He could tell how much she wanted from him, now with nothing else beyond this single moment. How difficult would it be to give her that? He said, “When this is over—”
“Yes.” She cut him off. She didn’t want to hear it; it was enough that he had tried. She ran her hand across his chest. She then turned away. A moment later, the door shut behind her.
Jogiches was kind enough not to ask. The two walked in silence, Jogiches directing them with a nod for a street, a building.
The room he had found was no better than what they had just left behind. This one, however, was a step down from the street, recessed behind the stoop and with thick bars across its door and single window. Jogiches rummaged for a key: the door squealed open and he led Hoffner inside. He struck a match and brought the dank little space to life. An oil lamp was by the door and he adjusted the flame.
Pipes were bare along the ceiling, and the cracks in the walls spread out in a topography of tiny streamlets and rivers. The smell of mold and decay was matched only by the stench of urine. A mattress—long past its prime—lay in the corner. Hovering above it stood a large metal trunk. Hoffner wondered what it was to have the remnants of one’s life always at arm’s reach.
“Landlord doesn’t know I’m here,” said Jogiches, as if the point wasn’t obvious. “You take the mattress. I don’t sleep much these days.”
Exhaustion had been tracking Hoffner like a marksman; he could feel the squeezing of the trigger from behind him. He moved across to the mattress.
Jogiches rested his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. “You’ll be taking that when this is done.” Hoffner looked over and saw Jogiches nodding toward the trunk. “Her papers. All of them. Everything she had.” Jogiches kept the lamp between his knees. “Not much chance of revolution now, is there, general strikes notwithstanding? Even I know it. But that”—Jogiches again nodded to the trunk—“that has to live beyond this.”
Hoffner knelt down and opened the trunk’s lid. He pulled back a thick blanket that had been placed across the top: Jogiches was keeping the contents warm and dry despite his own squalor. Even in shadow, Hoffner could make out the stacks of books and loose pages that were piled high to the edge.
Jogiches said, “We both know I won’t be here long enough to make sure of that.” He pulled his coat tighter around his chest and seemed to lose himself for a moment. “To make sure of any of it, I suppose.” He looked back at Hoffner. “Put the blanket over it and close the lid.”
The irony of a trunk as Rosa’s final resting place was not lost on Hoffner. He did as he was told. “And the cause lives on,” he murmured under his breath.
There was a snort of acknowledgment from across the room. Hoffner turned, surprised that Jogiches had heard: the eyes were barely open; the head was cocked to one side; the shadow above seemed to paint him in the pose of a hanging man. Jogiches nodded slowly, his eyes still closed: “The cause,” he echoed. “She wanted to take her life. Did you know that? Just before the war. She said it was finished, that the workers had betrayed themselves by voting for the rearmament. One day a united proletariat, the next enemies at war. She was right, of course.” His head tilted back as if he were remembering something. “I said we should go together, a final noble act, but she managed to see something else in it. A prelude, she said. The last slap to the workers’ faces. Then they would see how they had been used. Then they would climb from their trenches and tear down the world that had imprisoned them for so long.” He stopped and his eyes opened. He stared distantly into the dark. “‘I am, I was, I shall be.’” His gaze was almost wistful. He looked over at Hoffner. “She wrote that the day before they took her. Not about herself but about the revolution. Yes, I know—cause, truth—you find it all absurd, but that’s not what’s in that trunk. What’s there is faith, hope—even in moments of greatest despair—that she could see beyond herself, beyond the corruption and human frailty, and imagine what could be.” His head fell back against the wall and again he shut his eyes. “And if you find that nave, Inspector, then you haven’t nearly understood what it is you’re now up against.”
Here at last was the humanity, thought Hoffner. Jogiches had recognized in Rosa something more vital than his own cold conviction, and it was that, and that alone, that he was now desperate to save. Hoffner said, “You surprise me.”
Jogiches kept his eyes closed. “How so?”
“A romantic at the end?”
Jogiches found a smile somewhere. “And what is it for you, then, Inspector? Loose ends? A detective’s need to mop things up? I don’t believe that, and neither, I suspect, do you.”
Hoffner had no reason to disagree. He said, “So what would she have done now?”
Jogiches opened his eyes and peered over at Hoffner—that familiar, impenetrable gaze. “She would have gotten some sleep,” he said.
Hoffner needed no more by way of encouragement. The lamp flared out and they slipped off into quiet darkness.
Later, Hoffner had a dream. He was in the water of Wannsee, staring out into the endless blue, when he heard the sound of splashing coming out toward him. He turned, but the sun was too much in his eyes and he saw only the outline of a figure, a woman—Martha—drawing closer. He put up his hand to shield his eyes, but he could barely make her out. He turned back to the blue and waited for her to join him.
“You raced so far ahead,” she said when she was almost to him.
Hoffner ran his hands through the water and he turned to see Rosa standing next to him.
“I’ve brought you this,” she said as she handed him the pebble.
Hoffner took it and rubbed his thumb across its smoothness. It suddenly felt like sand and began to crumble in his palm.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I can bring you another.” She started to go, but Hoffner reached out and took her arm.
“Why?” he said.
“Why?” she said with a kind smile. She pulled away and her face became Lina’s. “Because it’s enough that you want it.” He felt himself losing his footing. He fell back into the water and his eyes opened.
It was several moments before Hoffner realized where he was. He heard Jogiches’s breathing from somewhere across the room and he brought himself up to his elbows. Dreams usually exhausted him: they required unpacking. This one, however, had left him strangely refreshed.
It was true: he had raced too far ahead and had let himself get lost in things that were still too much for him—sacrifice and redemption, nobility and despair—and while he had been forced to confront and ultimately concede to them in the world of Martha and his boys and Lina—all of it beyond his control—he had also let them seep into the one place where they had no right to be: his case. He had gotten caught up in the larger ideas—Thulian or socialist, it made no difference—and had let them color his perception. They were clouding the details, and the one detail that had forever been out of place—the one that had stood apart from the very start—was Rosa. Everything led to her. It was only now that Hoffner recognized why that had never been the point. What mattered—what he had failed to grasp all along—was that these men wanted her: they had wanted her from the start. And if they wanted her, then he needed to take her from them. It was as simple as that. Let them come to him, then, and explain why.
“Jogiches,” he said as he got to his feet. “What do you say to a bath?” He heard movement from across the room.
An anxious whisper followed: “Who’s . . . ?” Jogiches caught himself; he, too, had been drifting elsewhere. A match flared and the lamp lit up. Hoffner checked his watch. Three-fifteen. “Is it safe to leave the trunk here?” he said.
Jogiches needed another moment to find his focus. “The trunk?” he said. “I imagine. Yes. As safe as anywhere.” It was only when he was on his feet that he thought to ask, “A bath?” Jogiches looked genuinely puzzled. “What about a bath?”
It took them nearly half an hour to get across town to the Admiral’s Palace, even at thi
s time of night. The steam rooms were a common destination for Berlin’s night-crawl crowd—open once again through the night now that the city had come back to its senses—and where a few marks and forty minutes were all that was needed to rejuvenate any set of tired bones or aching heads. For the most devoted—those who saw the pools and steam baths only by first light—it was known as the “clean break,” the stop between bar and desk. It was remarkable how a few minutes sweating out the booze could make a day at the office seem almost bearable.
Hoffner paid for both himself and Jogiches and, after a quick stop at the locker stalls, emerged to the common lounge decked out in slippers and a Turkish towel; Jogiches had opted for the full robe and hood: he looked like a slightly bedraggled Druid.
It was an impressive place, two stories high, with a colonnade of black and white marble columns under an open balcony that ran the perimeter of the four walls. A few of the denizens were peering down, catching a breath before returning to their self-imposed swelter boxes. Others sat below in thick leather chairs, reading papers or talking casually to one another. A series of Persian rugs dotted the floor. One might have guessed that this was the setting for an afternoon tea, had each of the men not been in various states of undress. The fattest invariably sat au naturel. Hoffner wondered if it was a lack of towel girth or simply pride that had prompted the choices.
He led Jogiches up the stairs and toward the last of the rooms on the right. A large, powerfully built man stood at the door in nothing but white socks: he had little to be ashamed of. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and was showing extreme care each time he removed it to flick away the ash.
“Private room,” he said through a cloud of smoke.
“Tell him Nikolai Hoffner wants to see him.”
The man glanced over at Jogiches. “And?”
“Just tell him Hoffner.”
The man sized them up again, and then knocked once over his shoulder. A moment later a plume of steam billowed from the half-opened door to reveal a second, equally impressive titan, who was drenched in sweat. “Nikolai Hoffner,” said the first man. The door closed and the three stood staring at each other while they waited. “Drop the robe and the towel,” said the man. “And the slippers. Nothing goes in.” Jogiches and Hoffner did as they were told: they were now three naked silent men.
The knock came and the man nodded them through.
The sting of hot, moist air was instantaneous, as was the hiss of gushing steam. As far as Hoffner could make out, the room was all white tile, including the floor: he had to steady himself against the wall to keep from slipping. His skin had gone instantly slick, and the puffed air made it impossible to see more than a half-meter in front of him.
“Watch yourself there, Inspector,” came a voice from across the room. “Let’s see that you make it across alive.” It was joined by a small chorus of laughter. “Turn it down, Zenlo,” said the voice. Hoffner heard the squeal of a valve being spun. Instantly the hiss choked off and the steam began its slow descent to the floor. As the air cleared, Hoffner saw the six or seven men who were seated across the room on two step-levels. They might have passed for a klatch of well-fed businessmen if not for the collection of odd scars and discolorations on their cheeks, arms, and chests. Marks of the trade, thought Hoffner. No wonder they liked the baths: a nightly chance to wash away their sins.
On the topmost step, and in the far corner, sat an equally naked Alby Pimm.
Pimm was small and pale by comparison to the rest, with a shock of curly jet-black hair that made him look almost boyish. His face, however, said otherwise. It had that weathered look of forty-odd years living off the streets, time spent climbing to the top ranks of the Immertreu, one of Berlin’s more notorious syndicates. Just now Pimm was enjoying a rather charmed relationship with the Kripo. He had proved himself useful during the war—keeping an eye on undesirables and foreigners—and had thus earned himself something of a free hand when it came to his less-violent enterprises: black-market trade, a little extortion—these passed without too much interference. Anything more serious, however, was still fair game.
Pimm said with a smile, “Not with us in an official capacity, are you, Inspector?” The men laughed again, and Hoffner pointed to a spot on the lower step. “Be my guest,” said Pimm. “And this is . . .” Pimm needed another moment to find the name. “Herr Jogiches, isn’t it?” Jogiches said nothing as the two men sat. “Odd little pairing.” More laughter.
Hoffner said, “I need to talk to you.”
“You are talking to me.”
“Alone.”
“Ah.” Pimm was enjoying this. He took a drink from a small wooden box that sat at his side. “A bull and a Red,” he said. “What times we live in.” He took a second drink and then bobbed his head toward the door: the men began to take their towels and file out. The last in line was a long, lanky fellow with the most angular face Hoffner had ever seen: there looked to be just enough skin on the cheeks and nose to cover the bone, although the eye sockets seemed to be wanting a bit more. “Zenlo,” Pimm said. The man turned. “Stay by the door.” The man nodded and stepped outside.
Hoffner was now dripping with sweat. He pulled his hand across his face to clear his eyes. Pimm slid the box across the tile toward him and said, “That’s how the Japanese drink their water. The wood keeps it cool. Clever little people.”
“I could do with something a bit stronger,” said Hoffner.
“Not in here you couldn’t. That’s what you’re pissing out. Trust me, take the water.” Pimm watched as Hoffner reached up for the box and drank; he then said, “I don’t know who’s doing all the killing, if that’s why you’re here. Bad for business all around. I thought you’d finished it with the Belgian.”
Hoffner slid the box back. “Bad for more than business.”
Pimm nodded slowly. “Yah.” He picked up a bowl of water and, leaning forward, tipped it over his head. “I was sorry to hear about that.” He remained stooped over. “That revolution of yours didn’t do me much good, either, Herr Spartakus.”
Jogiches was feeling the heat in his beard. He dabbed a bit of water onto his cheeks. “My apologies,” he said.
Pimm laughed to himself and spat. He tipped a second bowl over himself and sat up. “So, what is it you gentlemen want?”
Hoffner had propped his elbows on his knees. He felt the sweat drip from his chin, and watched as it splattered on the tile between his feet. “I want you to break into the fourth floor of the Alex and steal a body.” Hoffner took a bowl of his own and tipped it over his head.
Again Pimm laughed. “You want what?” Hoffner remained bent over in silence. It took Pimm another few seconds to realize that Hoffner was serious. The laughter stopped. “And why would I do that?”
Hoffner continued to gaze at the floor. “Because it would be good for business.”
Five minutes later Pimm was no more convinced. “No one’s going to believe that,” he said.
Hoffner agreed. “You’re probably right.”
“I don’t believe it.” Pimm was picking at something on his chest. “You’ve been spending too much time with your friend here.” Pimm looked over at Jogiches. “You don’t say much, do you, Herr Spartakus?”
Jogiches returned the stare.
Pimm said, “You know, I’ve always wondered—why are so many of you Reds Jews? Why make people hate you twice?”
Jogiches answered without hesitation: “Persistence.”
Pimm smiled and flicked something onto the floor. He said, “Trust me, I want to see Weigland hanging by his balls as much as anyone—”
Hoffner cut in. “I never said it was Weigland.”
Pimm nodded. “No. You never did.” He stood and moved over to the valve. He turned it twice and the steam hissed back into action. “You cramp up without it,” he said. “The Japanese have girls who rub your legs while you sit. Keeps the blood moving. We tried it, but German girls sweat too much and stink up the place. Plus the
y thought it was for sex. They didn’t understand the aesthetic.” He was back at his towel. “And you’re sure it’s her? Our little Rosa?” Hoffner nodded. Pimm tugged at his ear. “And this helps me how, again?”
“How much sugar are you planning to move with the Freikorps breathing down your neck?” said Hoffner. “Ebert makes things a good deal easier.”
“Order makes things easier,” Pimm said bluntly. The steam was already beginning to rise; he waved a cloud from his face. “That’s something your second-story safecracker doesn’t follow. A little anarchy works just fine for him; the bulls are occupied elsewhere and he makes a killing. But an organization—that needs routine. That needs people settled, safe. Right, left—makes no difference to me.”
“Then why chance another bump in the road when things are moving so smoothly now?”
Pimm bobbed his head as if conceding the point. He then took a towel and wiped his face. When he spoke, it was with a focus that was wholly unexpected: “The reason so many of you Reds are Jews, Herr Spartakus, is that a Jew is told to create heaven on earth. The next world, messiahs, fear of hell—never really been the point, has it? The Jew is meant to do it here, now. And the ones who get tired of waiting become Reds because for them, socialism is heaven on earth. The perfect world, and with no God telling them what to do this time. Everyone just as good as the rest. Everyone looking out for the rest. The Red can’t tell you how you’re supposed to get there—in fact, all he can tell you is what you’re not supposed to do and what won’t be there—but, still, he thinks he can build it. Sound familiar, does it?” Pimm paused. “Your Red never loses what makes him a Jew; he simply shifts his focus.” Pimm held Jogiches’s gaze and then turned to Hoffner. “You get my help, Inspector, not because it’s good for business, or because the devil I know is better than the devil I don’t, but because, even if nothing else of what you’re saying is true, I have no interest in having one more lunatic tell me that my elimination is part of his grand plan.” He shouted to the door. “Zenlo.” The man appeared instantly. “We’re going east. Tell the boys.”
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