Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Hoffner barely moved as he glanced down at the small pendant. He looked across at Weigland and said coldly, “It’s very nice. Was there anything else, Herr Direktor ?”

“It’s meant for you, Nikolai.”

Hoffner nodded to himself. “And is there a reason it’s coming to me now?”

Weigland reached for the pendant and flipped it over. “There’s an inscription.” He read: “‘Third Highest Marks, Political Police Entrance Examination, Martin Hoffner, 1877.’ Your father gave it to me.” Weigland stared a moment longer at the silver finish. “He didn’t want it after all that business.” Weigland set it down and looked across at Hoffner. “It was a long time ago. I thought you might want it.”

There was never any subtlety with Weigland: no doubt someone had been standing by the wire room, Weigland now aware that the lines between Berlin and Bruges were still very much open. It was a further reminder for Hoffner not to step where he wasn’t welcome. “You’ve been waiting for the right moment, is that it, Herr Direktor ?”

Weigland looked as if he might reply with equal callousness; instead he said, “I just thought you might want it. A medal for a hero. Silly, I suppose. But then one can’t always be a hero. Best to make the most of it while you can.” Subtlety, thought Hoffner. Always subtlety. Weigland stood. “Well. . please pass on my congratulations to Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Fichte. When you see him.”

Hoffner stood. The two men exchanged a nod and Weigland moved to the corridor. He was at the door when he turned back and said, “I imagine it’s time for a new map, Nikolai. Keep to what you do best.” Weigland waited a moment and then headed out.

Hoffner listened for the footfalls to recede before he sat and reached across the desk for the medal. It was a cheap little thing, silver plate, something to be won at any school outing. Hoffner read the inscription: the lettering had blackened over the years.

He found himself staring at the date. His father had been a young man then, and ambitious. Hoffner could hardly imagine it. It was not the man he had ever known: Weigland had seen to that. For a moment Hoffner felt his father’s bitterness as his own. He tossed the thing onto the papers and slammed the drawer shut.

Regimental Affairs was a relatively small office on the third floor of the General Staff building. None of its occupants looked up as Hoffner stepped inside: a distinguished-looking major sat at the far end-beyond a waist-high partition that ran the width of the room-his desk piled high with thick volumes; four lieutenants, also at desks and just this side of the partition, were leafing through mysterious reams of paper; and a young clerk-his coat off, his rank another mystery-sat closest to the door and was typing up the pages as they came down the line. The walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each filled with tall brown volumes with dates and regiment numbers etched across their spines. It might have been a university reading room-the air had that musty, academic smell to it-if not for the ramrod-straight backs of the men: these were soldiers, not scholars.

Hoffner pulled out his badge and said to the clerk, “I need a word with your Herr Major.”

The boy looked up. “May I ask what business the Herr Chief Inspector has with the Herr Major?”

“Personnel.”

The boy stood and moved briskly through the swinging half-door to the other side of the partition. Hoffner watched as the boy waited for the Herr Major to acknowledge him. The two exchanged a few words, and the clerk returned. “The Herr Major wishes to inform the Herr Chief Inspector that the Personnel Office is located-”

“On the third floor,” Hoffner cut in. “Yes. I’ve just had the pleasure of your Captain Strasser’s assistance. I’m not interested in the personnel of the General Staff. I’m looking for specific regimental members.”

Again the clerk made his way back. This time the Herr Major looked up and gazed out at Hoffner. Half a minute later, Hoffner was seated in front of his desk.

“This is a criminal investigation, yes, Herr Inspector?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

The man showed no reaction. “All investigations of personnel, criminal or not, are handled internally, Herr Inspector. I don’t think we can be of any help to you.”

Hoffner wondered if men like this ever got tired of giving the same answer. “We’re interested in this man after his service, Herr Major. When he was a civilian. We’re simply trying to track him down. We don’t consider this a military affair.”

The Herr Major answered coolly. “Then I fail to see why you are troubling us with your investigation.”

“He’s not your responsibility, Herr Major. This happened after he was discharged.”

“So, again, I fail to see why you are troubling us.”

This, thought Hoffner, was why the war had been lost. “Our dossier is incomplete, Herr Major. Any information would be most helpful. However, I wouldn’t want to tax the General Staff beyond its limits. Perhaps the Polpo might be a better place for me to begin?” Hoffner began to get up. “Thank you for your time, Herr Major.”

This was not the first time the man had played at this game. He said calmly, “Have a seat, Herr Inspector.” He waited until he had Hoffner’s full attention. “The General Staff is, of course, eager to do what it can in the aid of a political case.”

It was remarkable to see the effects of one little word, thought Hoffner. Even the high walls of army insularity buckled at the prospect of the political police. “I didn’t say it was a political case, Herr Major.”

“No, of course not,” the man answered. “You have a regiment number, Herr Inspector?”

“No.” Somewhere behind the eyes, Hoffner saw a look of mild surprise.

“Of course you know a name will be of no help,” said the Herr Major. “We file everything according to regiment number. It would be impossible to wade through over a thousand volumes in search of a particular name.”

Hoffner-of course-did not know this. He nodded anyway and, thinking as he spoke, opted for the only other detail he had. “But you do list discharges by date, isn’t that right, Herr Major?”

“Those volumes are kept in a separate office, yes.”

Again Hoffner nodded, so as to give himself time to calculate. Van Acker had placed Urlicher’s arrival at the Bonn clinic in the third week of March 1918. Figuring on time for dismissal, transportation. . “March seventh, 1918.” Hoffner spoke as if he were reading the date from a file. “The name is Urlicher. Konrad Urlicher.”

The information was written down and the clerk called over. The Herr Major then went back to his books, and fifteen minutes later the clerk returned with two large volumes. Hoffner had been spending his time alternating between counting the number of books on various shelves and the number of times the Herr Major blinked in any given minute. The books had won out eight to one.

The clerk handed the first of the volumes to the Herr Major and said, “It was the fifth of March, Herr Major. I checked four days in either direction.”

The boy had marked a page two-thirds of the way through. The Herr Major scanned it as he answered indifferently, “Well done, Corporal.” He found the name, flipped the book around to Hoffner, and pointed to a line on the page. It read:

Urlicher, Konrad. First Lieutenant. Anemia and Osteitis Deformans. Unsuitable for service.

Hoffner, however, was more interested in the further annotation:

14th Bavarian, Liebregiment.

Keeping his eye on the page, Hoffner said, “The Fourteenth Bavarian is recruited out of Munich, yes, Herr Major?” It was a reasonable-enough guess. Hoffner was still recovering from the gambit with the discharge date.