial; her drawings and posters of browbeaten Berlin had made her the willing, or unwilling, voice of the working class. That one of their own—a lean, less than beautiful girl with a striking gaze—had drawn Kollwitz’s eye was hardly beyond possibility. It had drawn Hoffner’s as well, albeit for different reasons. Who was to say, then, that artists and detectives were not the ones most likely to see something beyond a stare? It was as much whimsy as Hoffner would concede. Of course, had Kollwitz produced something on Rosa, now that might have been less easy for him to dismiss.

  “I wanted to do something on Luxemburg,” said Kollwitz, “but that’s not as clear-cut, is it?” She looked up at Hoffner. “So what do you think, Inspector? Is she off in Russia, or have we seen the last of Red Rosa?”

  At least the cosmos had a sense of humor, thought Hoffner. He said, “Are you that keen to have her back?”

  It was clear Kollwitz was enjoying this. “It’s not for me that she’d be coming back, now is it, Inspector?”

  More than you realize, Frulein, he thought. “Did you know her?” he said.

  “Should I have?” she said quizzically. “Yes. We met once, at a concert, two old women enjoying some music. We told each other how much we enjoyed each other’s work. It was very polite.”

  He said, “I would have thought the two of you would have been kindred spirits.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” said Kollwitz dryly. “I’m sure history will have it that way. And Emma Goldman, too. Lump all of us in together. In fact, we might just be the same person. Wouldn’t that be something?” She smiled. “I thought she was a devotee of feminism. I asked her, and she took it as an absurd question. Women, Jews, it didn’t matter to her. Socialism didn’t care about those distinctions, so why should she? Everything would be made right after the great event. I thought it was very . . . honest . . . though not terribly helpful. But she did do profound things, and for that I’m infinitely jealous. You don’t have a drink, Inspector. Let’s go get you one.”

  Hoffner gazed over at Lina and was reminded that, yes, he really was the old one. For all that was behind her stare, Lina looked as if she had just spent the last few minutes lost in a foreign country.

  They made it halfway to the drinks before Kollwitz was torn from them. Hoffner’s last image of her was of a small gray rabbit being sucked into a bottomless pit of groping hands. She went bravely and even managed a little smile back to them before she was gone. Hoffner took a whiskey and wondered how much longer they would need to be here.

  The answer came far more quickly than he could have imagined. There was a loud conversation outside the door, and a moment later Hans Fichte—a drunken Hans Fichte—stepped into the studio. Hoffner had had his chances not to be here: the look of the building, the ice in the seat of his pants, Lina’s first hesitation; he had taken none of them. This was now his reward for those missed opportunities.

  Fichte’s face was red from the climb, his eyes marginally focused, though he spotted Lina at once. A man in front of him tried to ask what he was doing here, but Hans already had Hoffner in his sights: nothing was going to keep him from the drinks table. He pushed through.

  Fichte stood there breathing heavily and saying nothing. He took no notice of Lina; his gaze was fixed on Hoffner.

  “Hello, Hans.” Hoffner spoke with no emotion. “You’ve had a bit to drink.” Fichte continued to stare in silence. “This isn’t the place for this.”

  There was a rage behind the eyes; Fichte was doing all he could to keep it in check. “And where would that place be, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?” Fichte suddenly spoke in a loud voice. “Where you could throw her over a chair and fuck her?”

  Everyone in earshot looked over. Hoffner could feel Lina’s embarrassment, though he felt none for himself. He waited for the conversations to pick up again before saying, “Why don’t we go downstairs?”

  Fichte was having none of it. He reached out for Hoffner. “And why don’t you—”

  Hoffner caught him by the wrist and twisted. Had Fichte not been drunk, it would have made no difference, but Fichte was drunk, and his reaction was slow. Hoffner twisted tighter and saw the pain run across Fichte’s face, the shoulder now on fire, even as Hoffner felt his own rib cage wrenching at the exertion. Fichte teetered, and Hoffner put out a hand to steady him. They now had a captive audience, and within seconds Hoffner was maneuvering Fichte to the door, then to the staircase, forcing him up against the wall for balance as they sped down. Two floors on, their momentum drove Fichte into the front door, which seemed to stun him for a moment. It was enough time for Hoffner to move him back, pull open the door, and take them both out into the cold air. With what little strength he had left, Hoffner dropped Fichte onto the snow pile and then bent over and gasped for breath. His ribs were in agony as he staggered back to the wall and continued to suck in for air, all the while keeping his eyes on the lump that was Fichte.

  It was nearly a minute before either of them could say a word. Hoffner spat. “You all right?” he said, still breathing heavily.

  Fichte was having trouble focusing. The door had done more damage than Hoffner had imagined. Fichte was trying to rub his shoulder when Lina raced out onto the street. She was holding her coat, and stood there motionless as the door clicked shut behind her.

  Hoffner got himself upright. The bandaging was now useless and only making things worse. “Put on your coat,” he said. “You’ll freeze.”

  Without thinking, Lina did as she was told.

  Fichte had recovered enough to lift his head. “You always do what he tells you?”

  Hoffner said, “Watch yourself, Hans.”

  Fichte let go with a cruel laugh. “That’s rich. And what do you need to watch?”

  Hoffner’s head was buzzing; he thought he might be sick, and he bent over. Lina was still by the door. She had pulled her coat tight around herself, her arms crossed, her hands tucked up under her chin. She was doing all she could not to cry.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself?” said Fichte. “That’s a laugh.”

  “Shut up, Hans.” Her face became laced with anger. “Don’t tell me anything. Not a thing. You think I don’t know what’s been going on with you? You think I didn’t know all along? Did you hear anything I said last night?”

  Fichte shook his head sloppily. “Since Belgium,” he said. “Since before any of this, which makes you a whore.” He looked over at Hoffner. “Congratulations. You made her a whore.”

  Hoffner s
aw Lina raise her hand to strike Fichte, and he quickly reached over. Her arm was shaking when he caught it; Hoffner tried to pull her into him, but she threw him off, barking out in frustration as she stepped away. Hoffner could feel her loathing as he leaned back against the wall. Fichte had slouched over his open knees, his arms resting on his legs. Lina kept her back to both of them.

  Staring down at the ground, Fichte said aimlessly, “You’re a son of a bitch, you know.”

  Not much question in that, thought Hoffner. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  There was a long silence. “I thought I was in love with her,” said Fichte. “I did.”

  Lina turned toward him, the rage now in her eyes. She stared at Fichte’s hulking shoulders and his blotchy skin, at his enormous fingers clenched together in one giant fist. “Shut up, Hans,” she said bitterly.

  Fichte bobbed his head once. “‘Shut up, Hans,’” he echoed.

  Hoffner said quietly, “Maybe he did.”

  Lina shot him an icy glance and again turned away.

  Hoffner felt a strange sense of relief, not in the discovery or the accusations, but in the simple truth of it all. No one was blameless, least of all himself, and there was something comforting in knowing that they all saw that now. Lina stared away, Hans peered down at his boots, but it was themselves that they could not bear to face. Their own betrayals were writ large by the presence of the other two now here: Hoffner with Fichte, Hoffner with Lina. Hoffner himself had never denied his role in all of this, and so couldn’t share in their shame.

  He said to Lina, “We need to get you home.”

  Both Fichte and Lina looked over. Her powder was streaked. She seemed at the edge of herself, but she managed a nod.