Rosa

Hoffner stared at his young Assistent. It was the first time he had felt pride in him.

Braun had also redirected his attention. “A courtesy, Herr Kriminal-Assistent,” he said coolly. “We do, after all, work in the same building.”

“I see,” said Hoffner, retaking the reins. “A courtesy that runs out at, what, seven-thirty, eight o’clock? Is that about the time Frau Luxemburg made her way up to the fourth floor? And, forgive my confusion, Herr Oberkommissar, but how did you know Herr Kriminal-Assistent Fichte was down in the morgue if you already had the body?”

For the first time, Braun hesitated. “There were tools we needed-”

“Tools?” Hoffner countered. “I see. And what exactly were you planning to do with our body, Herr Oberkommissar?”

“I find it strange,” said Braun, “that you should have such an interest in this one body when you have yet to make sense of the other five. Surely the pattern should be clear enough, by now?”

“Clear as day,” said Hoffner, “if we could be certain that those bodies wouldn’t go missing in the middle of the night, Herr Oberkommissar. Will our ice room be empty in the next week, in the next two weeks? I’m just asking so as to minimize any confusion.”

Weigland suddenly thumped his hand on the desk. “Let’s have a walk, Nikolai,” he said amiably. “You and I.” He stood and stepped out from behind the desk. “A walk would be good, yes?”

The suggestion was as inappropriate as it was unexpected. Hoffner felt like the class idiot about to be ushered from the room. Tamshik seemed to be enjoying the moment immensely.

Hoffner said in a quiet tone, “If that’s what you’d like, Herr Direktor.”

“Absolutely,” said Weigland as he put a hand on Hoffner’s shoulder and started to move him toward the door. “There should be a pot of coffee at the end of the hall. A coffee would be nice, don’t you think?” Tamshik had the door open. “See if Herr Assistent Fichte would like something, as well,” said Weigland as he passed Tamshik.

Hoffner found himself out in the corridor, the door closed behind him. Weigland kept his hand on Hoffner’s shoulder: it helped to maintain the surreal quality to the little jaunt. “Your boys are what, six and ten now, Nikolai?” said Weigland as they slowly made their way down the hall.

“Seven and fifteen, Herr Direktor.”

“That’s right. Seven and fifteen. Very nice.” Weigland continued to walk. “I lost a grandson in the war, you know. Not much older.”

“Yes. I was sorry to hear, Herr Direktor.”

“Yes.” They walked a bit more before Weigland released Hoffner’s shoulder. “This business with Luxemburg,” he said. “Best to let it work itself out, don’t you think? She’s not crucial to your case, and I’m sure whatever Herr Braun feels is of such vital importance is. .” Weigland seemed to lose the thought.

“Of such vital importance?” said Hoffner.

Weigland laughed to himself. He patted another knowing hand on Hoffner’s shoulder. “It’s that mouth of yours that kept you out of the Polpo, you know.”

“It might have been that I never filed an application, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland nodded as if having been caught out. “I suppose that might have had something to do with it, yes.”

They reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a kitchen, of sorts: table, icebox, sink. A kettle of coffee sat on a small iron stove. Weigland found two cups and placed them on the table. The two sat and Weigland poured. “Your father would have made an excellent Polpo officer,” he said as he set the kettle on the table.

Hoffner was unsure where Weigland was going with this. He answered, nonetheless. “He always thought so, Herr Direktor.”

“But then there was all that business with your mother, which made it impossible.” Weigland took a sip. He kept his eyes on the cup as he placed it on the table. “Jewish converts weren’t exactly popular at the time.”

Hoffner watched Weigland for a moment; the man was so obvious in his baiting. Hoffner brought the cup to his lips; he said nothing. This was not a topic he discussed.

Weigland looked up. “You never had any trouble with that, did you? The Jewish issue, I mean. Even if you are technically one of them.”

Hoffner placed his cup on the table. “I was raised a Christian, Herr Direktor.”

“Lutheran?”

“No idea.”

Again, Weigland laughed. “That sounds like your father.” Hoffner nodded. “It was your mother’s idea, I think?” said Weigland. “For his career.”

“I imagine it was.”

Again, Weigland focused on his cup. “We came up at the same time, you know, your father and I.” He continued to stare at the cup until, with a little snap of his head, he looked up at Hoffner. “I had no idea, of course. None of us did. Not until it came out.”

Hoffner took another sip. He had no interest in Weigland’s excuses. Hoffner placed his cup back on the table and said, “So, you want me to let this one go.”

Weigland nudged a bowl of sugar cubes Hoffner’s way. “Go on. Take one. They’re real.” Weigland clawed out three and dropped them into his cup. “We pulled them out of a shipment Pimm was smuggling in from Denmark. He would’ve made a fortune on the black market.”

Hoffner picked out a cube and slipped it into his cup. “I didn’t know the syndicates were Polpo jurisdiction.”

“Neither did Pimm.” Weigland took a fourth cube and popped it in his mouth. “Look, Nikolai,” he said, “you’re making a good name for yourself in the Kripo. You solve this one and the papers will turn you into a nice little celebrity. You’d probably make chief inspector.”

“This one, but without Luxemburg.”

Weigland sucked for a moment on the cube. “Why would you want to drag yourself into all of that?” He shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea why she had, as you say, the bad luck to run into your maniac. But for you, she’s just one more body. To the rest of Germany, she’s Red Rosa, the little Jewess who tried to bring Lenin’s revolution to Berlin. Your case will get lost in all of that. Braun’s right. You don’t know how these things work. You’re a very capable detective, Nikolai. So why not do what you do well, and leave this other piece to us.”

Hoffner reached over and took two more cubes; he slipped them into his pocket for Georgi. “And if Herr Braun needs another body from the morgue?”

“I’m sure he thought he was doing all of us a favor. Think about it. If your man doesn’t come back in tonight, no one’s the wiser.”

“You really think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

“Fine,” Weigland conceded, “I’m sure you’re just that good.” He waited, then said more emphatically, “This is a touchy business, Nikolai. Ebert’s still not on firm ground. You don’t want to make the same kind of mistake your father did.”

And, like a slap to the face, Hoffner understood. It required every ounce of restraint to answer calmly. “And what mistake was that, Herr Direktor?”

There was nothing comforting in Weigland’s tone: “Understand the situation, Nikolai. Luxemburg, a Jew. Your mother, a Jew. And a Russian, to boot. Times haven’t changed all that much.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He thought to correct Weigland: Luxemburg had been a Pole. Instead, he pushed his cup across the table and stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland reached out and grabbed Hoffner’s forearm; the grip was as impressive as Hoffner had imagined it would be. “People make mistakes, Nikolai, and the rest of their lives are filled searching for penance.” Weigland continued to squeeze Hoffner’s arm. “Understand that, and do what I’m asking you to do.”

Hoffner felt the blood pulsing in his hand. He twisted his arm slightly and Weigland released it. “Technically, Herr Direktor, I’m not sure I’m in a position to give or receive absolution.” Not waiting for a response, Hoffner turned and walked back down the hall. He opened the door to the office and poked his head in. “We’re done here, Hans.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Gentlemen.” None of the three said a word.

Unsure for a moment, Fichte stood and moved across to the door. He then turned back with a little bow.