Again, Manstein was leading him. “And why is that?” said Hoffner.
“And here I thought you were so much cleverer than Herr Braun and his Polpo.” When Hoffner remained silent, Manstein spoke more deliberately: “As I said, you have her. And without Frau Luxemburg—”
“Yes. No conspiracy,” said Hoffner. “I understand that.”
“Yes, I think you do.” Manstein waited before adding, “But if you arrest us . . .”
Hoffner listened to the tone in Manstein’s voice, and allowed himself to see beyond all of this: to the press meetings, the newspapers, Manstein paraded out in front of all of them. And it suddenly became clear. “Too many questions,” Hoffner said, almost to himself. “And ones you’d be only too happy to answer. Either way it would lead them back to Nepp.”
“Precisely,” said Manstein. “And from Nepp to Ebert. The larger picture, Herr Oberkommissar. Obviously, you’re going to dispose of Frulein Luxemburg, so you and I seem to be at an impasse. My friends and I have nothing to ignite our scheme, and you can’t take the risk that exposing us wouldn’t ultimately fall in Ebert’s lap. Your finding all this out—or, rather, your having it spoon-fed to you—stops you from doing anything. Too much to lose. A final safeguard, if you will, even if Herr Braun here didn’t quite understand that. Shame it had to come to this.”
Hoffner thought for a moment. “So why not kill you?”
Manstein was no less poised. “You’re not going to do that, Herr Oberkommissar. It’s not who you are.” Manstein waited. He then let out a long breath and, with surprising candor, said, “So I think we’re done here.” He turned to Zenlo. “You can remove the ropes now.” Manstein jiggled his wrists in Zenlo’s direction.
Hoffner said, “You’re forgetting we still have a murderer on the loose.”
“Oh, you’ll find someone to take the fall for that, Herr Oberkommissar. The Kripo always does. And it’s not as if it would be the first time, now would it?” Manstein turned again to Zenlo. “A knife, please. It’s becoming uncomfortable.”
Hoffner watched as Pimm and Zenlo shared a glance. They were no better prepared for this than Hoffner was. Hoffner said, “And everything goes on as it was? Is that the idea, Herr Doktor?”
For a moment, Manstein looked truly baffled by the question. “‘Goes on as it . . . ?’ Let me ask you this, Herr Oberkommissar—how long do you think the German people will suffer a Friedrich Ebert Germany? The man’s already talking about running away from Berlin and setting up shop in Weimar. Everything as it was? Does that seem possible to you anymore? All you’ve done here is to delay the inevitable.”
The cavern became uncomfortably quiet. Hoffner tried to find something to say, but he had no answer. If the men in Munich had come this close, this time . . . Manstein had him either way. What choice was there?
Hoffner looked over at Zenlo and held out his hand. “Give me your knife,” he said. Again Zenlo looked to Pimm, and again Pimm said nothing. “Your knife,” Hoffner repeated. With no recourse, Zenlo stepped over and placed the knife in Hoffner’s hand. Hoffner was now directly in front of Manstein. He knelt down and said, “You’re right, Herr Doktor.” Without so much as a nod, Hoffner plunged the blade deep into Manstein’s gut. “I do need someone to take the fall.”
Manstein’s expression was less anguish than shock. He coughed once, and Hoffner twisted the knife as he drove it higher and deeper into the flesh. He watched as the eyes searched his own for an answer, the throat choked and silent. “Very few things are inevitable, Herr Doktor. This happens to be one of them.” Hoffner held him there, waiting for the life to drain from him. Manstein’s body jerked once and became still.
Hoffner turned to Braun. The man sat cowering in disbelief as Hoffner let go of the knife and said, “Congratulations, Herr Oberkommissar.” There was nothing in Hoffner’s tone. “You’ve just caught your second carver. What a proud day it is for the Polpo.”
Braun managed to find his voice. “What have you done?”
Strangely, Hoffner felt nothing: no relief, no sense of retribution. All he noticed was a tackiness on his hand—a bit of blood that had caught between his knuckles—and he pulled out his handkerchief. “I’ve made you a hero of the Republic,” he said as he concentrated on the stain. “You’ll have to be careful how much you let out. How far you let the press dig. Otherwise, who knows what they might discover?”
Fighting to find his composure, Braun said, “And why would I do any of this?”
“Because,” came a voice from across the cavern, “you could always be a dead hero, Herr Oberkommissar.” Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland stood just outside the opening to the tunnel. He was alone. He looked over at Pimm and said casually, “Hello, Alby.”
Pimm and the rest watched in silence as Weigland moved slowly into the cavern. It was unclear how long Weigland had been there, although he seemed unmoved by the sight of Manstein’s body. “Sorry to have missed all the festivities, Nikolai. It took a bit of time, convincing the boy to tell us where everyone had gone.”
Once again Hoffner had underestimated Weigland: the warning to stay away from the Alex had done just the opposite. Hoffner stood and said, “Not much to see, Herr Direktor.”
Weigland again peered over at Manstein. “Yes,” he said. “I can see that.” He turned to Braun. “It seems your friend Hermannsohn chose to swallow the end of his gun rather than answer any of our questions about the late Herr Fichte. Herr Tamshik showed less courage. We have him in a cell.”
Braun said defiantly, “I’ll take the gun, if it’s all the same.”
Weigland kept his eyes on Braun. “No . . . I think Nikolai’s right. Alive and a hero will be far worse for you. All those eyes keeping a watch on you and your friends.” Weigland had been waiting a long time for this moment: he was making sure to enjoy it. He turned to Hoffner. “But it’s up to you, Nikolai.” Weigland glanced again at Braun, his eyes narrowing for just a moment. “Shoot him if you want.” Weigland then turned and headed out to the tunnel. “I’ll be in the square.”
Hoffner understood. It would make no difference. Weigland simply couldn’t be here to see how things came out.
The footfalls receded and Hoffner reached over and pulled the knife from Manstein’s chest. He began to wipe the blood on his handkerchief. “Shoot you,” he said, thinking for a moment and then peering directly into Braun’s eyes. “Not exactly who I am now, is it?” Hoffner stuffed the handkerchief into Braun’s breast pocket and added, “You’re about to have your picture in all the papers, Herr Oberkommissar. One day, you’ll have to tell me what that’s like.”
ROSA
Two hours later, Pimm and Hoffner stood staring out across the coal-black current that was the Landwehr Canal. The sound of lapping water against the stone made raw the already biting air. Mercifully, the rain had let up.
Pimm breathed in deeply: he had been trying to make conversation for the past half hour, to no avail. “Weigland’s no idiot,” he said; Hoffner remained silent with a cigarette. “He’ll manage it. Save his own hide. He always does.”
Hoffner nodded distantly. He knew Pimm was right: Weigland would find a way to sell it to the papers, give Berlin what she wanted: a mad doctor from Munich always brought satisfaction. And just in case Braun had missed something in the cavern, Weigland had been crystal clear back at the Alex: “You’re out from under your rock, mein Herr. And that means you can be crushed at any time. It’s going to be a very tight leash.” Deputy Minister Nepp was to serve as the reminder: news of his fatal riding accident would be reaching the back pages a few days from now.
That had left Rosa, who was now wrapped in a tarp and propped up against a tree. Pimm and Hoffner had lugged her nearly half a kilometer through thick snow and wood, and Pimm was still recovering. He coughed up something and spat. “Shall we?” he said.
Hoffner took a last drag on his cigarette, then flicked it to the ground. Without a word, he stepped over and, laying the tarp on the snow, slowly began t
o unroll her. He had insisted on somewhere remote, close to where she had been dropped all those weeks ago. Out in the west. This seemed as good a place as any.
“Odd, dumping her back in,” said Pimm as he knelt down to help.
Hoffner flipped her on her back. “Not so odd,” he said.
Pimm showed only a moment’s surprise at the return of Hoffner’s voice. “Yah.”
The rumors were already out there: the canal was where the mob had tossed her. More than that, Hoffner knew that the water would bloat her skin, distort the scarring, and leave her back unrecognizable. She would float up eventually—a month, maybe two—but better that than to have her off somewhere plotting her return with Herr Lenin. Rosa needed to float up so that she could be put to rest. It was the least he could do for her.
Hoffner reached into his coat and pulled out the pebble Martha had saved. He held it in his palm for a moment and then tucked it into one of Rosa’s pockets. He stood.
“All right,” he said.
Pimm brought himself up, and together they carried her to the edge of the embankment. With a nod from Hoffner, they heaved her body back and then tossed her in. The splash echoed—the patter against the wall more frantic—and then stillness. Both men stood watching as she floated out, her small face glistening in the moonlight.
Pimm’s breathing softened. “You and I aren’t all that different,” he said. “The world throws something at us, and we manage it. We don’t look too deeply. In the end, things take care of themselves.”
Hoffner continued to watch her. He wanted to believe Pimm: he wanted to find something in this that said, yes, this is where it is meant to be. He knew that the city would right itself, that the chisel murders would drift quickly into some forgotten past, that even Rosa herself—when she finally came round again—would sparkle for only a moment before being overtaken and left behind. That was Berlin’s saving grace, her incessant movement forward, her sense of promise in what was to come. Now, however, that promise seemed somehow out of reach. Too much had been lost—too much remained hidden beneath the surface—to make her future any more certain than his own.
There was a sudden swirling of water and Rosa’s legs began to dip down; her torso followed, and finally her face. In a matter of moments, she was gone. Hoffner continued to stare out at the silent water.
“We’ve managed nothing with this,” he said quietly. “Except perhaps a little time.” His eyes followed what he imagined to be her path beneath the current. “These men will come again. And when they do . . . we’ll look back at Rosa and her revolution and see how nave we really were.”
The air grew static. Hoffner felt suddenly stifled by the place. He needed the east and the Berlin he still knew: somewhere there—and there alone—he would find a way to keep moving. He turned to Pimm, and together they headed into the long night.
Author’s Note
Rosa did, in fact, float up on May 31, 1919. By then, Lieutenant Vogel and Rifleman Runge had been brought up on charges, but the trial was as much of a sham as the investigation had been. Vogel was sentenced to two years and four months for committing a misdemeanor—illegally disposing of a corpse while on duty, and for filing an incorrect report; Runge received two years and two weeks for attempted manslaughter. The presiding magistrate—a man who would go on to hold a prominent position in the Nazi People’s Court—referred to extenuating circumstances, and the men’s excellent war records, as justification for the light sentences. In 1933, Runge petitioned the Ministry of Justice for compensation for his unjust imprisonment, and for his early contribution to the cause of Nazi Germany. After all, his Fhrer “had also paid for his ideals with prison.” Runge was awarded six thousand marks.
A detective named Ernst Tamshik was, for a time, held responsible for Leo Jogiches’s death: the official report stated that Jogiches had been shot in the back “while attempting to escape.” No charges were ever brought.
Dietrich Eckart continued to preach from his wine-cellar perch, and came to be known as Hitler’s mentor. Along with fellow Thulian Anton Drexler, he designed the philosophy and policies of the German Workers’ Party, which eventually changed its name to the National Socialists under Hitler’s leadership. Eckart died of liver failure in 1923, and thus failed to see the full potential of his work. The rag of a paper that he had purchased with Drexler in 1918 became the Volkischer Beobachter (National Observer), the central organ of Nazi Germany.
The Freikorps, which had played so pivotal a role in crushing the revolution, went on to even greater fame in the 1920s. Under the command of Ernst Roehm, the Korps became Hitler’s Brownshirts—the SA. They, too, however, missed out on the fruits of their labors. On June 30, 1934, Hitler had the SA leadership purged during “the Night of the Long Knives” in order to placate the army’s High Command. The Wehrmacht, as it turned out, wanted nothing to do with a bunch of thugs.
As for Albert Einstein, Käthe Kollwitz, and Leo Jogiches, they were all in Berlin during the revolution of 1919 (Einstein had, in fact, been the director of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute since 1914); the remaining characters in the book were not.
All excerpts from Rosa’s letters are authentic and can be found in either The Letters of Rosa Luxemburg (Humanities Press, 1993) or Comrade and Lover (MIT Press, 1979). The Shelter Registration Form that appears in chapter four is a reprint of a Weimar document, the text of which can be found in the collection of Joseph Roth’s feuilletons titled What I Saw (W. W. Norton & Company, 2003).
A Brief Biography
Rosa Luxemburg was born on March 5, 1870, to a middle-class family of assimilated Jews in the small town of Zamosc on the easternmost edge of Poland. Shunned by the predominantly Orthodox and Hasidic communities, the family moved to Warsaw in 1873, where, for the next fifteen years, Rosa did everything she could to distance herself from the petit-bourgeois lifestyle her parents tried to emulate; even their stifled Judaism embarrassed her. Life was not made any easier when, at the age of five, she was misdiagnosed with a tubercular hip and forced to bind her legs in a cast for nearly a year. When she emerged, Rosa was left with a severe limp, a deformity she would struggle to conceal for the rest of her life.
Intellectually, Rosa also began to stand apart. Under an 1879 Russian law, classes in Polish literature and the humanities were strictly forbidden; remarkably, Polish could be taught only as a second language. The Russification of education in Warsaw began to force Rosa and other young Polish intellectuals to go underground, lending a conspiratorial aura to their studies. Figures such as the Romantic poet Adam Mickiewicz, with talk of equality and social justice, became inspirations for these new radicals. For some, however, such ideas had an influence beyond the classroom: at just seventeen, Rosa joined Proletariat, an illegal socialist group, whose goal was to build a worker’s party. Thrilling as it must have been, it was also very dangerous, as the authorities suddenly began to take notice of her. At this point, it was her ideas and actions, not her physical limitations, that were drawing attention. It was time for Rosa to leave Warsaw.
Fear of prison, however, was not the only reason she needed to go. At the time, women—especially Jewish women—had no access to Polish universities. In February 1889, not quite nineteen, Rosa was smuggled out of the country in the back of a hay cart, then left to find her way to Zurich and its open university. Luckily, she was well at home there. A thriving band of Polish migrs had set up shop at the university, among them a fellow conspirator named Leo Jogiches. Over the next fifteen years, the two would become lovers—to Rosa’s mind it was a marriage, although there were never any official papers to say so—as well as comrades, plotters, prisoners, and rabble-rousers, all in the name of socialism. And while she would get her doctorate and publish countless articles—thus making a name for herself in the Polish and German parties—Jogiches would never manage to get out more than a few pages. She became the face of young socialism, while he remained only a shadow.
The tension eventually tore them apart. Rosa wa
s left to struggle on her own, taking on both the German establishment and the less radical elements of her own Social Democratic Party. Where they wanted reform, Rosa wanted revolution. Her polemics isolated her still further, leaving her—by 1912—as the sole voice of the radical left. And while, for a time, she was allowed to teach at the Party’s school in Berlin—her work on Marxist economy was too innovative to be ignored—men like Friedrich Ebert and Philipp Scheidemann were now taking the socialists in a far more moderate direction. Only something of drastic proportions could bring Rosa back to the fore.
Sadly, the war proved her final undoing. When the workers of Germany, Russia, England, and France voted for rearmament, it was the end of the International. It was also the end of her freedom: Rosa spent all but a few months of the war in prison—under the hollow euphemism of “protective custody”—writing and waiting. And when her release finally came in November 1918, it ushered in the last cruel hope of her life. The revolution was here. Her old comrade, Karl Liebknecht, had managed to sweep the workers up into a frenzy, building on the unrest in Kiel and the rest of Germany. Rosa returned to Berlin in triumph on November 11, and for the next eight weeks watched as the Social Democrats thwarted her every attempt at genuine socialist revolution. In a last, desperate effort to lay claim to the revolution, she and Jogiches—reunited again—along with Liebknecht, formed the first German Communist Party, under the banner of Spartakus, and took to the streets. They were crushed.
Her last days were spent on the run, moving from one safe house to the next, the press branding her a traitor—the Devil Jewess—until, on the night of January 15, the soldiers came, took her to the Hotel Eden, and killed her. Four months later, her body appeared floating in the Landwehr Canal, almost unrecognizable after being in the water for so long a time. And so began her legend.
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