Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Hoffner had given her hope; it was the least he could do for the boy.

Sascha ran until his lungs gave out. He steadied himself against a wall and hunched over. Only now did he think of Geli waiting for him on the platform, a double anguish to add to his rage. It was too late to go back for her now. He felt queasy and cursed his father: ruined even that, didn’t you? He spat with disgust just as a tram was pulling up across the road. Sascha glanced over and read the route heading: Kreuzberg. He took it as a sign.

Inside, he drew stares from the other passengers as he paced at the back; he didn’t care: he needed to keep himself moving. At Friesen Strasse he leapt out and continued running past the porter and across the courtyard, up the four flights to the flat, only stopping for breath when he had shut the door behind him. He heard his mother in the kitchen, and moved down the hall toward her.

“Nikolai?” she called. “Is that you?”

She was washing something in the sink when he stepped into the room. He realized that his shirt was damp through. Sascha rubbed an arm across his mouth to wipe away the sweat, and Martha turned around.

She looked pleased if a bit confused to see him. “Alexander?” she said. “I thought you were meeting Geli.” It took her a moment to recognize the state he was in. “What’s the matter?” she asked uneasily. Sascha was still catching his breath. He took off his coat and threw it on the chair. “You’re soaked through. What is it?”

Sascha was working on impulse now: nothing mattered beyond the telling. He said, “Sit down, Mother,” as he moved back and forth across the floor. She took a few steps toward him, but he put up a hand. “Please, Mother,” he said more insistently. “Just sit down.”

She had never seen him like this; Martha did as he asked.

Sascha continued to move as he spoke. “I saw Father,” he said. “At the station. Just now.”

It was the way Sascha said it, the way his eyes darted about, that told Martha exactly what the boy had seen. She listened, but the details hardly mattered. There was of course the humiliation of hearing it all from her son, but she had long ago refused self-pity: pity of any kind placed the fault with her, and she had no interest in that; it had taken her years to understand it. Sascha’s initiation, however, had come less than an hour ago. What pain she felt was for the weight of his new-won burden.

He stopped talking. Instinct told her to go to him, but she knew comfort would only compound his agitation. He needed her to share in his outrage, and she had none to give. With no other recourse, she stood and moved back to the sink. She began to fish through the water for the shirt she had been washing.

For the first time in minutes, Sascha stopped moving. He said, “Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying, Mother?” Martha heard the stifled rage. She nodded and brought the soap to the cloth. “And you have nothing to say?”

She continued to stare down into the water. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”

He stared at her incredulously. “I tell you what he’s done, and you go back to cleaning his shirts? Are you that pathetic?”

She turned to him with what anger she had. “You want me to hate him as much as you do, but I can’t do that. I know what he is, Sascha, what he does, and why he does it, probably better than he does himself. And I am sorry for all of that, but I won’t let you ask me to be pitiable for him. I stay with him because I choose to stay with him no matter what he is. And not out of sacrifice or duty or fear. Hating him would only make me wretched, and that is something I will not do. Not even for you.”

For Sascha, hers was a betrayal more devastating than his father’s. He had come to even the slate, to find in her a confirmation for his own feelings, but she was letting it all go. It was as if his father were laughing at him. Everything Sascha had wanted at the station now flew back. He stepped over and took her wrists and held them furiously. He didn’t see the shock in her eyes as he shouted, “Why do you say that? Why can’t you see what he is? Why?” She said nothing and he struck her across the face and she fell to the ground.

Sascha stared at his mother in utter disbelief. His sense of shame was immediate. He went to reach for her, but he saw his brother standing by the door, petrified. Sascha’s head and hands began to shake. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He raced past Georgi and out of the flat.

It was twenty minutes later when Hoffner found them in the kitchen. Georgi was rocking on her lap. Before he could ask, Martha said, “He’s been home and gone. He left his coat.”

Hoffner saw the bruise on her cheek. “What did he say?”

She gazed up at him; there was no feeling for him in her eyes. “What do you think he said, Nicki?”

“And what did you tell him?”

Martha pulled Georgi closer into her; the boy was oblivious of the conversation. “I told him that we all make choices, some better, some worse. And we live with them.”

Hoffner had never heard her speak like this. “You should have told him what he wanted to hear.”

“And what was that?” she said coldly. She needed to hear it from him.

Hoffner waited and then said, “That I’m a son of bitch, and that I deserve his hatred.”

She continued to stare up at him. “You’ll have to do that on your own,” she said. She waited, then said, “You need to go, Nicki. Come back when you want, but not now.” She stood, lifting Georgi into her arms. She started to go but stopped herself. “He saw him do this,” she said. “That’s something else you’ll have to take care of on your own.” She walked past him and into the hall.

Hoffner had nowhere else to go but the Alex. He tried to look over the files again, but his mind was incapable of focus; he found himself wandering the corridors of the third floor. A few lights were on, but it was after eleven and Fichte was long gone, not that finding Fichte was what he was after. Still, he moved toward the boy’s office.

In typical fashion, Fichte had left the door open. Hoffner stepped inside, to find a desk, a chair, and a few books scattered about. He wondered how much time Fichte was actually spending down here these days. Hoffner turned on the light and saw a map of Berlin tacked onto the far wall. It was untouched.

He was about to flip through one of the books when he heard something at the far end of the hall. Hoffner stepped out of the office and saw a light spilling from Groener’s office. As good a time as any, he thought. Or maybe he just needed the distraction. Hoffner flicked off Fichte’s light and made his way down the corridor. He made sure he was alone before knocking.

Groener was at his desk when Hoffner pushed open the door to a look of surprise, then annoyance. “Yes?” Groener said coolly.

Hoffner stepped inside. “Turns out we have a mutual friend, Herr Detective Sergeant.”

Groener’s face winced as he shot up and passed Hoffner on his way to the door. Groener made a quick scan of the corridor and then shut the door. He took Hoffner by the arm and brought him closer to the desk. “You idiot.” Groener spoke in a hushed voice; whispering only seemed to intensify the stench. “Of course we have a mutual friend. You don’t leave the door open to talk about him, now do you? How much have you had to drink, anyway?”

It was a fair question, thought Hoffner: one or two at a bar in Kreuzberg, another few in his office. He had hoped to be feeling more of their effect by now, but nothing, it seemed, was going to make tonight any easier. He said, “So how long have you known him?” He took a seat.