Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  Pimm a Jew, and a political one at that, thought Hoffner: the world was full of surprises. At least this one was working in their favor.

  Back at Pimm’s offices—two large rooms above a repair garage, furniture, a telephone—Pimm produced a series of remarkably accurate layouts of the Alex’s third and fourth floors. He had had enough boys inside for a night or two, he explained. Someone was bound to remember something.

  Equally remarkable was the ease with which Pimm and Jogiches got down to the planning of the thing. For Hoffner, it was like listening to a book being read in reverse: they were beginning where he always ended—with the inception of a crime—and they were leading to the moment that was his first. Hoffner was too tired to reconfigure his mind. He found a couch, sat back, and let it all pass in front of him.

  The sun was just coming up, and a stream of men began to make their way up the stairs and into the offices. They were an odd collection of shapes and sizes—swindlers and thieves—and each with something to show for a night’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the telltale appendage of Berlin’s underbelly. Not that any of these men could have afforded the fine Dutch tobacco advertised on the top flaps. No, these boxes were filled with “jimmies” and “little aldermen”—always arranged in order of size—and, most important, a few S-hooks. After all, even housebreakers’ tools deserved their nicknames: a jimmy your crowbar, a little alderman your picklock. An S-hook needed no such distinction. It was what it was, and could have you through a door in close to ten seconds if you knew what you were doing. For the less adept, a “ripper”—that ancient drilling tool—would get you in, but it was never as elegant. Those who worked for Pimm were S-hook men: they walked with a certain swagger.

  Odder still was the businesslike efficiency with which everything was managed: one of the titans from the steam baths was behind a desk writing out slips for money and goods received, the men patiently waiting in line, all with a deferential nod for Pimm, who was too busy with Jogiches across the room to take any notice. The titan passed on the slips to a man who was tallying them up, who then passed them to a third who was writing feverishly into a ledger. No doubt those who were missing this morning’s accounting would be visited later, but for now the process seemed far removed from the world that these men usually inhabited. Hoffner recognized a face here and there: it was nice to see that the men had found steady work.

  Jogiches called over: “Which room on the floor?” Hoffner realized the question was for him, and he pushed himself up and stepped over to the table that was already thick with sheets of paper filled with diagrams and notes: they might just as well have been in Chinese for all that Hoffner could make of them. Jogiches pulled over one of the layouts and repeated the question.

  “I don’t know,” said Hoffner.

  Pimm and Jogiches exchanged a glance. Pimm said, “That’s something we have to know.”

  Hoffner understood.

  Jogiches said, “You can’t go back in yourself, you know.”

  Hoffner nodded. Even he had known that from the start.

  Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland kept himself buttoned up to the neck as he peered out from the rear seat of his Daimler sedan. The automobile was an older model—a gift to himself on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding—but it was still in excellent condition. Weigland had made sure to hire a good man to see to its upkeep: a former mechanic with the Kripo. A man to be trusted. That man was now seated behind the wheel and in full chauffeur’s attire, awaiting instructions.

  “You’re sure you saw her go in?” said Weigland. He had arrived by cab five minutes ago after getting the call.

  The man had been very clear on the telephone. He was no less certain now. “Yes, mein Herr.”

  “And she hasn’t come out?”

  “No, mein Herr.”

  The car was parked at the edge of a narrow alleyway. Weigland’s eyes were fixed on the side mirror, which had been reangled so as to keep the building behind them in its sites. “Maybe we turn the motor on to get a bit of heat, don’t you think?”

  The man in the front seat pressed the starter and the car came to life.

  “Much better,” said Weigland.

  “Yes, mein Herr.”

  They sat in silence for another ten minutes before Weigland saw the front door to the building pull open. The girl appeared. Weigland hitched forward on his seat, but waited until she was out of view before reaching for the handle. “Take the car home,” he said as he pushed the door open. He stepped to the cobblestones and quietly shut the door behind him. He then made his way to the edge of the alley and peered out. Finding the girl halfway down the street, Weigland began to follow.

  It was a quarter to seven when Hoffner stepped from the tram. The fruit and vegetable carts were already up and running, as was a tinker’s stand that was directly in front of Fichte’s building. The man was hammering away at an old pot as a woman looked on: unlikely that Fichte was sleeping through that.

  Hoffner bought an apple and remained by the carts. Fichte had picked a nice spot, just right for a bachelor detective. The street denizens probably felt safer knowing that a young Kripo man was living here; or at least they had felt that way until this week.

  Hoffner was tossing away his third core when he saw Fichte emerge at the top of his stoop. The boy was a shadow of himself, his face pale and sunken, his eyes wrecked from nights without sleep. Hoffner waited until Fichte had reached the bottom of the steps before making his way over. Fichte was keeping his head down as he walked. He nearly walked past Hoffner, but for some reason looked up at the last moment. He stopped.

  Hoffner thought he saw a moment of relief in the boy’s eyes, as if Fichte had finally found someone with whom to share his burdens. An equally quick flash of disgust followed, then pity, all of which dissolved into a look of resigned exhaustion. Fichte hadn’t the energy to feel anything lasting for Hoffner.

  “Hello, Nikolai.”

  “Hans.”

  They stood silently until Fichte said, “She hasn’t been in touch with me, if that’s what you want. I don’t know where she is.” He began to move off, but Hoffner stopped him.

  “That’s not why I’m here, Hans.”

  Fichte was too tired to find the reason. He said, “Look, I was sorry . . . I mean, I am sorry . . . about all of that . . . your Martha. . . .” Fichte was floundering.

  Hoffner cut him off. “Can we get a coffee somewhere?”

  Fichte hesitated. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why? Because your Herr Braun might disapprove?”

  Fichte looked as if he might answer; instead he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his inhaler. He took a quick suck.

  “That bad, is it?” said Hoffner.

  Fichte coughed once and spat. “It’s not that simple.”

  “I’ve been reading the papers, Hans. It looks pretty simple to me.”

  Fichte said nothing; he hadn’t the will to argue.

  They found a café and settled in at a table amid the morning rush, men behind papers, girls lost in chatter. No one was taking any notice of the two detectives.

  “This is what they had in mind all along, isn’t it?” said Fichte. He kept his hands cupped around his coffee for warmth.

  Hoffner had no reason to make the boy feel any worse than he already did. He shrugged and said, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “It’s all the second carver, you know.” Fichte spoke in a hushed tone. “Braun won’t let me release it. He says it would only make things worse. I don’t understand that. It wouldn’t make things worse for you or me.” Hoffner took a sip of his coffee and let Fichte talk. “It’s all going to fall on me, isn’t it? The idiot in the papers. The bull who’s been covering up something. I don’t even know what they’re talking about.” Fichte was slowly unraveling. “A member of the Reichs Ministry was by to have a chat with me. There might have to be formal charges if things don’t get wrapped up quickly.” Again Fichte shook
his head to himself. “Formal charges.”

  “They won’t do that,” said Hoffner with as much reassurance as he could. “They’d come after me first.” He saw a glimmer of hope in Fichte’s eyes and said, “The minister’s name wasn’t Nepp by any chance, was it?”

  Surprise quickly turned to relief. The glimmer grew. “Yes,” said Fichte. “Why?”

  Hoffner nodded. There was no point in rattling the boy further. He said, “Where are they keeping her?” Fichte was too tired to follow. “Rosa,” said Hoffner. “Where is she?”

  The pain returned to Fichte’s eyes; he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Hoffner had expected Braun to toss the boy at least this bone. “Can you find out?”

  “Why are they doing this?” Fichte said with a child’s incredulity. “If they want me to look stupid, I can do that just fine on my own.”

  “It’s not you, Hans.”

  “Then, what?”

  Even now it was all beyond Fichte; Braun had chosen wisely. Hoffner wondered if in fact that choice had been made as early as last November: had Präger been encouraged to assign Fichte to him all those months ago? Hoffner said, “Can you find out where she is?” Fichte thought for a moment and then nodded. “No heroics, Hans. Just the room.”

  Again Fichte nodded. “Where do I send the information?”

  “You don’t. You bring it in person.” Hoffner checked his watch. “Two hours. Rcker’s bar.” He stood and left a coin on the table. “She’s gone to live with an uncle in Oldenburg.” Hoffner saw the hope in the boy’s eyes. “You go and find her when this is over.” Hoffner placed his hat on his head and made his way to the door.

  Twenty minutes later he stood on the tree-lined Sterner Strasse. It was over a year since he had seen the place, the pleasant little street, the playful curtains in the windows. It was not the Berlin he knew. Here, life actually sprouted in the flowerpots; there might even have been friends among the neighbors, an accountant’s wife, a bachelor schoolteacher with whom to share a tea or a chocolate now and then. No doubt Giselle and Eva had long ago given up trying to find the man a wife: he preferred the company of his students. They had left it at that.

  Giselle had come to Kreuzberg on the afternoon of the funeral to take the boys. By then, Sascha had already gotten to her, and even if Giselle might have known more about her sister’s marriage than she had been willing to let on, death had a way of hardening the heart. The exchanges had been brief.

  Hoffner pulled a wire cord and heard a bell ringing beyond. Half a minute later he heard the sound of several locks being unbolted, then a second series of locks, and finally the door coming open.

  Giselle stood in a tile foyer, a glass-paned door behind her that was opened to a hallway. Her skirt and bodice were thick wool, with just a hint of cotton creeping out at the stiff neckline.

  “You look dreadful, Nikolai,” she said.

  “Thank you. May I come in?”

  With a certain reluctance she motioned him through; she then went back to her locks before joining him in the hall. “Georgi’s asleep,” she said. “I don’t want to wake him.”

  Hoffner had expected as much; it was not why he had come. “Your lawyer is making do without you?”

  “Herr Schmidt has been most kind, yes. He understands the situation.” She corrected herself. “Not the entirety of the situation. Herr Doktor Keubel has been equally considerate with Eva. Until Georgi returns to school, we are to be here with him.”

  “Good,” said Hoffner. “Then I need you to take the boys away for a few days. Into the country.” He gave her no time to respond. “Not to friends or relatives. A train, an hour away. It doesn’t need to be more than that. Find a small hotel and sign with a different name, not your own. Do you understand?”

  Confusion registered as disdain in her face. “What are you talking about, Nikolai?”

  Hoffner had no interest in pacifying her. “What wasn’t clear in what I just said?” He had never spoken to her in this tone; her shock stifled any further questions. “You need to go this morning. Wake Georgi, get Sascha.” She blanched at the suggestion. “What?” he said briskly.

  For several seconds, she seemed uncertain how to respond. Finally the resolve drained from her. “I have something for you,” she said. “Wait here.” She left him in the hall and half a minute later returned with an envelope, which she handed to him. His full name was written across the front in Sascha’s hand. “He left one for us, as well,” she said, trying to explain. “Two days ago. We tried to find you—”

  Hoffner put up a hand to stop her. He continued to stare at the envelope. “Two days ago?” he said, more to himself than her.

  “Yes.”

  Hoffner tore open the envelope and read:

  There is no reason for you to come after me if that is something that is even in your mind. I would not come home with you and you would not want to have me back, so let us save ourselves that unpleasantness.

  I have signed on with a unit of the volunteer corps. I have decided this because I know a few more months of school will be of no use to me when I can be of greater use to my country. These are things you have never understood because you do not see anything but yourself. The Germany I am fighting for will have no place for people like that.

  You will say that I am still not yet sixteen, but Krieger’s uncle has been of great help in securing a place for me even though I am still a few weeks away from proper age. Herr Kommissar Tamshik has been a true friend to me and has called on a colleague from his army days on my behalf.

  I am telling you this so that when my brother wishes to visit me he knows where I am. You are not to accompany him when he decides to do this, nor are you to influence his decision in any way. I have tried to explain to Georg what you have done and why I have acted as I have, but, because of you, he is still unable to understand. He has said things to me that are confused and entirely untrue because his mind has been so harmed by the death of our mother. He might never recover from this and you will be the only one to take the blame for that.

  I am sure you are hoping that I despise you for this, but I have no such feelings. I am without them because you are in my mind no longer a person. It is the same way you have thought about me and my brother and my mother for so long, and now you know what that is like, as well.

  This will be our last communication. Do not consider me your son. I no longer consider you my father.

  ALEXANDER KURTZMAN

  Hoffner stared at the page. Kurtzman. Sascha had taken his mother’s family name just in case the message had not been clear enough.

  The paragraphs were precisely spaced, the letters exact. How many drafts had the boy written before completing this perfect page, Hoffner wondered. There was only one flaw: a slight swelling of ink at the end of the word “untrue.” Had a moment of conscience prompted the hesitation with the pen? Hoffner hoped not. It would be better for Sascha to forget his own last moments with his mother. The same might not be so easy for Georgi.

  An anxious Giselle said, “Does he tell you where he’s gone?”

  Hoffner was still with the letter. He turned to her: Tamshik would have to wait. He said calmly, “I need you to wake Georgi and get to the station.” He folded the letter and dug it into his pocket.

  She pressed, “All he said was that he was leaving.”

  Hoffner was growing impatient. “He’ll be fine.”

  She said more pointedly, “He said he saw you with a girl.” When Hoffner’s silence became too much, she began to shake her head angrily. “Fine. Yes. We’ll take him out of the city. Now get out of this house.” She ushered him toward the door.

  Hoffner stopped her. “I need to see Georgi.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You are some piece of work.” She began to push him into the foyer, when a voice broke through at the far end of the hall. “Let him be, Giselle.”

  Both turned to see Eva holding Georgi by the hand. The boy was gazing at his father. He showed almo
st no reaction, such emptiness on so small a face. Hoffner walked over and went down on a knee. He watched as the vacant little eyes stared back at him. In a soft voice, Hoffner said, “Hello there, Georgi.”

  They stood like this for perhaps half a minute before the boy’s brow furrowed and his eyes became heavy with tears; still he stood staring. When his lips pursed, Hoffner reached out and pulled him in. He felt the little body shake as Georgi’s face wedged deep into his neck. He felt the sobbing in the boy’s tiny-ribbed back, the small hands clasped tightly around his neck. Hoffner picked him up and began to walk slowly, back and forth, whispering in his ear, over and over, until Georgi began to catch his breath, his body calming, his head resting back on Hoffner’s shoulder. The boy’s cheeks were streaked and red. Hoffner felt the wetness on his own neck. A little hand came up and rested on Hoffner’s cheek, and Georgi said, “Are we going home, Papi?”

  The boy’s hope was like an island in the current. Hoffner could see it: real, graspable, and completely uncharted. It was simply a matter of will to carry himself to it. Hoffner placed his hand over the boy’s and said, “Soon.” He pulled Georgi in tight and kissed him, the taste of tears on his cheek. Hoffner turned and saw a kindness in Eva’s gaze, and he handed him to her.

  She said brightly, “So how about a little trip today, Georgi?”

  The boy kept his eyes on his father. “Are you coming, Papi?”

  The current was growing stronger. Hoffner said, “Tomorrow. I’ll come tomorrow.”

  “And then we’ll go home?”

  For just a moment, Hoffner let himself imagine something beyond the frailty, something of what could be. Surprisingly, it carried no hint of self-disgust. He placed a hand on the boy’s cheek and then turned for the door.