Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

The fires were still burning out in Treptow, where, up until a few days ago, a “unit” of university students had been fighting with epic navet. The last of them had fallen on Tuesday to a roving band of Garde-Kavallerie-Schtzen-Division men who had pulled the three boys out into Weichsel Square and beaten them to death. On a whim, the right-wing thugs-only the uniforms made them soldiers-had then lit up the place. According to the papers, the fire brigades had thus far recovered the remains of two children who had been burned alive. Hoffner listened as the scream of the siren faded to nothing.

“And he still won’t admit it?” said Martha from the bedroom. “Even after all this time.”

Hoffner waited while another siren passed. “Of course not,” he said. For some reason he was having trouble with the angle this morning: his neck was sore. He did what he could, then unplugged the drain. He was wiping off the last of the shaving soap when Martha brushed by him with a pile of clean towels. She placed them in a cupboard by the tub. Hoffner tossed his into the hamper.

“You can use them more than once, you know,” said Martha.

Hoffner picked at a piece of raw skin on his cheek. “I thought I had.”

She retrieved the towel and hung it on a rack. “Did he mean it as a threat, do you think?”

Hoffner continued his examination. “He’s never been that clever.” He splashed some cold water on his face.

“Then why bring it up?”

“Make things right,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” Hoffner dried off, put on his shirt, and started in on his tie as Martha knelt down to rub a damp cloth over the tub. He said, “You know, I think he was actually asking for my forgiveness.”

“For something he claims he never did?” She shook her head and pushed herself up. Hoffner said nothing. “You shouldn’t work with those people, Nicki. Especially now.”

“Not my choice.”

Nudging him to the side, she wrung out the cloth in the sink. “Sa-” She caught herself. “Alexander has a match this afternoon. Four o’clock.” She hung the cloth next to the towel. “You should be there.”

The morning had been progressing so nicely, thought Hoffner, talk of Weigland notwithstanding. Now he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach: why was it that she could never understand he would be the last person Sascha would want to see at a match?

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Try hard, Nicki.”

She moved past him and into the hall. Hoffner was left alone to sort out the mess he had made of his tie.

Hans Fichte was waiting for him outside his office when Hoffner got to headquarters. The boy’s face was bloated from last night’s alcohol, and his inhaler seemed to be doing double duty. Fichte was in the midst of a good suck when Hoffner walked up.

“Glad to see you’re here early,” said Hoffner, busying himself with his coat so as to give Fichte a moment to recover. He stepped into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and settled in behind the desk. “Come in, Hans. Close the door.” Fichte did as he was told. “You’re not a drinker, Hans. Try to remember that. Take a seat.”

Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ” He sat.

“Your girl get home all right?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

“Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”

Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina-”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in impatiently. “We’ve been through all that. What about from upstairs?”

This took greater concentration. “That-this is a political case and we shouldn’t overstep our bounds?”

“Exactly right,” said Hoffner. Fichte’s surprise was instantaneous. “Something wrong?” said Hoffner coyly.

“Well”-Fichte showed a bit more fire-“I didn’t think you-we-would back down so easily.” He waited for a reaction. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It is our case, after all.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Hoffner sat staring across at Fichte.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Fichte said, “I’m not sure I understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

Hoffner sat forward. “You need to ask yourself, Hans: Is Luxemburg an element of our case?”

“Of course,” said Fichte.

“According to the Polpo?”

“I suppose not, no.”

The response provoked several quick taps of Hoffner’s fingers on the desk. “And so their focus will be-” He waited for Fichte to complete the thought.

“Luxemburg.”

“And ours?”

Fichte was anxious not to stumble, having come this far. “Everything else. .?” he said tentatively.

“Exactly. For the time being, we’re no longer concerned with Frau Luxemburg, with her forced, angular ruts, or with her second carver. You understand?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I do.”

“Good. Does this mean she’s no longer an element of the case?”

Without hesitation, Fichte said, “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, it does not.”

“Excellent, Hans.” Again, Hoffner smiled. “Maybe a drink for you, now and then, isn’t such a bad idea. Full marks this morning.” Fichte looked pleased, if slightly embarrassed. “All right,” said Hoffner. “So what do we do now?”

“We-look at everything else.”

When nothing by way of detail followed, Hoffner explained, “The morgue, Hans. I need you to go down and retrieve that bottle of preserving grease. The one from yesterday’s victim. No one’s to see you leave with it, you understand? And then I want you to meet me outside in the square. Is all of that possible?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

“Good.”

The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry sits on what was once the Prussian Royal Estate of Dahlem in the southwest section of town. It stretches over a thousand acres of prime riding land, and was the gift of one of those unremarkable Junker princes who, recognizing the need for “something useful in this city of ours,” ceded it to a growing Berlin. Naturally he had wanted a racecourse, or perhaps a garden “for young ladies to stroll about at their leisure,” but in the end prudence had won out. He had been happy enough to let someone else make the decision, especially when they had come to him for a little cash for the project. “Land is the greatest treasure,” he had said: it was up to the Prussian Ministry to come up with anything else. As it turned out, one member of the Ministry had voted for the racecourse; it happened to be the prince’s cousin. The rest had opted for a different kind of “useful.” The doors to the Institute had opened in October of 1912, and since then the place had been home to some of the more innovative breakthroughs in German chemical engineering and physics. Many attributed its success to the man at the top. The Direktor, however, took little credit. He had always enjoyed horse racing himself and sometimes wondered if they had all not somehow missed out on a wonderful opportunity.

Getting to the Institute from Alexanderplatz requires two transfers, first on the No. 3 to Potsdamer Platz, then on the Nord-End 51 to Shmargendorf Depot, and finally on the No. 22A, which stops directly in front of the university’s central library. Students who fall asleep on the bus after a late night slumming it “up east” find themselves out in Grunewald before they know it, at which point most of them have no choice but to spend the night in the park and curse fate for their misadventure. Hoffner and Fichte took a cab.