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 cafe.” 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 cafe.”
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 the 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 more 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?”
“Happened upon you?” Hoffner repeated. “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, no. Not exactly. A friend said I might want to hear what you have to say. I hope that’s all right?”
“And who might this friend be?”
Hoffner glanced at the eyes that were staring across at him; he wanted to make sure he was playing the neophyte with just the right degree of hesitation. He looked back at Eckart and said, “Oster. Erich Oster. He was handing out pamphlets. We chatted.”
The name produced a knowing nod. “Erich,” said Eckart. He waited, then said, “Good man. Welcome.” Eckart poured himself another drink and went back to the faithful.
It was remarkable to see a man speak with such energy to so small a group. The hand movements alone were almost athletic, pumping fists and sculpting hands, his pauses equally mesmerizing: the sweat on his cheeks glistened as he lifted the glass to his lips. It hardly mattered what he was saying, not that Hoffner could follow much of it. He had been expecting the usual Freikorps claptrap: that the Reds had lost them the war; that the socialists were now denying them their rightful jobs; that the old Germany was being sold off to placate the bloodlust of the French and the English, so forth and so on. This, however, was something entirely different. Eckart spoke about things far more elusive, a German spirit that had been lost to “the struggle with the anti-life.” He seemed obsessed with the ancient tales of Fenrir the Wolf and Tyr the Peacemaker, Wotan and Freyer, Asgard and Ragnarok: this was where nobility was to be found, where courage and purpose spoke in a language known only to the “adepts.” Hoffner half expected to hear a hushed chorus from Parsifal or Lohengrin rise up from the men sitting around the table.
It all seemed to be leading somewhere, when Eckart suddenly stopped and began to examine his glass; like the bottle at its side, it was now empty. With practiced ease, he looked to his audience and said, “But the glass is empty. And when the glass is empty, the wise man knows to quiet his mind.”
Hoffner was not familiar with this particular aphorism, nor was he prepared for the response. Without a word, the group calmly began to get up. Whatever Hoffner thought had gone unsaid was evidently not as pressing to the men now gathering up their coats. One of the younger ones-a student, judging by his clothes-rushed over with a few questions, but Eckart made quick work of him. It was clear, though, that Eckart was still very much aware of Hoffner. When the boy had moved off and the table was again empty, Eckart turned to him. It was only then that Eckart seemed to notice Lina. He leaned to one side so as to get a better view and said, “And another friend, I see.” Lina produced a pleasant smile.
Hoffner said, “I hope we haven’t been the cause of an early evening?”
Now Eckart smiled. “There are no early evenings, mein Herr.” He waved them over. “Come, sit with me.” Hoffner and Lina joined him. “I’m drinking schnapps,” he added. Instantly, Hoffner turned around to call over a waiter. Hoffner ordered a bottle.
Eckart said, “You sit patiently. You listen and wait. So what is it that interests you, Herr. .”
Hoffner resurrected the name from earlier this evening. “You speak with great passion, mein Herr.”
“And passion is enough for you?”
“When there’s something behind it, yes.”
Eckart liked the answer. “And what do you imagine lies behind it?”
Hoffner had several choices. He could follow the Freikorps trail, although he doubted more than a handful of recruits were finding inspiration in the retelling of childhood fairy tales; the pamphlets, of course, were the most telling feature-where there were pamphlets, there was organization; and where there was organization, there was money-but it was too large a risk to venture into something he knew nothing about, which left him with Eckart’s enigmatic stopping point. Hoffner said, “I thought I was about to find out.”
The response seemed to surprise Eckart. The pleasant grin became a look of focused appraisal. “Did you?” he said. Hoffner thought the conversation might be heading for a quick close, when the bottle arrived and the waiter began to spill out three glasses. Without hesitation, Eckart downed his and held it out for a refill. The waiter obliged and then set the bottle on the table. Eckart slowly poured out his third as Hoffner pulled out a few coins to pay. This time Eckart let his glass sit. He waited for the man to step off before saying, “The German people lie behind everything, mein Herr. Sadly a German people now struggling to find themselves.”
Hoffner heard the first tinge of political disenchantment; he took a sip of his schnapps and nodded. “I lost a son in the war,” he said, opting for what had been working so well tonight. “The Frulein a husband. I don’t imagine this is the Germany he thought he was giving his life for. It’s not the Germany I knew.”
Eckart understood. “It’s still there, mein Herr. It simply needs some guidance.” Hoffner now expected the full weight of the Freikorps credo to come spilling forth; what came out was therefore far more startling.
According to Eckart, the stories of nobility and strength were not meant to be followed in the abstract: they were meant to be fully realized in the “rituals of rebirth and order.” With a few more well-chosen-though equally impenetrable-phrases, Eckart began to show himself for what he was: no ideologue, he was a self-proclaimed mystic. His gift was an understanding of the “core animus” of the German people, a spirit that separated them from all others and thus granted them a greater sense of nobility. He called it the “Thulian Ideal”-a gift from the lost island civilization of Thule-all of it in the pamphlets if one knew how to read between the lines. Hoffner nodded with each subsequent glass that Eckart tossed back. There were other Thulians, he was told, with access to other discrete bits of knowledge, all of whom recognized that the war and the revolution had ripped the soul from the German people, and who now saw it as their duty to rekindle that spirit and order.
Hoffner might have dismissed it all as the harmless, if slightly loonier, cousin of those societies he had so eagerly avoided at university-the image of a naked Eckart running through the Black Forest was disturbing to be sure-were it not for the fact that he had not simply happened upon Eckart and his devotees. The line that had led him from Rosa to Wouters to Oster, and now to this, was too firmly drawn: six women brutally-and perhaps ritualistically-murdered; the dying Urlicher willing to take his own life at Sint-Walburga; Hoffner himself still having trouble breathing from his beating; and the Cavalry Guard thugs Pabst and Vogel hardly the messengers of some imagined Teutonic mythos. There was a reality to this that had led him to a Munich wine cellar. What was more frightening was that it clearly led beyond it.
Hoffner now needed a better sense of that reality. “And to achieve that order, mein Herr?”
Eckart nodded as if he had been anticipating the question. “Remove the cancer from the body,” he said. “Purge it of the disease.” The politician had returned.
Hoffner stated the obvious. “The socialists,” he said.
Eckart looked momentarily confused. “The Jews, mein Herr. The elimination of the Jews, of course.”
Hoffner stifled his reaction. It had been said with such certainty. With no other choice, Hoffner nodded. “Of course.”
They begged off at just after midnight. By then, Eckart had been slurring his words and had long since drifted from talk of nobility and strength to his favorite topics of racial superiority and purity-“Every great conflict has been a war between the races, mein Herr; that’s the truth that the barking swine Jew doesn’t want you to know”-a fitting capper to the evening. He had even explained to Lina why her husband’s death had been at the behest of the Jews: “A war for the profiteers to destroy a generation of German youth; your Helmut’s blood is on their hands, Frulein.”
Lina and Hoffner were both stone-cold sober when they stepped out into the night. They walked in silence as Hoffner wondered how much of this had been new to her. He, of course, had heard his fair share of Jew-bating over the years, especially in the south, but this was something different even for him, something more fully conceived, and without so much as a trace of restraint. A good anti-Semite usually had the sense to show a little subtlety in his jabs. Eckart’s demonization was completely unabashed.
Lina was the first to speak: “So, any more charming drinking partners tonight, or are we through playing?”
Hoffner was glad for her cynicism. She was still so young, and men like Eckart relied on that vulnerability. At least here, Lina was showing none. “Not what I was expecting,” he said, matching her tone. “Two cafes tomorrow, then, to make up for it.”
The streets were deserted as they walked, Munich after midnight no better than a provincial town, taller buildings, wider streets, but everyone safely tucked away in their fine Bavarian beds. No wonder Eckart felt so at home here. At the hotel, Hoffner had to ring twice before the concierge came to open the door. The man looked slightly put out. His guests were usually in their rooms by eleven.
Upstairs, she was undressed and in bed before Hoffner had managed his way out of his pants. Not that she was in any great hurry for him; a bed this size was simply new to her: Lina wanted to take as much time in it as she could. She made an effort to reach over and help, but Hoffner seemed to work through his pain better alone.
When they were finally lying naked side by side, she propped herself up on an elbow and said, “You know, you’re really quite good at what you do.”
He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and smiled at her apparent surprise. “Thank you.” He had a sudden taste for a cigarette, but the pack was in his jacket across the room: too much of an effort to get up for it now.
“You know what I mean,” she said. She took hold of his hand and began to thumb across his open palm. “It was good fun to watch.” He stared down at her as she used her nail to pick at a bit of dead skin that was on one of his fingers. “I don’t imagine Hans is nearly that clever.”
Hoffner had not been expecting Fichte to make an appearance tonight, but here he was, casually tossed onto the bed with them. She seemed easy enough with it; Hoffner was happy to follow suit. “He might surprise you,” he said. He could only guess at what the boys on the fourth floor had in mind for young Fichte.
She was busy with his finger as she shook her head. “Not Hans.” She brushed away a few flakes of skin and looked up at him. “You think it’s strange that I’m talking about him.” It was a statement, not a question.
Hoffner did his best with a shrug. “Something we have in common.”
Lina drove a nail into the thick part of his hand and said with a rough smile, “Ass. Yes, lying naked in a bed, and that’s what we have in common.”
Hoffner tried to pull his hand away, but she was too quick. She brought it up to her mouth and kissed the bruised skin and he felt her tongue dabbing at his palm. “You were the one to bring him into the room with us,” he said.
“He’ll be all right in a few days. Boys like Hans always are.” For some reason she had needed to tell him this. “So. . what’s this pact I’ve heard so much about?”
The question caught Hoffner completely off guard. “The what?” he said.
“The pact,” she repeated. “Hans told me. He said he heard about it when he was in Belgium.” She stopped, her expression momentarily less animated. She had reminded herself of Fichte’s recent cruelties. Evidently her own recovery would take a bit longer than the one she had imagined for him.
“Oh, the pact,” Hoffner cut in quickly. Not that he was all that keen to bring it up, but better that than to allow Fichte’s stupidity any greater sway over her. With a careless shrug he said, “Not really that interesting.”
He watched as she gazed up at him; without warning, she was on her knees, leaning over his face, her thumbnail hovering menacingly above his cheek. “Really?” she said with an impish grin. “Not that interesting?”
Hoffner lay there calmly. “Not really.”
Lina’s eyes flashed and, in one fluid movement, she was on him, pressing her hands down onto his shoulders and tightening her thighs around his chest.
All of this would have been quite wonderful, and the prelude to some really exquisite bed time, had Hoffner’s ribs not forced him to shout out in intense pain. Lina at once realized what she had done and frantically pulled herself off him. Her knee grazed his abdomen and Hoffner let go with a second, stifled groan.
She was lying perfectly still at his side when he finally managed to say, “We’ll try it this way. You promise not to move and I’ll tell you about the pact. Fair enough?”
Lina began to nod; she stopped herself and, barely opening her mouth, said, “Fine.”
Hoffner kept his eyes on the ceiling as the throbbing in his chest receded to a dull ache.
It had been a long time since he had sought out these memories, three blind-drunk Germans sprawled out under a half-moon on the most perfect Tyrolean hillside he had ever known. He let himself recall the grass under his neck, the taste of the olive trees on his tongue, the sound of Knig’s laughter as it had echoed into the vast nothingness of the valley below. Mueller had been whole then, dancing in the darkness on two good legs, a bottle in each flawless hand, spilling more booze than he could drink. It was life as Hoffner had never known it-before or since-full and vibrant and unbearably real.
“We were in the Tyrol,” he said as he continued to gaze up. “A palazzo in the hills. Knig, Mueller, me. I forget the name. August of ’15. I don’t remember how we worked it. They flew in, picked me up. Something like that. Anyway, they were on leave, and we found ourselves on this hillside, two, three in the morning. . ” He turned to her. “You’re sure you’re interested in this?”
“Yes,” she pressed. “I’m sure.”
“Fine,” he conceded. He adjusted his pillow. “So there we are, two, three in the morning, soused to the gills, and Victor-Knig-starts in on how much he loves life, how much he understands it now that he’s flying over battlefields and seeing bodies and waste and on and on. Until he says that he won’t be coming back. That he knows he won’t be coming back, because he’s been given this extraordinary gift to appreciate it all. And Mueller and I just sit there, and listen, and wait until he’s finished, and tell him he’s an idiot.” Hoffner lost himself for a moment. “Of course, he wasn’t,” he said quietly. Refocusing, he turned to her. “So I say I’m not going to ruin the few days we have together talking about that sort of nonsense. And he says, ‘If you’re so sure it’s nonsense, then make it worth my while.’” Even now Hoffner could hear the arrogance in Knig’s voice. “So I did. If he came home, he came home, nothing else. If he didn’t, then I promised to be faithful to my wife. That was it. The agreement. The pact.” Hoffner remembered the letter he had received, the typewritten t’s that had jumped too high on the line, the word “death” with a little hitch just before the end. He was gazing up at the ceiling again and said, “He was shot down two months later. Mueller and I got very drunk.”
Lina lay quiet. She waited until he turned to her before saying, “I thought it was something else. I wouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”
He tried a smile. “No reason to be.”
“Do you regret not keeping it?”
“Not keeping what?”
“Your promise.”
“Ah.” Hoffner nodded slowly to himself. “My promise.” He lay with the word a moment longer. “But I did,” he said. It was now Lina’s turn to look confused. “At least up until a few weeks ago.”
Lina brought herself up on an elbow and gazed down at him. He had never seen this look before. There was a caring and a concern that was almost too much to take in. At once, he regretted having told her. She said, “You never told me that.”
He kept it light. “Not exactly something you bring up, is it?”
“That’s over three years.”
“Yes.”
“And that was it? You’d spent long enough keeping your word?”
He knew what she wanted him to say-that it had been because of her that he had betrayed Knig-but that would have been no more true than the other. He said vaguely, “I don’t think it works that way.”
“Works what way?”
“The way that makes it more than it is.” He meant it not to be unkind but to protect, even though he knew it was too late. He could see now how this would all fall apart; it would only be a matter of time. They had been safe as long as questions of intent had remained hidden; his story made that impossible: too much meaning, and they would crumble under the weight; too little, and she would feel a different kind of betrayal. For her, the breaking of the pact had hinged on a choice-imagined or not-which even now Hoffner had to admit might not have been so disengaged, or so consciously made, after all.
For several moments she hovered above him, searching for something more. When it was clear that there was nothing more, she lay back. “You were close with him,” she said. “With Knig.”
“Yes.”
“And he knew your wife.” Again, she was stating, not asking.
Hoffner felt the pull of his cigarettes from across the room. “I suppose. Does it matter?”
“He wanted to help her.”
Whether days or weeks from now, he thought, he would always look to this moment as their last. “Do you know where I put my cigarettes?” he said.
“Why did he want to help her?”
Lina was digging with no care for the consequences, and that left him no room to hide. “He didn’t,” he said. He struggled to get himself upright, then brought his legs over the side and sat with his back to her. “He thought he was helping me, which showed how little he understood.” Hoffner got up and moved across to the pile of clothes. “Did I put them in my jacket?”
He was fumbling through his pants when she said, “And what didn’t he understand?”
The sting, of course, was in her feigned indifference, but it was hardly fair feeling the least irritation when it had been his own stupidity that had put them here. The past was kept in strongboxes for a reason; he had removed the lid and had been forced to peer in for himself. How could he blame her for making him rummage through to the bottom?
He located the pack and lit one up. “Victor saw things differently at the end,” he said. “That’s all. I never floated over battlefields and so never gained the same appreciation.”
Lina spoke with an honesty that went beyond her years: “That seems unkind.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” He suddenly recalled the name. “Terranova. Palazzo Terranova. Victor found it all very meaningful.” She looked confused. “New ground,” he explained. “‘Terranova’ means ‘new ground.’”
“You resent him for it.”
She had never challenged him like this: endings, he imagined-even at their inception-granted a kind of invincibility. “For what?” he said.
“For seeing things in a way you couldn’t.”
Hoffner shook his head. “He was creating his own version of nobility, the great sacrifice, and he wanted me to do the same thing.”
“So being faithful to your wife was a sacrifice?”
It sounded so hollow, coming from her. At least Victor had done what he had in the name of something vital, a life rediscovered, a gift repaid. But it was a vicious circle: that kind of redemption was only for those who could embrace vitality. Hoffner had survived on an imitation kind, his own fueled by infidelity, which only made his choice to make good on the promise an even greater hypocrisy. He had let himself be fooled-just once-into seeing it for more than it was: some meaningless argument with Martha when he had revealed his self-denial and had staked his claim to nobility, but she had been no more unforgiving than Lina. “What sacrifice?” Martha had said with justified bitterness: his sudden rage, her body sent crashing to the floor. Hoffner now realized that it was the shame of that moment that he had grown tired of; and it was that fatigue, and nothing more, that had led him to Lina.
He took a pull on his cigarette and said, “It’s difficult to sacrifice something you never had.”
She had watched the sadness in his face, but she showed him no pity. “And you think getting into bed with me makes any difference?”
He looked over at her and he knew: I won’t even be a memory to her one day. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
There was something comforting in the truth, even for her. He lay back down and she placed her arm across his chest. Later they made love and they fell asleep and Hoffner dreamed of Rosa.
A group of children was playing in the short grass as mothers and nannies looked on from the safety of benches. Hoffner and Lina had settled themselves farther off, under a grove of trees where an enterprising vendor with a coffee cart had set up a few tables and chairs alongside the gravel path. Not yet ten o’clock, and they had already made a full morning of it at the shops and markets, which had been up and running since seven. The Gardens were a welcome relief.
“How did you know about this spot?” Lina asked as she poured another healthy dose of cream into her cup. Hoffner had never seen a whiter cup of coffee. From her expression, it was still too bitter.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he said. He had made the telephone call this morning and had been told where to find it. “The concierge,” Hoffner lied. He checked his watch and took a last sip of coffee before getting up. “I need to find the toilet,” he said. “Have a sweet or something while I’m gone.” He placed a few coins on the table and headed out through the trees.
Three minutes later he came across his old friend Peter Barens, sitting on a secluded bench. Hoffner drew up and said, “You give excellent directions, Peter.” He sat.
“It’s good to see you, too, Nikolai.”
They had known each other since university, two young law students with an eye to criminology. Barens had made chief inspector almost eight years ago; there was talk of a directorship in his future. Barens said, “I was sorry to hear about Knig.” Hoffner stared out at the park and nodded. “And now a chief inspector,” Barens continued. “I imagine even you can’t cock up that promotion.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Barens pulled a thin file from his case. “So why the interest in this?” He handed it to Hoffner.
Hoffner opened the file and found ten to twelve pages on the Thule Society, very complete, very organized: Barens really was an excellent detective. “Best not to say,” said Hoffner.
“Naturally.” He let Hoffner flip through to the next page before saying, “Odd how I get a telephone call asking me if I have anything on a man named Eckart, or anything having to do with-what did you call it? — the ‘Thulian Ideal,’ when we’ve been keeping an eye on these people for the past few months.” Hoffner nodded distractedly as he continued to scan the pages. “There’s a lot of money there, Nikolai. Your friend Eckart has more than he knows what to do with, as do most of the names on that list.”
Hoffner continued to read. “And what are they using it for?”
“Besides pamphlets and bad beer. . They’ve started two organizations. The Workers Political Circle and the German Workers Party. They also recently bought a rag called The Observer. Interesting blend of German folklore and race-baiting. They’re going after the workers and the nationalists. Not usually Kripo business to monitor the political fringes, but these fellows throw around too much weight not to.”
“And they still consider themselves a secret society?”
“In theory. I’m sure that’s what they’d like to think. Tough to maintain the image, though, when you go around recruiting as aggressively as they do.”
Hoffner came to what he had been looking for: the name Joachim Manstein appeared halfway down the third page. There was a small paragraph on him, but Hoffner knew he would need more time with it. He closed the file and said, “What about ties to the Freikorps?”
“You really have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”
“I always did.”
For the first time, Barens smiled. “They both hate the communists, but the Thulians save their real venom for the Jews. We’ve had a few minor incidents, street vandalism, a few punch-ups. Eisner’s presence hasn’t made it any easier, but it’s all pretty local stuff, which makes me wonder why a Berlin Oberkommissar, recent hero of the Republic, has come all the way down to Munich to ask about a group of crackpots he should never have heard of.”
Hoffner placed the file inside his coat and said, “You’re a good friend, Peter.”
Barens became more serious. “I’m a good bull, Nikolai. If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me. Are they moving beyond pamphlets and bad beer?”
Hoffner waited and then stood. “I should go,” he said. “Give my best to Clara and the girls.”
Barens remained seated. There was clearly more he wanted to hear. Nonetheless he said, “I’ll pass that along.” Hoffner turned to go, when Barens added, “And mine to the little chippy by the coffee cart.” Barens waited for Hoffner to turn around before saying, “Some things never change, do they, Nikolai?”
Barens had always been impressive, and always in the right way. It was why Hoffner had known to trust him. “I suppose they don’t,” he said.
Barens stood. “These men aren’t far from doing more than simply tossing a store or beating up a few students. I lost a man on this, Nikolai. Why do you think I could get my hands on the material so quickly?”
It was now clear why Barens had agreed to meet, and why he had brought the file: he was as eager for information as Hoffner was. “Lost a man? How?”
Barens had no intention of explaining. “If you do know something, and you’re not telling me, I’ll be very disappointed.” He paused. “And you’ll have been very foolish. What do you have, Nikolai?”
Barens had always been known as “the old man,” even as a nineteen-year-old at university. It had made him both insufferable and endearing. Hoffner said, “Her name is Lina. And she’s the last.”
Hoffner could see the frustration in his friend’s eyes: favors usually implied a little more give and take. Barens, however, was too good at what he did to let it linger. “I doubt that,” he said.
Hoffner grinned. “There’s always a chance, isn’t there?” He bobbed his head in thanks and said, “Take care of yourself, Peter.”
Barens took hold of Hoffner’s arm and, like an older brother, said, “Know what you’re getting yourself into, Nikolai.”
Hoffner nodded. He waited for Barens to release his arm and then headed off.
Lina had settled on a large cup of chocolate for lunch; it was all she had wanted. Hoffner had taken advantage of the beef again, this time with a plate of onions and a few potatoes. More daring, he and Lina were throwing provincial caution to the wind and talking to each other-light fare, nothing from last night-when they heard the first sirens. The klaxons grew louder and curiosity gave way to concern as the sound of shouting began to come from the street. Everyone in the place stopped eating as the waiter stepped over to the door and peered out through the glass. His expression turned to confusion. “There are soldiers in the street,” he said to the matre d’.
The man stepped over to verify; his reaction was no more promising: the taste of revolution was still fresh in everyone’s throat. At the sound of more sirens, Hoffner got up. He told Lina to wait, then made his way to the door. Against all protestations from the matre d’, Hoffner stepped out into the street.
It was almost completely empty. The soldiers were positioned in front of a large domed building at the far end of the street, rifles across their chests, waiting. The few pedestrians who remained on the street were doing all they could to find shelter inside. Hoffner managed to flag one down. “Madame,” he said as he tried to keep up with her. “Excuse me, but which is that building up there?”
The woman continued to move quickly as she looked at him: she spoke as if to a halfwit. “That building, mein Herr? That’s the Landtag.” She shook her head in disbelief and hurried off. Hoffner stopped: they’re cordoning off Parliament, he thought. Why? He quickly made his way back to the restaurant and over to the matre d’. The man was relieved to see him back.
Hoffner said, “I need to use your telephone, mein Herr.” Hoffner pulled out his badge: it might have said Berlin, but the word “Kriminalpolizei” was enough to stir the man to action. Hoffner nodded calmly over to Lina as he waited for the operator to connect the call.
“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Chief Inspector Barens, please.” Hoffner gave his credentials. “I’m aware of that, Frulein. This is of vital importance. Just connect me with the Chief Inspector.” Hoffner waited through the static until Barens finally came on the line. Hoffner said, “I’m standing a hundred meters from the Landtag building, Peter. What just happened?”
Hoffner could hear the mayhem in the background. “Hold on,” said Barens. There was a round of shouting before Barens came back to the line. “Nikolai, what are you doing near the Landtag?”
It was a meaningless question. Hoffner asked again, “Why are soldiers surrounding the building, Peter?”
There was a pause on the line before Barens said, “Someone’s shot Eisner. Half an hour ago. Eisner’s dead.”
Hoffner tried to stem his reaction. “Who?” he said.
“We don’t know yet. A student. That’s all we have.”
Hoffner asked the more dangerous question: “More than bad beer and pamphlets?”
There was another pause before Barens answered, “I don’t know, but I need you to tell me that you knew nothing about this, not even the possibility of this.”
“Of course,” said Hoffner with more conviction than perhaps was warranted. “What about Ebert?”
“So far, nothing. We’re waiting for a wire to confirm. It might already be here. I don’t know. Look, Nikolai, get yourself back to Berlin. We’ll probably be shutting down the main station in the next hour or so, and if you stay here, you won’t be of any use. Trust me. Safe trip.”
The line went dead and Hoffner handed the receiver back to the matre d’. Twenty minutes later, Hoffner and Lina were getting their bags from the hotel; forty minutes after that, they were on the last train heading north: Hoffner’s badge had seen to that, as well. It would mean that they would have to get out and wait somewhere along the way for the train out of Frankfurt, but at least they would be back in Berlin by tonight. Hoffner now had seven hours to acquaint himself with the men of the Thule Society and Joachim Manstein.
Notes on meetings, December 4, 1918, through January 18, 1919, Thule Society, as recorded by Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Stefan Meier:December 4: Our first meeting outside the beer hall. We meet at the house of Anton Drexler, a locksmith in the employ of the railroad shops. Drexler is a small, sickly man who talks for over an hour about the “mongrelization” of the German people and the corruption of the socialist regime. He refers to members of the government as “the Jew Eisner and the Jew Scheidemann.” There are nine of us. I believe we are only one of several cells of “Initiates” meeting throughout the city tonight. Unlike Eckart, Drexler is a poor speaker. We are instructed to bring documented proof of our Aryan ancestry to the next meeting.December 9: Again we meet at the house of Drexler. Only four of us are permitted to remain once our papers are examined. Two other members of the Society are present but we are not told their names. One of them is a doctor. He takes a sample of blood from each of us. We are then given copies of two books written by Guido von List (The Invincible and The Secret of Runes), magazines published by Jorg Lanz von Liebenfels (Prana and Ostara), a directory of pan-German and anti-Semitic groups by Philipp Stauff (The German Defense Book), and the manifesto of the Armanist Religious Revival from the organization known as The Walvater Teutonic Order of the Holy Grail, written by Hermann Pohl. An excerpt from Liebenfel’s Ostara I, #69, makes clear the general thinking behind all of these writings: “The holy grail is an electrical symbol pertaining to the panpsychic powers of the pure-blooded Aryan race. The quest of the Templars for the grail was a metaphor for the strict eugenic practices of the Templar Knights designed to breed god-men.”December 13, 18, 24, 29: We meet at the house of the journalist Karl Harrer (founder of the Workers Political Circle and chairman of the German Workers Party [see below]). He is no better a speaker than Drexler and, over the four nights, takes us through the history of the Society (see below), the rituals of Rebirth and Order (see below), the Covenant of the pan-Germanic people (see below), and the hierarchy of the races (see below). We are each required to recite long passages from The Invincible and to exhibit physical stamina and strength by withstanding long periods of heavy objects being placed on our chests.January 5: We are taken to a house on the outskirts of the city, where we are given our first initiation rites. This includes full disrobement, the cutting of two Runic symbols into the underside of the left upper arm, and the laying on of hands by a man we are instructed to call Tarnhari. We are told that he is the reincarnation of the god-chieftain of the Wlsungen tribe of prehistoric Germany. We are now required to recite from memory passages from The Invincible and to pledge a vow to our racial purity.January 9, 14, 15: The rituals continue at the house of Rudolf Freiherr von Seboottendorf, where we are joined by seven other Initiates from around the city. Seboottendorf is a mystic trained in the art of Sufi meditation. Over the three nights, he leads us in sance-like rituals meant to contact the Ancients from the lost island civilization of Thule. Seboottendorf is the only one of us to make contact.January 18: We are brought to the lodge on Seitz Strasse and introduced to the members of the Thule Society. There are, by rough estimation, seventy men present. I am able to learn twenty or so of the names (see below).
Lina was still asleep when Hoffner turned to the final page. It was written in a different hand and detailed Detective Sergeant Meier’s apparent suicide on the twenty-fourth of January: he had hanged himself in his one-room flat. There was no evidence at present to contradict the coroner’s findings. Clearly, Barens was not convinced.
Disturbing as Meier’s death was, Hoffner was far more interested in the seventeenth name on the list. Reading through the paragraph was like watching the shattering of a glass in reverse, every shard swept up into perfect coherence:
Joachim Manstein, born 1882, Munich, degree in medicine, University of Berlin, 1905, married Elena Marr Schumpert 1907, two children, Magda 1908 and Tmas 1910. . Doctor of Neurology and Psychiatric Medicine at Prince-Charles-Theodore Hospital, Lecturer in same at Ludwig Maximilian University. . Served in 5th Cavalry 1915–1918 as frontline surgeon, received the Knight’s Cross of the Military Order of Maximilian-Joseph, and the Order of Merit. The “Blue Max,” usually reserved for Prussian officers, was awarded. . Signature member, along with Philipp Stauff and Guido von List, of the High Armanen-Order (1911). . Published articles include “Refutation of Judeo-Psychritic Origins” Prana, 1912), “The Pathology of the Mob-races” (Ostara, 1913), and “The Specter of Judeo-Marxism” (Iron Hammer, 1916). .
The thirty-seven-year-old Manstein had been on the front lines and had had access to large quantities of Ascomycete 4; his medical background made him the perfect candidate to seek out Wouters and to orchestrate his removal from Sint-Walburga. He might even have had a relationship with the asylum prior to the war: Hoffner made a note to check in with van Acker. More than that, the articles made Manstein a devoted Thulian; and, most important, his wife’s maiden name tied him to the directors of Ganz-Neurath: Hoffner was guessing she was Herr Director Schumpert’s eldest daughter, courted during Manstein’s university days. Hoffner had sent out wires to the registrars of the Munich universities; he had never thought to look in Berlin.
And yet the why remained unclear. Hoffner had all the players in line, but he was no closer to understanding what had prompted them to unleash Wouters on Berlin, or what they hoped to gain by keeping Rosa in the wings. Eisner’s assassination made far more sense.
The train took a sudden jolt, and Lina opened her eyes. She had been asleep for the last two hours. For a moment she seemed unsure where she was.
“Another twenty minutes,” said Hoffner. She stared vacantly at him and then peered out the window as the first lights of Berlin began to appear. She placed her head on his shoulder and went back to sleep.
The news from Munich had brought out a few units of the Guard Fusiliers Regiment, who now patrolled Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse station; the soldiers, however, were doing their best not to cause any alarm as they went about their task.
Sascha stood by one of the station kiosks. He peered down at the evening edition of the Tageblatt and read with passing interest of the day’s events:
Early reports of communist radicals storming the Bavarian Landtag building-followed by equally unreliable stories of a monarchist counterrevolution-had all finally sifted down to one Count Anton Arco-Valley, a young law student with nationalist political leanings who, according to authorities, had acted entirely on his own. Odder still were the rumors that Arco-Valley was of Jewish descent; no one knew what to make of that. Why shoot one of his own? Though rattled, the Social Democrats had reassured everyone that all was well-after all, Eisner had been planning to offer his resignation this very afternoon anyway-and had quickly installed an interim government without so much as a peep of resistance from the opposition.
Smoke and shadows, thought Sascha as he read: some lunatic finds himself a pistol and the entire country has to hold its breath for a few hours. Shame they hadn’t shot him in the process.
Sascha checked his watch for a third time. He then smoothed back his hair. He was wearing his school jacket, this time with the long pants, and had brought a small bouquet of flowers, which he held awkwardly in his hand. Kroll had been good enough to let him meet her on his own. It was meant to be a surprise. Sascha was hoping Geli would find it as marvelous as he did.
Hoffner gently nudged Lina awake. Berlin was slowing all around them, the station just the other side of the river and strangely less formidable after dark. He retrieved their bags and headed out into the corridor. She was behind him, one of her hands playfully lodged in his coat pocket: they had left last night behind them. It would find them soon enough, but Hoffner was guessing that they could manage another few weeks convincing themselves that it wouldn’t. The train pulled in, and Lina stepped down to the platform. Ups and downs were a bit tougher on his ribs, and Hoffner winced as he joined her. For whatever reason-her sense of invincibility growing by the minute, he thought-she placed her hand on his cheek and kissed him. Bags in hand, Hoffner had no choice but to submit.
Sascha moved down the platform, trying to pick her out among the stream of passengers. He felt a wonderful burning in his throat and chest, and found it almost impossible not to smile. He thought he saw her among a swarm of hats and gloves, but the girl there was not nearly pretty enough. He continued to move upstream until he caught sight of something familiar though oddly not: he stopped. It took him another moment to fully process what he was seeing. He felt a strange compression in his head, a numbness where the burning had been. He stood there, unable to turn away. Bodies jostled past him, a station announcement crackled above, but all he could do was to stare at his father and this girl and feel the cold rush of an untapped violence.
Hoffner sensed it before he saw it. He opened his eyes and stared back through the flow of bodies. He must have tensed, because Lina instantly turned to follow his gaze.
There was a dreamlike quality to the next few moments, Hoffner placing the bags on the platform, stepping past her, moving toward the boy. He could see himself doing all of it, but he felt none of it. Lina knew to stay where she was.
Hoffner drew up and said, “Alexander.” The word carried no weight at all, the sound of his own voice almost foreign to him. Hoffner tried again, but all he could manage was a long breath out as Sascha stood unnervingly still. Finally Hoffner said, “This is. .” His words petered out. Is what? he thought. There was no way to see it for anything other than what it was. Hoffner was again struck by his own impotence.
“This is what you are, Father,” said Sascha with quiet hatred.
Hoffner heard the certainty in the tone, the betrayal more wrenching given the last few weeks of goodwill between them. Hoffner’s crime had now stripped away any boundaries: Sascha could accuse without any thought of reprisal. The boy wanted to hear his hatred justified, and Hoffner had no reason to deny him that. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “I suppose it is.”
Confirmation only made things worse. The truth brought Sascha to the edge. His breathing grew forced, as if he might strike his father.
Hoffner tried to calm him. “Look, Sascha-”
It was too late. Sascha glanced over at Lina. He felt shamed to be seen by her: she had no right to know him. Uncoiling his rage, Sascha looked back at his father and thrust the flowers into his chest. “Why don’t you give them to her?” he said. Hoffner tried to answer, but Sascha pushed past him and ran into the crowd. There was a moment when Hoffner thought to go after the boy, but he had no idea what he was supposed to do if and when he caught up with him. This was a consequence that, perhaps for the first time, he had no hope of meeting.
Hoffner looked back for Lina. She was gone as well, along with her case, leaving his off by itself. Hoffner’s isolation had never felt so stark.
He stood there for several minutes until a voice broke through. “Herr Hoffner?”
Hoffner turned around and saw a pretty face with bright eyes peering up at him. He needed a moment to recall the girl. It was only then that he even considered why Sascha had been here. Coincidence and proximity, he thought: the cosmos was having a go of it tonight. He did his best with a kind smile. “Frulein Geli,” he said. “What a delight to see you again.”
She smiled and said hopefully, “I thought I might have seen Alexander, mein Herr?”
“Really?” said Hoffner, thinking as he spoke. “I don’t think so,” he said lightly. “He asked me to meet you, and to make sure you got these.” Hoffner handed her the bruised flowers.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, really! Will I be seeing him tonight, mein Herr?”
Hoffner picked up her case and said, “Fathers never get the full details, Frulein. I’m simply to bring you to Herr Kroll’s, though I imagine they’re preparing something quite wonderful for you.”
Hoffner had given her hope; it was the least he could do for the boy.
Sascha ran until his lungs gave out. He steadied himself against a wall and hunched over. Only now did he think of Geli waiting for him on the platform, a double anguish to add to his rage. It was too late to go back for her now. He felt queasy and cursed his father: ruined even that, didn’t you? He spat with disgust just as a tram was pulling up across the road. Sascha glanced over and read the route heading: Kreuzberg. He took it as a sign.
Inside, he drew stares from the other passengers as he paced at the back; he didn’t care: he needed to keep himself moving. At Friesen Strasse he leapt out and continued running past the porter and across the courtyard, up the four flights to the flat, only stopping for breath when he had shut the door behind him. He heard his mother in the kitchen, and moved down the hall toward her.
“Nikolai?” she called. “Is that you?”
She was washing something in the sink when he stepped into the room. He realized that his shirt was damp through. Sascha rubbed an arm across his mouth to wipe away the sweat, and Martha turned around.
She looked pleased if a bit confused to see him. “Alexander?” she said. “I thought you were meeting Geli.” It took her a moment to recognize the state he was in. “What’s the matter?” she asked uneasily. Sascha was still catching his breath. He took off his coat and threw it on the chair. “You’re soaked through. What is it?”
Sascha was working on impulse now: nothing mattered beyond the telling. He said, “Sit down, Mother,” as he moved back and forth across the floor. She took a few steps toward him, but he put up a hand. “Please, Mother,” he said more insistently. “Just sit down.”
She had never seen him like this; Martha did as he asked.
Sascha continued to move as he spoke. “I saw Father,” he said. “At the station. Just now.”
It was the way Sascha said it, the way his eyes darted about, that told Martha exactly what the boy had seen. She listened, but the details hardly mattered. There was of course the humiliation of hearing it all from her son, but she had long ago refused self-pity: pity of any kind placed the fault with her, and she had no interest in that; it had taken her years to understand it. Sascha’s initiation, however, had come less than an hour ago. What pain she felt was for the weight of his new-won burden.
He stopped talking. Instinct told her to go to him, but she knew comfort would only compound his agitation. He needed her to share in his outrage, and she had none to give. With no other recourse, she stood and moved back to the sink. She began to fish through the water for the shirt she had been washing.
For the first time in minutes, Sascha stopped moving. He said, “Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying, Mother?” Martha heard the stifled rage. She nodded and brought the soap to the cloth. “And you have nothing to say?”
She continued to stare down into the water. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”
He stared at her incredulously. “I tell you what he’s done, and you go back to cleaning his shirts? Are you that pathetic?”
She turned to him with what anger she had. “You want me to hate him as much as you do, but I can’t do that. I know what he is, Sascha, what he does, and why he does it, probably better than he does himself. And I am sorry for all of that, but I won’t let you ask me to be pitiable for him. I stay with him because I choose to stay with him no matter what he is. And not out of sacrifice or duty or fear. Hating him would only make me wretched, and that is something I will not do. Not even for you.”
For Sascha, hers was a betrayal more devastating than his father’s. He had come to even the slate, to find in her a confirmation for his own feelings, but she was letting it all go. It was as if his father were laughing at him. Everything Sascha had wanted at the station now flew back. He stepped over and took her wrists and held them furiously. He didn’t see the shock in her eyes as he shouted, “Why do you say that? Why can’t you see what he is? Why?” She said nothing and he struck her across the face and she fell to the ground.
Sascha stared at his mother in utter disbelief. His sense of shame was immediate. He went to reach for her, but he saw his brother standing by the door, petrified. Sascha’s head and hands began to shake. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He raced past Georgi and out of the flat.
It was twenty minutes later when Hoffner found them in the kitchen. Georgi was rocking on her lap. Before he could ask, Martha said, “He’s been home and gone. He left his coat.”
Hoffner saw the bruise on her cheek. “What did he say?”
She gazed up at him; there was no feeling for him in her eyes. “What do you think he said, Nicki?”
“And what did you tell him?”
Martha pulled Georgi closer into her; the boy was oblivious of the conversation. “I told him that we all make choices, some better, some worse. And we live with them.”
Hoffner had never heard her speak like this. “You should have told him what he wanted to hear.”
“And what was that?” she said coldly. She needed to hear it from him.
Hoffner waited and then said, “That I’m a son of bitch, and that I deserve his hatred.”
She continued to stare up at him. “You’ll have to do that on your own,” she said. She waited, then said, “You need to go, Nicki. Come back when you want, but not now.” She stood, lifting Georgi into her arms. She started to go but stopped herself. “He saw him do this,” she said. “That’s something else you’ll have to take care of on your own.” She walked past him and into the hall.
Hoffner had nowhere else to go but the Alex. He tried to look over the files again, but his mind was incapable of focus; he found himself wandering the corridors of the third floor. A few lights were on, but it was after eleven and Fichte was long gone, not that finding Fichte was what he was after. Still, he moved toward the boy’s office.
In typical fashion, Fichte had left the door open. Hoffner stepped inside, to find a desk, a chair, and a few books scattered about. He wondered how much time Fichte was actually spending down here these days. Hoffner turned on the light and saw a map of Berlin tacked onto the far wall. It was untouched.
He was about to flip through one of the books when he heard something at the far end of the hall. Hoffner stepped out of the office and saw a light spilling from Groener’s office. As good a time as any, he thought. Or maybe he just needed the distraction. Hoffner flicked off Fichte’s light and made his way down the corridor. He made sure he was alone before knocking.
Groener was at his desk when Hoffner pushed open the door to a look of surprise, then annoyance. “Yes?” Groener said coolly.
Hoffner stepped inside. “Turns out we have a mutual friend, Herr Detective Sergeant.”
Groener’s face winced as he shot up and passed Hoffner on his way to the door. Groener made a quick scan of the corridor and then shut the door. He took Hoffner by the arm and brought him closer to the desk. “You idiot.” Groener spoke in a hushed voice; whispering only seemed to intensify the stench. “Of course we have a mutual friend. You don’t leave the door open to talk about him, now do you? How much have you had to drink, anyway?”
It was a fair question, thought Hoffner: one or two at a bar in Kreuzberg, another few in his office. He had hoped to be feeling more of their effect by now, but nothing, it seemed, was going to make tonight any easier. He said, “So how long have you known him?” He took a seat.
Groener was back behind his desk. “Long enough.” He was still the sour little man even in the company of a fellow conspirator.
Hoffner searched his pockets for a cigarette. “Who’s he protecting?” Groener needed more of an explanation. “The third prisoner,” said Hoffner. “At the Eden.” Hoffner found a stray and lit up. “The night Liebknecht and Luxemburg were killed.”
Groener was still trying to follow. He said hesitantly, “I don’t know. He never told me about that.”
Jogiches had been careful here: Groener was only a source, not a confidant. The interview continued: “The Ascomycete 4, the directors of Ganz-Neurath, Wouters’s replacement-you managed to track all that down by yourself, did you, Groener?” Groener nodded through each item on the list. “And you know where they’re keeping Luxemburg?” This time, Groener remained silent. “Well, we can’t have everything, can we?” Hoffner continued. “Still, more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?” Hoffner tapped out his cigarette. “So, why was he having you get in touch with Kvatsch?”
“Who?”
“Kvatsch,” Hoffner repeated more clearly. “The reporter from the BZ. Why all the clandestine meetings?”
It wasn’t the pronunciation that had confused Groener. He continued to stare across the desk before slowly shaking his head. “I know no Kvatsch.”
Hoffner knew better. “You’ve been having lunch with him twice a week for the past-” Hoffner stopped; his mind began to sift through a thousand images. Idiot, he suddenly thought. Of course.
Groener had never met Kvatsch. There had been no meetings, no list to compile.
Little Franz had been the leak all along.
Hoffner’s mind continued to race: the boy’s appearance at the Senefelderplatz site; all the wires back and forth to van Acker; the spate of articles detailing the case while he and Fichte had been freezing their asses off outside the Ochsenhof-Franz had had time to sort through the files without fear of being spotted; the tip-off to Tamshik to be in the pit rooms; and most recently the trumped-up note from K. At least there Franz had shown a little reluctance. Evidently Tamshik and Braun were paying him more than a few pfennigs for his services.
Hoffner stood and, ignoring Groener, headed for the door. The boy would be upstairs asleep, and Hoffner had questions that needed answering.
He raced down the corridor and nearly collided with one of the interchangeable sergeants from the duty desk. Hoffner tried to sidestep the man, but the sergeant held his ground.
“Herr Chief Inspector,” said the young man. Again Hoffner tried to get around him, and again the man held his ground: “I’ve been trying to find you for the last fifteen minutes. I tried your office-”
“Yes,” Hoffner cut in angrily. “What is it that can’t wait, Herr Sergeant?”
The man needed a moment to recover. “A body’s been found, Herr Chief Inspector. A woman. With the markings.”
“What markings?”
“From the Wouters case.”
“The what?” Hoffner said in complete disbelief.
“The markings. On the back.”
Hoffner tried to clear his head. “You’re sure?” The man nodded. “Where?”
“Kremmener Strasse.”
Kremmener. . An image of Lina flashed into Hoffner’s head and he began to run.
The cab was still moving as Hoffner opened the door and jumped out. They had cordoned off the street, most of which was eerily quiet. He moved past the barricade and toward a pocket of bright white light that was pouring down from a series of high-wattage arc lamps: it made the milling bodies in the distance look almost ethereal. Hoffner had known which building it would be, the uneven steps, the barren flower boxes. Number 5. The screws in his stomach tightened at the confirmation.
A group of Schutzis was keeping the small crowd at bay. Everyone had seen enough of Hoffner’s picture in the newspapers to let him through without so much as a glance at his badge. He stepped through the line and saw the lone sergeant who was standing by a single sheet-covered body that lay at the bottom of the stoop.
Hoffner felt a numbing in his head as he drew closer. He tried to brace himself for what he knew lay beneath, until he saw the shape. The body was too large, the contours wrong. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t Lina. Hoffner slowed, and the desperate fear he had been carrying with him since the Alex melted away. They had sent him a message: We know where she is. We know how to find her. Consider yourself lucky this time. Hoffner knelt down and pulled back the sheet. For several seconds his mind went blank as he stared at the face. Martha’s lifeless eyes gazed up at him and Hoffner vomited.