Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Hoffner squeezed Lina’s hand as they walked, and said, “The city’s famous for its beer halls. We’d be silly not to try out one or two, don’t you think?”

Lina spoke with a knowing ease: “We didn’t come just for a day’s holiday, did we?”

If he had closed his eyes, Hoffner might have mistaken her for Martha: the same resigned concession. He wondered if he was really that transparent. “Holiday with a purpose,” he said. “Not so bad, is it?”

She squeezed his arm a bit tighter. “All right,” she said, striking her bargain, “but tomorrow I want a walk in the Englischer Garten. ”

“Fair enough.”

“And a cafe.”

Hoffner brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. This far from Berlin, he could allow himself the luxury.

The place was just what he had expected: a wide-open hall with high archways running this way and that, and long wooden tables stretching from wall to wall. Wrought-iron lamps hung from the ceilings and cast a yellow pall over the cavernous space: men and women perched on benches-some of them even up on the tables-with large mugs of beer at the ready. The echo of conversation made it almost impossible to be heard without raising one’s voice. Hoffner spotted a collection of young soldiers at one of the central tables and headed Lina in that direction.

They found two places on the bench and settled in as Hoffner flagged down a blowsy waitress and ordered two mugs. He was now in character, staring wide-eyed at the size of the place before turning to Lina with a broad smile. She was equally comfortable playing the country rube. Hoffner had prepared her on the walk over: a bit of make-believe might be in the offing, he had said. After all, she had been playing his wife with apparent ease, how difficult could another role be?

Lina let go with a giddy laugh and swatted playfully at his arm.

“Which regiment are you boys with?” yelled Hoffner to one of the soldiers who was seated on the table, and who was deep in conversation.

The man turned around and looked down. “Pardon?” he said.

“Your regiment,” shouted Hoffner. “My son fought with the Liebregiment. ”

The man leaned over and indicated the markings on his collar. “Sixteenth Bavarian Infantry,” he said.

Hoffner raised his eyes wide and nodded. He shouted to Lina, “They’re with the Sixteenth Bavarian.” Lina nodded up at the man with a smile. Hoffner shouted to her, “Not with Helmut’s unit.” The man was about to turn away when Hoffner shouted, “My son Helmut was with the Liebregiment. ”

The man nodded to be kind. “I don’t think you’ll find any in here tonight, mein Herr. ” Again, he began to turn away.

Hoffner said, “He was killed at Isonzo, October of ’17.”

Hoffner had hit upon the unspoken kinship between soldiers. The man now showed a genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Hoffner nodded his thanks. “He won the Iron Cross. For bravery.” The man nodded again. “We’re here for only a few days, and I was hoping to meet up with some of his comrades, hear about it from them. They said the Liebregiment spent its nights here, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

The man raised a hand and said, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to his friends and called out, “Hey. Hello. Liebregiment. Where do they do their drinking?” The others continued to ignore him. He leaned in closer. “Fsst! Liebregiment, ” he shouted. “This fellow, his son was killed at Isonzo. He wants to look up some of his mates.” The man now had their full attention, but unfortunately there were no takers. “Ask down the other end of the table,” he said. “Someone’s bound to know.”

Two minutes later, Hoffner had his answer.

The Alte Rosebad was a much smaller affair, more of a walk, though no less popular. The acoustics, however, were not as ear-shattering: it was actually possible to hold a conversation without popping a vein in one’s neck. Hoffner played out the same little drama for a second table of soldiers, this time with a very nice supporting performance from Lina: Helmut was now to have been a butcher and her husband. The men directed them over to a table near the back.

“The roles change,” he said to her as they made their way through. “Just follow my lead.” He could tell she was enjoying this.

They sat at an opening along one of the long benches. This time Hoffner read through the menu and chatted with Lina before calling over a waiter. He seemed completely uninterested in the soldiers who were an arm’s length from them. It was only when he and Lina were halfway through their first mug that he glanced over. “That’s not Liebregiment, is it?” he said with friendly surprise.

One of the soldiers turned to him. “Pardon?”

“ Liebregiment, isn’t it?”

The man was already well on his way to a very nice night; he smiled. “And who wants to know?”

Hoffner made up a name and said, “That is Liebregiment. ” He turned to Lina eagerly. “What do you think of that?” She smiled and nodded. Hoffner turned back to the man. “My son had a number of friends back home who went into your regiment.”

The man nodded with a bit more interest.

Hoffner said, “Second Battalion.”

The man now shook his head with a smile. “No luck, then. It’s First Battalion here. Still, I might know a few fellows in the Second.”

Hoffner listed three or four of the names he had written down at the GS, making sure to pick the ones that had had the word “deceased” written after them.

The man’s face was now more somber. “Yah,” he said with a nod. “I knew Schneider. Good man. He was killed in the Italian campaign. Tell your son I’m sorry.”

The man began to turn when Hoffner said sadly, “My Helmut was killed at Arras. Sixteenth Bavarian; 1917. But thank you.”

There was an awkward silence between them-the man aware that he had no choice but to listen to the story of this man’s son-when Hoffner suddenly looked down at the table as if he were trying to recall something important. “What was the name of the boy he said they were always talking about?” He looked to Lina. “The one Helmut met on that leave? You remember the letter?” Lina tried to think, as well. Hoffner popped his head up. “Oster!” he said in triumph. “Erich Oster. Does that sound familiar?”

The man was happy enough to have been given a reprieve. He shook his head, and then turned to his mates, shouting above the din, “Anyone know an Oster? Second Battalion. Friends with Schneider?”

There was a lull, then a shaking of heads, followed by a chorus of noes. The man turned back to give his apologies, when a voice from the far end said, “Erich Oster? Second Lieutenant?” Hoffner leaned in over the table to get a better view of the man.

“Yes,” he said eagerly.

“If it’s the same fellow, he joined the Freikorps a few months back.” The man looked to some of his friends. “You know. The fellow who sent out all those leaflets about the Poles.” The man laughed, and several others now nodded as they remembered. “Bit of a nutter. I think the battalion was glad to see him go.” He laughed again.

Hoffner did his best to look hurt by the accusations. “Oh,” he said sadly. Hoffner nodded slowly and sat back.

The first soldier did his best to minimize the damage; he spoke to the far end of the table. “Oster was a friend of this man’s son, who died at Arras,” he said, emphasizing the word “friend.” “I’m sure you remember more than that, don’t you?” He prodded with a few nods of his head.

“Oh,” said the man, quick to revise his portrayal. “Oh, yes. Of course. He. . he was a thinker, that Oster. Always reading. And a poet. He wrote those. . poems.” The man suddenly thought of something. “There was that fellow he always talked about.” He turned to the man next to him. “You know? He tried to get us to come and hear him. Somewhere up in the artists’ quarter.”