Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

What made it clear that she would never have allowed Zetkin to compile her letters was the fact that the boy simply didn’t have the smarts to do it. Zetkin was a classic Luftmensch, all air and no substance, and although Rosa had tried to mold him into something artistic, the journals made it clear that he had been a lost cause. Hoffner quickly recognized that Kostia Zetkin was not his K.

That left Karl Kautsky. Most of the letters were addressed to his wife, Luise, but even Hoffner had heard of the very public falling-out between Luxemburg and her onetime comrade. It was generally agreed that squabbles among socialists made for the most entertaining reading in town: vitriol and sarcasm never had quite the same shrillness elsewhere, and the newspapers knew it, even if most of their readers never understood the finer points. In fact, no one understood the finer points; they were meaningless, anyway. The comedy was in the personal swipes, and Luxemburg had given Berlin a tour de thtre with her dismantling of Kautsky. Suffice it to say Kautsky had not been the one to lead Hoffner to the flat.

K had left nothing in the letters that could be tied to himself; he was too clever for that. He had signed the note for a reason, but for now, his identity would have to wait.

Hoffner sat back. He noticed a decanter of brandy on a nearby shelf, and, reaching over, brought it to the desk. There was a glass among the papers, and he poured himself a drink. He imagined that K had brought him here to see the real Luxemburg-stripped of the caricature of fanaticism-and while the pages did paint a more flesh-and-blood picture, Rosa remained distant. There were moments of raw emotion, but they came across too self-consciously: pain was never simply pain-it was acute, or frantic, or unbearable-beauty never less than triumphant. There was a morality to socialism that seeped into everything. It was as if she had been unable to separate herself from the woman who shouted down to the crowds, even when writing for herself. A few lines would hint at more, but then, just as quickly, the exclamation points would return-the heightened sense of purpose-and the other Rosa would slip quietly away.

Hoffner refilled his glass and realized that the room had been cast in much the same way. During his first visit he had seen it as a place for gatherings, warmth: now that seemed contrived, as well. The pillows and photographs were placed too perfectly to be inviting. There was an earnestness to the intimacy, which made it all the more suspect.

Glass in hand, Hoffner stood and moved across to one of the bookshelves. He scanned the titles and pulled out a volume of Pushkin: maybe he would find more of her in how she read than in how she wrote? But here, too, her marginalia lived in the extremes: Pushkin was either a genius or a fool. The same held true for Marx and Korolenko, a special diatribe reserved for a collection of essays by a man named Plekhanov. No matter where, her words, like herself, were intended for display. There seemed to be no private Rosa in any of it.

Hoffner finished his drink and began to squeeze the book back into place. He was having trouble getting it in when he heard the sound of something falling behind the row. He peered in through the gap, but it was too dark. Pulling a handful of books from the shelf, he found a thin volume lying flat on its back: it was little more than a pamphlet. He placed the stack on the desk and retrieved the book.

At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. It had been years since he had seen it, a standard edition of Mrike’s poetry. Not that it was so momentous a find: every first-year university student could recite a few passages from memory. But it seemed odd to find it here, in and among the weighty tomes. Then again, it really hadn’t been with them, tucked safely behind. Hoffner pulled over a chair and opened the leather cover.

The pages were almost clean-a mark here and there, or a word-but nothing like the constant commentary he had seen elsewhere. And yet it was clear from the ragged corners that Rosa had spent a good deal of time with the book. Hoffner leafed through, allowing the pages to lead him. They came to a stop on a poem called “Seclusion.” He needed to read only the first line to understand why:

Oh, world, let me be.

The rest was equally telling:

Tempt me not with gifts of love.Let this solitary heart haveYour delight, your pain.

What I grieve, I know not.It is an unknown ache;Forever through tears shall I seeThe sun’s love-light.

Often, I am barely consciousAnd the bright pleasures breakThrough the depths, thus pressingBlissfully into my breast.

Oh, world, let me be.Tempt me not with gifts of love.Let this solitary heart haveYour delight, your pain.

The one place where she had made a mark was next to the word “conscious”-no exclamation point, nothing to explain, just a simple dash to draw her eye each time she turned to the page. She had been fully aware of her own isolation and had kept it hidden away. Evidently, even K had not been privy to it.

There was something powerfully real about this single page. It gave no greater insight to the source of her solitude, but it made her far more human. Perhaps better than most, Hoffner understood her plea.

He caught sight of his watch, and nearly blanched when he saw the time. It was quarter to two. He had been with her for over five hours and had let the time slip by. K had brought him back for her theories and ramblings, but it was only here at the end that Hoffner had found something he could understand. This Rosa was far more compelling than he had imagined.

Nonetheless, she would have to wait: he needed to get in touch with the wire room. Looking around for something to hold the papers, Hoffner spotted a bag that was tucked in between the chair and desk. Evidently K had thought of everything. Hoffner shuffled the diaries and papers into a single stack and slid them in. He repositioned the chair and picked up the Mrike. He was about to place it back behind the row when he stopped. He stared at the weathered cover.

Oh, world, let me be, he thought.

He slipped the book into his pocket and headed for the door.

Downstairs, a strident “Yes” greeted his knocking. Hoffner spoke up and the door opened instantly: the woman’s smile seemed to grow broader with each subsequent unveiling.

“Madame,” said Hoffner. “I was hoping I might use your telephone.”

At once, she stepped back. “Of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Please.”

The woman brought him into her sitting room, which was the same layout as upstairs, although Rosa had shown better taste when it had come to the furnishings. This was a mishmash of styles. Hoffner wondered how many departing tenants had arrived at their new homes only to discover a missing chair or table. No doubt a few of Rosa’s things would soon be relocating a few flights south.

Hoffner put in the call; the woman retreated through a swinging door to give him his privacy.

The wire room had received nothing. According to the new boy, little Franz had not been back since this morning. Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener, on the other hand, had passed by several times to ask Sascha what he was waiting for. Hoffner told the boy to ignore Groener and to remain by his post.

Hoffner hung up just as the woman was returning with a tray of food. Hoffner said, “Very kind of you, Madame, but I really must. .” The look of disappointment on her face bordered on the tragic. “Well, maybe just a sausage.”

She brightened up at once and placed the tray on a nearby table. She then sat and waited for Hoffner to join her: evidently, this was going to be a formal sitting. Hoffner obliged, and she started to spoon out three short, wrinkled pieces of meat from a can and onto a plate for him. When she was done, she poured out a glass of something pale yellow. Hoffner thought it better not to ask.