Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  Jogiches took a stab at something inspirational, but it was too late for such gestures: the men had been given something to do. It was enough for them to do it.

  When the last of them had gone, Hoffner said, “I thought the time for revolution had passed.”

  Jogiches was gathering up the papers. “It has.”

  “Do they know that?” said Hoffner.

  Jogiches looked up, but it was Pimm who answered. “Does it matter?” he said. “Theft always needs a bit of misdirection, and now we have it.”

  Hoffner didn’t see the logic. “First sign of trouble and Braun will get her out of there. He’s too clever for that.”

  Jogiches answered, “Not if the bait is too good to pass up.” Hoffner wasn’t following. It was only when Jogiches continued to stare at him that Hoffner understood.

  “They’ll kill you if they take you,” said Hoffner.

  Jogiches nodded. “More than likely, yes. But they’ll all want to be there when they do, just to find out how much of it I know, how much you know.” Before Hoffner could answer, Jogiches said, “You’ll have Rosa, they’ll have me. Seems a fair trade.”

  Hoffner couldn’t help his cynicism. “And you’ll have your final noble act.”

  Jogiches shook his head; he seemed strangely at peace. “Nothing so grand,” he said quietly. He went back to the pages. “It’s only a matter of days before they track me down. We both know that.” He picked up the last of the stacks and looked at Hoffner. “I can’t choose when or how I die, Inspector, but I can choose why. And that, in the end, will have to be enough.”

  Fichte had been up in Braun’s office ever since getting back from Rcker’s. For some reason, Braun had chosen today to take him through the various methods of interrogation that the Polpo employed. Fichte had tried to move things along and was praying that he hadn’t missed the telephone call when he finally got back to his office. He called down to the switchboard and, to his relief, was told that nothing had come in.

  It was nearly four when the phone finally rang. Fichte counted ten before calling the operator.

  “Bezirkssekretr Fichte here,” he said. “Was there an error made just now?”

  A woman answered quickly. “I don’t believe so, Herr Bezirkssekretr,” she said. “I put the call through, but the party must have disengaged.”

  “Thank you, Frulein.”

  Fichte grabbed his coat and moved down the corridor: his heart was racing. He felt a momentary twinge in his chest and reached into his coat pocket: nerves always worked their worst. He took two quick sucks on his inhaler and then headed down the stairs. Things were about to be set right, he thought. Fichte permitted himself a momentary wave of exhilaration.

  He was nearly to the landing when he noticed a sweet metallic taste in his mouth, followed by a sudden heat in his lungs. He stopped and placed his hand on the banister. For a moment he thought it was simply overexcitement, but his chest suddenly convulsed and he began to choke for breath. It felt as if his throat had sealed entirely. He dropped down and struggled to bring his inhaler up to his mouth, but he was losing focus, and there was a drumming in his ears as if he were about to faint. Frantically he wrapped his lips around the nozzle; he pressed down on the cap, but it was too late. Hans Fichte was already dead by the time the mist had passed his tongue.

  THE ALEX

  The rain had returned, and the streets around the square ran with melting snow.

  Hoffner gazed out from the darkness and into the drizzled lamplight. They had chosen a small storefront, its display window offering a perfect view of the side entrances to the Alex. A few soldiers were wandering aimlessly up by the square; another two had positioned themselves inside a doorway across the street and were doing what they could to keep dry: these were the only signs of life. One of Pimm’s men pulled out a cigarette and a voice by the door whispered, “You light that and you lose a finger.” Pimm had placed Zenlo in charge; he was little more than a skeleton’s shadow skulking by the door as he stared out, listening and watching.

  Hoffner had waited nearly an hour at Rcker’s. When Fichte had failed to show, Hoffner had told himself that the boy had simply lost his nerve; anything other than that was too much to consider. Across town, Pimm had not been pleased: he had wanted Hoffner nowhere near the Alex tonight, but the best-laid plans . . . “And you’re sure they’ll come for her?”

  Hoffner had been sure. “As long as you have everyone in place.”

  Pimm had nodded. “He’s done work for me before. He’ll do what he’s told.”

  Now it was just after eight, and the first echoes were beginning to rise up from beyond the square, a distant bellowing as if the streets themselves were sucking in for air. No one who had lived through December or January could have mistaken the sound for anything other than an approaching throng. The bodies were massing on the other side of the Platz. The soldiers had heard it as well, and began to head up the street.

  “Forty minutes,” said Zenlo. He turned back to the men. “Now you can have your cigarette, idiot.”

  There was hardly room to breathe.

  Jogiches had forgotten the feel of a surging mob, the pulse of bodies all around him. He had forgotten the mood that comes with a column of arms and legs striding as one, the song in the footfall, the rhythm that drains each man of his singularity. It was nearly fifteen years since he had stepped from the shadows and onto the line: then there had been possibility, purpose—Warsaw, Rosa; now he marched alone, drifting within the current, yet no part of it. He gazed up into the night sky and felt the rain on his face, the taste of moist air in his lungs, and he breathed in with a sense of finality. The men around him strode with no such appreciation. For Jogiches, these were the only sensations left to him.

  The column turned and the bodies poured out into the square. Jogiches felt the tempo rise. He saw the swarms spilling out from across the square and he ran, faster and faster, just as the first cracks of gunfire echoed into the night.

  Zenlo led Hoffner across the cobblestones and over to the gate. Somewhere beyond the building the battle raged on, but here—on the side street and less than a hundred meters from it—there was an eerie stillness. The army reserves had yet to be called in: only the square had been engaged. Hoffner pulled out his key and opened the outer lock. Zenlo struck a match, and within half a minute the five men were inside the Alex.

  The walk to the back stairs was uneventful: all activity was taking place on the other side of the building. What shouts and scampering they heard continued to move away from them. Even so, Hoffner paused at each landing as he led the men up.

  At the fourth floor, he stopped again. There was no reason for it: the place felt as deserted as the rest. He began to move, when Zenlo grabbed him from behind and pulled him back down the steps. The grip was remarkable and utterly immobilizing. A moment later, Hoffner heard the faint sound of footfalls rising from down the corridor. He had been completely unaware of it until this moment: clearly these were men who knew their business. Hoffner pressed himself up against the wall with the rest and listened as Zenlo pulled a short blade from his pocket and held it flat against his leg.

  The sound grew closer, and a shadow appeared on the corridor wall. From this angle, Hoffner could make out only the top of a head as it passed. He thought it might have been Kommissar Braun making his way to the front of the building, but it was only a guess. Hoffner said nothing and waited in the silence. Half a minute passed before Zenlo quietly pocketed the knife. He then motioned for Hoffner to lead them up to the landing.

  The corridor was equally still, the door handle as cold as Fichte had described it. At once, one of the men went to work on the lock and within seconds had it open. He stepped back and let Hoffner push open the door. When all five men were inside, Zenlo closed the door behind them and flicked on the light.

  The precision of the next few minutes astounded Hoffner. He had always attributed a certain recklessness to theft: this had the grace of a choreographed bal
let, two men with the burlap tarp for her body, two others at the tank. Hoffner focused on the jars. Taking them one by one to the sink, he turned on the faucet and began to dump out the contents. The stink of the grease forced him to place his handkerchief up to his face; even with it, he felt a momentary wooziness and had to turn away: this was no time for hallucinations. Only then did he notice a second examining table up against the wall on the far side of the door. A sheeted body lay on top, one of its hands having slipped out. Hoffner placed the bottle on the counter and stepped over. There was no reason to wonder what he would find: Hoffner knew who lay beneath.

  Fichte’s cold stare gazed up into the light as Hoffner pulled back the sheet: Braun hadn’t even bothered to shut the boy’s eyes. Hoffner did so, and saw the slight discoloring on the lips and tongue. He bent over and smelled the faint metallic scent that lingered in the mouth. Hoffner guessed prussic, maybe oxalic acid: in Fichte’s lungs, either would have been instantly fatal.

  There was nothing serene in the face, no peace at the end. The boy looked as muddled by his own death as by those he had investigated and had never fully understood. Hoffner tried not to think of those last moments, Fichte clinging to the hope that things could be made right, only to be brought face-to-face with his own futility. Perhaps Fichte had made it only to confusion. That was Hoffner’s hope for the boy.

  He reached down and repositioned the hand on the chest, then stood there a moment longer before pulling the sheet over the face. Hoffner turned back to the counter, took the next jar, and began to empty it.

  Jogiches’s jaw was already swollen, and his lip badly cut, by the time Braun stepped into the cell.

  It was a damp, soulless place, set off from the rest of the cells with just these sorts of interviews in mind. Jogiches sat cuffed to a chair, his arms pulled tight behind his back. Tamshik had been going at him for a good twenty minutes; Hermannsohn had been battering away with an endless array of questions: neither had produced any results.

  Tamshik stepped back as Braun pulled over a second chair and placed it in front of Jogiches. Braun sat. “It looks like it’s all falling apart up there, mein Herr,” said Braun with a goading sympathy. “The barracks guards in the square. A tank from the Schloss armory. We might even see a flamethrower or two.” Braun curled a smile even as Jogiches stared beyond him. “A bit of a waste, wasn’t it?” Braun reached out his arm and Hermannsohn handed him a file: Braun began to flip through the pages as he spoke. “Not really like you to put in an appearance at one of these things, is it, mein Herr? And to be taken in the first wave of arrests. Now, that was sloppy.” Braun paused on a page. “Next time you’ll have to be a bit more careful, won’t you?” Braun looked up. “At least with your friends, we were forced to track them down.” Jogiches continued to stare ahead as Braun’s gaze hardened. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what Herr Hoffner knows about Munich, what he knows about the Hotel Eden, and anything else you think I might want to hear.”

  The room fell silent. Jogiches let his eyes drop to Braun’s. He waited before speaking: “Remarkable,” said Jogiches, “how one little Jewess has caused you such problems, Herr Oberkommissar. Letting her fall into the canal . . . now, that was the mistake, wasn’t it?” Jogiches saw the momentary tensing in Braun’s jaw. Jogiches spat a string of blood onto the floor and asked, “Do you have the time, Herr Oberkommissar?” He spoke as if he were at a café, sharing a coffee with a friend.

  Braun hesitated. “The time?”

  Jogiches enjoyed watching the wheels spin behind the callous expression. “Around nine, nine-thirty, is it?” Jogiches nodded to himself. “I’d just like to know how long Rosa’s been out of the building, that’s all.” He saw the momentary flash in Braun’s eyes and continued: “I suppose I will have to be a bit more careful next time, Herr Oberkommissar, try not to be so sloppy.” Jogiches paused and then added, “As, I imagine, will you.”

  Braun stifled his reaction. “You think you’ve done something clever, do you?” When Jogiches said nothing, Braun stood, adding with a too-practiced calm, “It won’t make any difference.”

  Jogiches again locked his eyes on the far wall. “Oh, I think we both know that’s not true.” She was safe, he thought; he could let her go. He closed his eyes.

  Now, thought Jogiches, I am absolutely alone.

  Braun stared at the unnervingly serene face. He looked across at Tamshik and said, “Make sure the prisoner doesn’t try to escape.” Braun then turned and headed out of the cell.

  Jogiches waited for the touch of the steel on his skin. He listened for the squeeze of the trigger. Both came more quickly than he expected.

  The car was waiting outside, its exhaust puffing like a cigar in the cold and damp. The door opened and Hoffner stepped up to the front seat as the men laid Rosa across the back floorboards. With a quick release, Pimm put the car into gear and jolted them down the nearest side street.

  “No problems?” said Pimm as he glanced into his mirror.

  “Nothing on our end,” said Hoffner.

  “Good. Then our friend must have been successful.” Pimm took a quick turn; the buildings peeled past in a gray wash of stone and glass. “You know my associate?”

  Little Franz was seated between them. The boy had found himself a scarf and was smoking a cigarette. A nice bit of wool, thought Hoffner. “Stepping up in the world, eh, Franz?”

  Franz continued to gaze out the windshield, his tiny fingers wrapped around his cigarette as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. In Pimm’s presence, Franz was a much tougher prospect. “I was told to come along,” said the boy, the “Herr Oberkommissar” conspicuously absent.

  Pimm said, “He needs to learn sometime. You won’t hold it against him, will you?”

  Hoffner nodded at the cigarette. “You have another?” Franz fished one from his pocket and handed it to Hoffner. “We’ll call it even, then.” Hoffner lit up.

  Pimm took them west, making sure to keep clear of any residual scuff-ups along the way. The government had reacted quickly: armored cars and light artillery—vast metal rhinos standing sentry—had already cordoned off the streets leading into the square. It was difficult to tell just how many troops Ebert had sent in; at every turn there seemed to be another unit marching in formation: it was more than enough to conjure memories of early January.

  “They’re going to make quick work of this,” said Pimm. “Wouldn’t want to be back in that square.”

  “Yah,” Hoffner grunted. He continued to gaze out. “So . . . what do you think, Franz? Was it worth it to get her out?” The boy seemed surprised to be asked; he shrugged lazily. Hoffner nodded to himself and then spoke across to Pimm. “I’d love to see the look on Braun’s face when they find she’s gone missing. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Pimm shifted gears and said, “Just so long as you keep the Kripo out of my back pocket for the next few weeks, we’re settled.” He took another quick turn and Hoffner put a hand to the roof so as to keep from flattening the boy. “That was the agreement,” said Pimm as the car straightened. “You want to gum up the works with your friends in the Polpo, not my business. You don’t keep up your end with me, and I’ll bring her right back.”

  Hoffner laughed quietly. “Fair enough.” He was glad to see little Franz following every word.

  It was nearly ten when they pulled up to the construction fencing outside the Rosenthaler station, Pimm having doubled back when they had gotten far enough north to avoid any trouble. Even here, the sounds of Alexanderplatz crackled overhead through the rain: no one was venturing out, which made for a very private transport of the body up the ramp. At the ladder down into the site, the largest of the men hoisted Rosa onto his shoulder. He steadied his grip on the slick rungs and headed down. Three minutes later the small group, including Franz, stood in the main cavern. Pimm had set it up nicely with a few torches to brighten up the place.

  “Perfect,” said Hoffner. “The last place Braun would look.”

  Pimm
nodded to his man to set her down; he then turned to Hoffner. “So we’re good here?” he said impatiently. Pimm had his hat in his hand and was fingering the water from the brim. “We’ve done our bit?”

  Hoffner said, “I need to get her into one of the back caverns.”

  Pimm motioned his men to the ladder. “Well, you enjoy that, then.” He placed his hat on his head as his men began to climb.

  “Hold on,” Hoffner said with surprise. “I can’t do that on my own, not with my ribs.”

  Pimm grabbed on to the ladder. “We’re on a schedule, Inspector. We got her here. You want her someplace else, that’s up to you.” He waved over to the boy. “You, too, Franz. Let’s go.”

  Franz began to follow. Hoffner said, “At least leave me the boy. Forty minutes, an hour at the most. I’ll get someone. I need him to stay with the body.”

  Pimm let out a frustrated breath. He turned to Hoffner. “All right. Fine. Forty minutes.” He took a step up the first rung and looked back at the boy. “You come by the office afterward. We’ll square it.” He waited for a nod from Franz and then headed up.

  Five minutes later, Hoffner joined Pimm and his men in an alley across from the site. They all stood in the shadows, eyes fixed on the ramp.

  “You could have had a career on the stage,” said Hoffner as he watched and waited.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Pimm. “You’re sure he’s—”

  Franz appeared at the top of the ramp. He slipped on the wood and then bounded out into the square before heading south toward Alexanderplatz.