Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

He took a pull on his cigarette and said, “It’s difficult to sacrifice something you never had.”

She had watched the sadness in his face, but she showed him no pity. “And you think getting into bed with me makes any difference?”

He looked over at her and he knew: I won’t even be a memory to her one day. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

There was something comforting in the truth, even for her. He lay back down and she placed her arm across his chest. Later they made love and they fell asleep and Hoffner dreamed of Rosa.

A group of children was playing in the short grass as mothers and nannies looked on from the safety of benches. Hoffner and Lina had settled themselves farther off, under a grove of trees where an enterprising vendor with a coffee cart had set up a few tables and chairs alongside the gravel path. Not yet ten o’clock, and they had already made a full morning of it at the shops and markets, which had been up and running since seven. The Gardens were a welcome relief.

“How did you know about this spot?” Lina asked as she poured another healthy dose of cream into her cup. Hoffner had never seen a whiter cup of coffee. From her expression, it was still too bitter.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he said. He had made the telephone call this morning and had been told where to find it. “The concierge,” Hoffner lied. He checked his watch and took a last sip of coffee before getting up. “I need to find the toilet,” he said. “Have a sweet or something while I’m gone.” He placed a few coins on the table and headed out through the trees.

Three minutes later he came across his old friend Peter Barens, sitting on a secluded bench. Hoffner drew up and said, “You give excellent directions, Peter.” He sat.

“It’s good to see you, too, Nikolai.”

They had known each other since university, two young law students with an eye to criminology. Barens had made chief inspector almost eight years ago; there was talk of a directorship in his future. Barens said, “I was sorry to hear about Knig.” Hoffner stared out at the park and nodded. “And now a chief inspector,” Barens continued. “I imagine even you can’t cock up that promotion.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Barens pulled a thin file from his case. “So why the interest in this?” He handed it to Hoffner.

Hoffner opened the file and found ten to twelve pages on the Thule Society, very complete, very organized: Barens really was an excellent detective. “Best not to say,” said Hoffner.

“Naturally.” He let Hoffner flip through to the next page before saying, “Odd how I get a telephone call asking me if I have anything on a man named Eckart, or anything having to do with-what did you call it? — the ‘Thulian Ideal,’ when we’ve been keeping an eye on these people for the past few months.” Hoffner nodded distractedly as he continued to scan the pages. “There’s a lot of money there, Nikolai. Your friend Eckart has more than he knows what to do with, as do most of the names on that list.”

Hoffner continued to read. “And what are they using it for?”

“Besides pamphlets and bad beer. . They’ve started two organizations. The Workers Political Circle and the German Workers Party. They also recently bought a rag called The Observer. Interesting blend of German folklore and race-baiting. They’re going after the workers and the nationalists. Not usually Kripo business to monitor the political fringes, but these fellows throw around too much weight not to.”

“And they still consider themselves a secret society?”

“In theory. I’m sure that’s what they’d like to think. Tough to maintain the image, though, when you go around recruiting as aggressively as they do.”

Hoffner came to what he had been looking for: the name Joachim Manstein appeared halfway down the third page. There was a small paragraph on him, but Hoffner knew he would need more time with it. He closed the file and said, “What about ties to the Freikorps ?”

“You really have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”

“I always did.”

For the first time, Barens smiled. “They both hate the communists, but the Thulians save their real venom for the Jews. We’ve had a few minor incidents, street vandalism, a few punch-ups. Eisner’s presence hasn’t made it any easier, but it’s all pretty local stuff, which makes me wonder why a Berlin Oberkommissar, recent hero of the Republic, has come all the way down to Munich to ask about a group of crackpots he should never have heard of.”

Hoffner placed the file inside his coat and said, “You’re a good friend, Peter.”

Barens became more serious. “I’m a good bull, Nikolai. If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me. Are they moving beyond pamphlets and bad beer?”

Hoffner waited and then stood. “I should go,” he said. “Give my best to Clara and the girls.”

Barens remained seated. There was clearly more he wanted to hear. Nonetheless he said, “I’ll pass that along.” Hoffner turned to go, when Barens added, “And mine to the little chippy by the coffee cart.” Barens waited for Hoffner to turn around before saying, “Some things never change, do they, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been impressive, and always in the right way. It was why Hoffner had known to trust him. “I suppose they don’t,” he said.

Barens stood. “These men aren’t far from doing more than simply tossing a store or beating up a few students. I lost a man on this, Nikolai. Why do you think I could get my hands on the material so quickly?”

It was now clear why Barens had agreed to meet, and why he had brought the file: he was as eager for information as Hoffner was. “Lost a man? How?”

Barens had no intention of explaining. “If you do know something, and you’re not telling me, I’ll be very disappointed.” He paused. “And you’ll have been very foolish. What do you have, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been known as “the old man,” even as a nineteen-year-old at university. It had made him both insufferable and endearing. Hoffner said, “Her name is Lina. And she’s the last.”

Hoffner could see the frustration in his friend’s eyes: favors usually implied a little more give and take. Barens, however, was too good at what he did to let it linger. “I doubt that,” he said.

Hoffner grinned. “There’s always a chance, isn’t there?” He bobbed his head in thanks and said, “Take care of yourself, Peter.”

Barens took hold of Hoffner’s arm and, like an older brother, said, “Know what you’re getting yourself into, Nikolai.”

Hoffner nodded. He waited for Barens to release his arm and then headed off.

Lina had settled on a large cup of chocolate for lunch; it was all she had wanted. Hoffner had taken advantage of the beef again, this time with a plate of onions and a few potatoes. More daring, he and Lina were throwing provincial caution to the wind and talking to each other-light fare, nothing from last night-when they heard the first sirens. The klaxons grew louder and curiosity gave way to concern as the sound of shouting began to come from the street. Everyone in the place stopped eating as the waiter stepped over to the door and peered out through the glass. His expression turned to confusion. “There are soldiers in the street,” he said to the matre d’.

The man stepped over to verify; his reaction was no more promising: the taste of revolution was still fresh in everyone’s throat. At the sound of more sirens, Hoffner got up. He told Lina to wait, then made his way to the door. Against all protestations from the matre d’, Hoffner stepped out into the street.