Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Prager nodded skeptically. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what this is.” He moved back to his desk. “I don’t think you realize how tenuous things are right now. You might not care, but no one knows if this government is going to take, so while they’re deciding, the GS is being rather stingy with its allegiances. You don’t want to get on the wrong end of that, Nikolai.”

“You mean I don’t want this department to get on the wrong end of that.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Prager was making this very plain. “Whether you want to accept it or not, you’re a man with a very high profile at the moment. What you do reflects on all of us. So, next time, think about that before you go poking your nose around where it doesn’t belong.”

“And if it does belong?” Hoffner said it just so as to see a little gnawing on the inside of the cheek.

“Look, Nikolai”-Prager’s tone now far more conciliatory-“I’ve never told you how to run an investigation. I’m not going to start now. Just be aware of these things. There’s more at stake now.”

Hoffner wondered if the KD had been talking with Jogiches. He said nothing.

“By the way,” Prager added, “there’s talk that your young Fichte has been spending his time up on the fourth floor. Anything I should know?”

“I’ll keep an eye on it.”

It was all Prager wanted to hear. He found a few sheets on his desk and got back to work. Hoffner was left to show himself out.

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.