Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

“Yes.” They walked a bit more before Weigland released Hoffner’s shoulder. “This business with Luxemburg,” he said. “Best to let it work itself out, don’t you think? She’s not crucial to your case, and I’m sure whatever Herr Braun feels is of such vital importance is. .” Weigland seemed to lose the thought.

“Of such vital importance?” said Hoffner.

Weigland laughed to himself. He patted another knowing hand on Hoffner’s shoulder. “It’s that mouth of yours that kept you out of the Polpo, you know.”

“It might have been that I never filed an application, Herr Direktor. ”

Weigland nodded as if having been caught out. “I suppose that might have had something to do with it, yes.”

They reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a kitchen, of sorts: table, icebox, sink. A kettle of coffee sat on a small iron stove. Weigland found two cups and placed them on the table. The two sat and Weigland poured. “Your father would have made an excellent Polpo officer,” he said as he set the kettle on the table.

Hoffner was unsure where Weigland was going with this. He answered, nonetheless. “He always thought so, Herr Direktor. ”

“But then there was all that business with your mother, which made it impossible.” Weigland took a sip. He kept his eyes on the cup as he placed it on the table. “Jewish converts weren’t exactly popular at the time.”

Hoffner watched Weigland for a moment; the man was so obvious in his baiting. Hoffner brought the cup to his lips; he said nothing. This was not a topic he discussed.

Weigland looked up. “You never had any trouble with that, did you? The Jewish issue, I mean. Even if you are technically one of them.”

Hoffner placed his cup on the table. “I was raised a Christian, Herr Direktor. ”

“Lutheran?”

“No idea.”

Again, Weigland laughed. “That sounds like your father.” Hoffner nodded. “It was your mother’s idea, I think?” said Weigland. “For his career.”

“I imagine it was.”

Again, Weigland focused on his cup. “We came up at the same time, you know, your father and I.” He continued to stare at the cup until, with a little snap of his head, he looked up at Hoffner. “I had no idea, of course. None of us did. Not until it came out.”

Hoffner took another sip. He had no interest in Weigland’s excuses. Hoffner placed his cup back on the table and said, “So, you want me to let this one go.”

Weigland nudged a bowl of sugar cubes Hoffner’s way. “Go on. Take one. They’re real.” Weigland clawed out three and dropped them into his cup. “We pulled them out of a shipment Pimm was smuggling in from Denmark. He would’ve made a fortune on the black market.”

Hoffner picked out a cube and slipped it into his cup. “I didn’t know the syndicates were Polpo jurisdiction.”

“Neither did Pimm.” Weigland took a fourth cube and popped it in his mouth. “Look, Nikolai,” he said, “you’re making a good name for yourself in the Kripo. You solve this one and the papers will turn you into a nice little celebrity. You’d probably make chief inspector.”

“This one, but without Luxemburg.”

Weigland sucked for a moment on the cube. “Why would you want to drag yourself into all of that?” He shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea why she had, as you say, the bad luck to run into your maniac. But for you, she’s just one more body. To the rest of Germany, she’s Red Rosa, the little Jewess who tried to bring Lenin’s revolution to Berlin. Your case will get lost in all of that. Braun’s right. You don’t know how these things work. You’re a very capable detective, Nikolai. So why not do what you do well, and leave this other piece to us.”

Hoffner reached over and took two more cubes; he slipped them into his pocket for Georgi. “And if Herr Braun needs another body from the morgue?”

“I’m sure he thought he was doing all of us a favor. Think about it. If your man doesn’t come back in tonight, no one’s the wiser.”

“You really think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

“Fine,” Weigland conceded, “I’m sure you’re just that good.” He waited, then said more emphatically, “This is a touchy business, Nikolai. Ebert’s still not on firm ground. You don’t want to make the same kind of mistake your father did.”

And, like a slap to the face, Hoffner understood. It required every ounce of restraint to answer calmly. “And what mistake was that, Herr Direktor ?”

There was nothing comforting in Weigland’s tone: “Understand the situation, Nikolai. Luxemburg, a Jew. Your mother, a Jew. And a Russian, to boot. Times haven’t changed all that much.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He thought to correct Weigland: Luxemburg had been a Pole. Instead, he pushed his cup across the table and stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Herr Direktor. ”

Weigland reached out and grabbed Hoffner’s forearm; the grip was as impressive as Hoffner had imagined it would be. “People make mistakes, Nikolai, and the rest of their lives are filled searching for penance.” Weigland continued to squeeze Hoffner’s arm. “Understand that, and do what I’m asking you to do.”

Hoffner felt the blood pulsing in his hand. He twisted his arm slightly and Weigland released it. “Technically, Herr Direktor, I’m not sure I’m in a position to give or receive absolution.” Not waiting for a response, Hoffner turned and walked back down the hall. He opened the door to the office and poked his head in. “We’re done here, Hans.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Gentlemen.” None of the three said a word.

Unsure for a moment, Fichte stood and moved across to the door. He then turned back with a little bow. “ Oberkommissar,Kommissare. ”

Hoffner pulled the door shut behind him, and the two headed back down the stairs. They walked in silence until they reached the courtyard, where Fichte finally managed to get something out. “I’m-sorry for all that, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” said Hoffner.

“I shouldn’t have been trying to impress Lina.”

“No. That was stupid. Don’t do that again.” Hoffner began to button his coat. “As for the rest, you were fine, Hans. You handled yourself very well.”

Fichte’s concern gave way to genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

They passed through the door to the atrium. FliegFlieg was dozing; Hoffner didn’t bother to sign out. Out in the drizzle, the soldiers barely gave them a second glance.

When they had moved out of earshot, Hoffner said, “You didn’t mention anything about today’s discovery, did you?” They continued to walk. “Nothing about the woman in the Rosenthaler station?”

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ” Fichte was doing his best to keep up. “Absolutely not. Nothing.”

“Good.” They reached the middle of the square. Hoffner stopped and turned to Fichte. “Go home, Hans. Take a cold bath. We start in at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ” Fichte was about to head off when he said, “The PKD, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. You know him well, don’t you?”

Hoffner stared at his young Assistent. “Good night, Hans.”

Five minutes later, Hoffner watched as the Peace Column flew past his window, the cab racing him south to Kreuzberg.

The scarf, he thought. I forgot the damn scarf.

The wail of a siren reached up through the bathroom window and momentarily drowned out the street sounds of early morning. Hoffner tapped his cigarette into the basin, retrieved his razor, and set to work on the stubble just under his chin.