Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  It was all Präger wanted to hear. He found a few sheets on his desk and got back to work. Hoffner was left to show himself out.

  FIVE

  BARKING SWINE

  The sun off the glass walls was almost blinding at this time of morning. Hoffner pulled down the brim of his hat, but the snow was like a double reflector: the glare had him either way. Like a great hunched bear clad in steel armor, the Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof perched wide on the edge of the river and peered out over the surrounding buildings, all of which seemed to be cowering in its presence. Hoffner showed a bit more grit as he pressed his way through the main doors and over to the platforms.

  The station was one of the great wonders of Berlin. Its grand hall rose to an indeterminate height as the haze and smoke from the bellowing locomotive engines lifted into clouds of gray and white and left the roof-skin in virtual darkness. Here and there, odd pockets of sunlight sliced through the glass, only to catch a cloud and infuse it with wild streaks of prismed hues, each droplet bringing wanted color to the drab millings-about underneath. A violet-red rested momentarily on Hoffner’s watch face and then was gone. Eight-forty. He had given himself half an hour to see if his note had turned the trick.

  At just after nine, she appeared. Hoffner tossed what was left of a roll into a trash bin and headed over. Amid the parade of impatient mothers and men of purpose, Lina seemed to wander in a kind of half-tempo, her small brown case held to one side, her tan coat painfully inadequate for the season. She had spent a few marks on a blue hat that seemed to bob above the sea of endless gray. She caught sight of Hoffner and slowed still further as he drew up to her. An amplified voice barked out a series of platform numbers and departure times; Hoffner and Lina stared at each other as they waited for the tinned echo to fade.

  “Shall we get something for the trip?” he said when he could be heard. “Sandwiches, some beer?” He noticed the welt under her eye had all but disappeared.

  “That would be nice,” she said. They walked toward a small grocer’s cart. “Did you think I would come?”

  Hoffner took her case. “There was always a hope,” he said lightly. “The hat was the great surprise.” They reached the cart and he set the bags down. The movement caused a momentary wince.

  Lina noticed it at once. “Is that from Hans?” she said.

  Hoffner pretended not to have heard, and pointed to two sandwiches. “And two bottles of beer,” he said to the man as he pulled a few coins from his pocket.

  Lina let it pass. “It was a nice note,” she said.

  Hoffner pocketed the change. “Just nice enough, I imagine.”

  It was her first smile.

  They found their seats in the second-class compartment, and Hoffner did what he could getting the luggage up onto the rack. Lina offered to keep hers by her feet to save him any further anguish.

  They sat side by side, he by the window, she with her head on his shoulder. He had paid extra for the seats. It had been the right gesture. Hoffner could tell she was appreciating it.

  A good-looking young man stepped into the compartment and, checking his ticket, picked out the seat across from Hoffner. The man settled his bags and then looked over at his cabin mates. “Would the Frulein like her luggage up?” he said with an innocuous smile.

  Lina hesitated to answer, but Hoffner quickly stepped in. “Most kind of you,” he said.

  The man tossed it up and sat. He then pulled out a magazine, but chose not to read. He was looking to see if there was any conversation to be had. “Family outing?” he said.

  Hoffner gazed across kindly. “My daughter is a deaf mute, mein Herr,” he said. “We prefer to travel in silence.”

  The look on the man’s face was priceless. Hoffner felt the deep pressure on his leg from Lina’s hidden thumb. He was trusting her not to laugh.

  “Oh,” said the man, trying to recover. “Of course, mein Herr.” Just then the train began to move. The man smiled awkwardly and opened his magazine. Hoffner took Lina’s hand and gazed out as Berlin slipped by in an ever-narrowing blur.

  Munich came quickly. The handsome young man had offered his too-loud good-byes less than an hour into the trip, which had left them six more to themselves to eat their sandwiches and drink their beers and while away the time as if the hours were really theirs. Trains had that effect. Now, stepping to the Central Station platform, Hoffner and Lina returned to a world far more concrete.

  He found them a modest hotel by the station and, with a last nod to whimsy, registered them as man and wife. They found a small, quiet restaurant—a recommendation from the concierge—and by seven o’clock had two plates of what passed for beef and noodles in front of them. The place had the smell of frying potatoes, and they sat like a good German couple, saying nothing as they ate. Hoffner had splurged on a bottle of wine, and Lina seemed to take great pleasure whenever the waiter would come by to refill her glass. It was only when the bill was brought over that any of the three spoke up.

  “Tell me, Herr Ober,” said Hoffner as he mopped the last of the noodles in the broth, “you know of a place to get some drinks? Something a bit lively?”

  “Certainly, mein Herr,” said the man as he made change. “Depends on what you want. A little dancing?”

  Hoffner smiled. “Not for an old soldier.” He set his fork and knife on the plate. “Just some drinking. Good company.”

  The man nodded. “We’ve plenty of soldiers in town, mein Herr. And plenty of beer halls to keep them happy.”

  The man suggested the Sterneckerbru beer cellar, not too far a walk, and not so lively that a young woman might not want to venture in. A perfect choice.

  Outside on the street, Lina took Hoffner’s hand. “I thought maybe we’d just walk for a bit,” she said. “Find a café.” After all, they were no longer in Berlin; she could state a preference. “A beer cellar sounds so dreary, and it’s so much nicer here without the snow and rain.”

  She was right. Munich was a far cry from Berlin. It had been nearly half a century since the city had watched the best of its artists and writers and architects flee to the new imperial capital with the promise of fast money and prestige: the heady days of the Wittelsbach princes and their patronage were long gone. Now there was something distinctly quaint to Munich, a slower pace, the buildings not quite so high, though the city had recently reasserted itself as the first to try its hand at revolution. Munich had succumbed to the Social Democrats in mid-November, and had been following the Bavarian Prime Minister, Kurt Eisner, ever since. Eisner might have been a displaced Berlin Jew—hence the feeling among Munich’s more conservative elements that nothing but evil could come from the Prussian capital—but he was showing the way for men like Ebert and Scheidemann. Munich was once again a political maverick. That its streets were awash with even more military detritus than Berlin’s was not, as yet, too pressing a point.

  Hoffner squeezed Lina’s hand as they walked, and said, “The city’s famous for its beer halls. We’d be silly not to try out one or two, don’t you think?”

  Lina spoke with a knowing ease: “We didn’t come just for a day’s holiday, did we?”

  If he had closed his eyes, Hoffner might have mistaken her for Martha: the same resigned concession. He wondered if he was really that transparent. “Holiday with a purpose,” he said. “Not so bad, is it?”

  She squeezed his arm a bit tighter. “All right,” she said, striking her bargain, “but tomorrow I want a walk in the Englischer Garten.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And a café.”

  Hoffner brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. This far from Berlin, he could allow himself the luxury.

  The place was just what he had expected: a wide-open hall with high archways running this way and that, and long wooden tables stretching from wall to wall. Wrought-iron lamps hung from the ceilings and cast a yellow pall over the cavernous space: men and women perched on benches—some of them even up on the tables—with large mugs of beer at t
he ready. The echo of conversation made it almost impossible to be heard without raising one’s voice. Hoffner spotted a collection of young soldiers at one of the central tables and headed Lina in that direction.

  They found two places on the bench and settled in as Hoffner flagged down a blowsy waitress and ordered two mugs. He was now in character, staring wide-eyed at the size of the place before turning to Lina with a broad smile. She was equally comfortable playing the country rube. Hoffner had prepared her on the walk over: a bit of make-believe might be in the offing, he had said. After all, she had been playing his wife with apparent ease, how difficult could another role be?

  Lina let go with a giddy laugh and swatted playfully at his arm.

  “Which regiment are you boys with?” yelled Hoffner to one of the soldiers who was seated on the table, and who was deep in conversation.

  The man turned around and looked down. “Pardon?” he said.

  “Your regiment,” shouted Hoffner. “My son fought with the Liebregiment.”

  The man leaned over and indicated the markings on his collar. “Sixteenth Bavarian Infantry,” he said.

  Hoffner raised his eyes wide and nodded. He shouted to Lina, “They’re with the Sixteenth Bavarian.” Lina nodded up at the man with a smile. Hoffner shouted to her, “Not with Helmut’s unit.” The man was about to turn away when Hoffner shouted, “My son Helmut was with the Liebregiment.”

  The man nodded to be kind. “I don’t think you’ll find any in here tonight, mein Herr.” Again, he began to turn away.

  Hoffner said, “He was killed at Isonzo, October of ’17.”

  Hoffner had hit upon the unspoken kinship between soldiers. The man now showed a genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Hoffner nodded his thanks. “He won the Iron Cross. For bravery.” The man nodded again. “We’re here for only a few days, and I was hoping to meet up with some of his comrades, hear about it from them. They said the Liebregiment spent its nights here, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

  The man raised a hand and said, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to his friends and called out, “Hey. Hello. Liebregiment. Where do they do their drinking?” The others continued to ignore him. He leaned in closer. “Fsst! Liebregiment,” he shouted. “This fellow, his son was killed at Isonzo. He wants to look up some of his mates.” The man now had their full attention, but unfortunately there were no takers. “Ask down the other end of the table,” he said. “Someone’s bound to know.”

  Two minutes later, Hoffner had his answer.

  The Alte Rosebad was a much smaller affair, more of a walk, though no less popular. The acoustics, however, were not as ear-shattering: it was actually possible to hold a conversation without popping a vein in one’s neck. Hoffner played out the same little drama for a second table of soldiers, this time with a very nice supporting performance from Lina: Helmut was now to have been a butcher and her husband. The men directed them over to a table near the back.

  “The roles change,” he said to her as they made their way through. “Just follow my lead.” He could tell she was enjoying this.

  They sat at an opening along one of the long benches. This time Hoffner read through the menu and chatted with Lina before calling over a waiter. He seemed completely uninterested in the soldiers who were an arm’s length from them. It was only when he and Lina were halfway through their first mug that he glanced over. “That’s not Liebregiment, is it?” he said with friendly surprise.

  One of the soldiers turned to him. “Pardon?”

  “Liebregiment, isn’t it?”

  The man was already well on his way to a very nice night; he smiled. “And who wants to know?”

  Hoffner made up a name and said, “That is Liebregiment.” He turned to Lina eagerly. “What do you think of that?” She smiled and nodded. Hoffner turned back to the man. “My son had a number of friends back home who went into your regiment.”

  The man nodded with a bit more interest.

  Hoffner said, “Second Battalion.”

  The man now shook his head with a smile. “No luck, then. It’s First Battalion here. Still, I might know a few fellows in the Second.”

  Hoffner listed three or four of the names he had written down at the GS, making sure to pick the ones that had had the word “deceased” written after them.

  The man’s face was now more somber. “Yah,” he said with a nod. “I knew Schneider. Good man. He was killed in the Italian campaign. Tell your son I’m sorry.”

  The man began to turn when Hoffner said sadly, “My Helmut was killed at Arras. Sixteenth Bavarian; 1917. But thank you.”

  There was an awkward silence between them—the man aware that he had no choice but to listen to the story of this man’s son—when Hoffner suddenly looked down at the table as if he were trying to recall something important. “What was the name of the boy he said they were always talking about?” He looked to Lina. “The one Helmut met on that leave? You remember the letter?” Lina tried to think, as well. Hoffner popped his head up. “Oster!” he said in triumph. “Erich Oster. Does that sound familiar?”

  The man was happy enough to have been given a reprieve. He shook his head, and then turned to his mates, shouting above the din, “Anyone know an Oster? Second Battalion. Friends with Schneider?”

  There was a lull, then a shaking of heads, followed by a chorus of noes. The man turned back to give his apologies, when a voice from the far end said, “Erich Oster? Second Lieutenant?” Hoffner leaned in over the table to get a better view of the man.

  “Yes,” he said eagerly.

  “If it’s the same fellow, he joined the Freikorps a few months back.” The man looked to some of his friends. “You know. The fellow who sent out all those leaflets about the Poles.” The man laughed, and several others now nodded as they remembered. “Bit of a nutter. I think the battalion was glad to see him go.” He laughed again.

  Hoffner did his best to look hurt by the accusations. “Oh,” he said sadly. Hoffner nodded slowly and sat back.

  The first soldier did his best to minimize the damage; he spoke to the far end of the table. “Oster was a friend of this man’s son, who died at Arras,” he said, emphasizing the word “friend.” “I’m sure you remember more than that, don’t you?” He prodded with a few nods of his head.

  “Oh,” said the man, quick to revise his portrayal. “Oh, yes. Of course. He . . . he was a thinker, that Oster. Always reading. And a poet. He wrote those . . . poems.” The man suddenly thought of something. “There was that fellow he always talked about.” He turned to the man next to him. “You know? He tried to get us to come and hear him. Somewhere up in the artists’ quarter.”

  “That was Oster?” said the friend, who was trying to remember, as well. “You mean up at the Brennessel?”

  “Yes. The Brennessel. A poet or something.” They had forgotten Hoffner and were now set on figuring out the man’s identity.

  “Decker or Dieker,” said the friend, trying to recall. “Something like that—”

  “Eckart!” said the first man. “Dietrich Eckart. Up at the wine cellar.”

  The friend nodded. “Excellent. That’s exactly right.” The discovery merited a few quick gulps of beer. The man wiped his mouth and looked back down the table to Hoffner. “You want to know about Oster, you go and see this Eckart fellow.” He gave him the name of the bar.

  Freikorps and a mentor, thought Hoffner. Oster was becoming more interesting by the minute.

  The Freikorps, or volunteer corps, had been formed as a direct response to the revolution in late November. Drawn from discharged officers and soldiers, it was initially called on to ward off presumed threats from Polish insurgents. Those threats, of course, had never amounted to much, and by December the Korps had taken it upon itself to blot out any potential communist threats, ostensibly so as to protect the burgeoning German Republic. Recently, units had begun to sprout up throughout the country—Hoffner was guessing that the Schtzen-Division had provided mo
re than its fair share of recruits—the most powerful of which were now in Munich and Berlin. The Freikorps made no bones about its politics; they were far to the right, which meant that its supporters came from a wide range of backgrounds: monarchists, militarists, thugs, and—as the boy at the beer hall had said—nutters of every size and shape. As of now, the Reichswehr—the Bavarian Regular Army—was holding them in check. Anyone with any sense, though, knew that it would only be a matter of time before the Freikorps could build up enough of a following to exert a little muscle.

  It was nearly eleven when Hoffner and Lina stepped into the Brennessel wine cellar. The place was little better than a grotto, run-down and ill-lit, and seemed to encourage its patrons to stoop, even though the ceilings were well over two meters high. Lina had grown tired of the charades, but was being a good sport. Hoffner explained that it might be a bit easier this time round: mentors had a tendency to enjoy an audience. All Hoffner needed was to get a few drinks into Eckart, and the rest would be easy enough.

  As it turned out, Eckart was doing just fine on his own. He was in the back, holding forth to a half-full bottle of schnapps and a group of dedicated listeners when the barkeep pointed him out. Eckart was the obvious choice, all bulging eyes and thick gesticulating hands: the round head—completely hairless—was the final, perfect touch. Eckart might have been a caricature of himself if not for his evident commitment. Hoffner directed Lina over, and the two took seats on the outer rim of a gaggle of soulless eyes and eager ears. They began to listen.

  It was several minutes before Eckart noticed the recent additions. He had been going on about the “source of the ancients” and something called the fama fraternitatis, when his eye caught Hoffner’s. Eckart measured his prey and said, “You’re intrigued by what I’m saying, mein Herr?”

  Hoffner felt every face within the circle turn to him. “It’s most interesting, yes,” he said with a quiet nod.

  “And you just happened upon us?”