Rosa

her marginalia lived in the extremes: Pushkin was either a genius or a fool. The same held true for Marx and Korolenko, a special diatribe reserved for a collection of essays by a man named Plekhanov. No matter where, her words, like herself, were intended for display. There seemed to be no private Rosa in any of it.

Hoffner finished his drink and began to squeeze the book back into place. He was having trouble getting it in when he heard the sound of something falling behind the row. He peered in through the gap, but it was too dark. Pulling a handful of books from the shelf, he found a thin volume lying flat on its back: it was little more than a pamphlet. He placed the stack on the desk and retrieved the book.

At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. It had been years since he had seen it, a standard edition of Mrike’s poetry. Not that it was so momentous a find: every first-year university student could recite a few passages from memory. But it seemed odd to find it here, in and among the weighty tomes. Then again, it really hadn’t been with them, tucked safely behind. Hoffner pulled over a chair and opened the leather cover.

The pages were almost clean-a mark here and there, or a word-but nothing like the constant commentary he had seen elsewhere. And yet it was clear from the ragged corners that Rosa had spent a good deal of time with the book. Hoffner leafed through, allowing the pages to lead him. They came to a stop on a poem called “Seclusion.” He needed to read only the first line to understand why:

Oh, world, let me be.

The rest was equally telling:

Tempt me not with gifts of love.Let this solitary heart haveYour delight, your pain.

What I grieve, I know not.It is an unknown ache;Forever through tears shall I seeThe sun’s love-light.

Often, I am barely consciousAnd the bright pleasures breakThrough the depths, thus pressingBlissfully into my breast.

Oh, world, let me be.Tempt me not with gifts of love.Let this solitary heart haveYour delight, your pain.

The one place where she had made a mark was next to the word “conscious”-no exclamation point, nothing to explain, just a simple dash to draw her eye each time she turned to the page. She had been fully aware of her own isolation and had kept it hidden away. Evidently, even K had not been privy to it.

There was something powerfully real about this single page. It gave no greater insight to the source of her solitude, but it made her far more human. Perhaps better than most, Hoffner understood her plea.

He caught sight of his watch, and nearly blanched when he saw the time. It was quarter to two. He had been with her for over five hours and had let the time slip by. K had brought him back for her theories and ramblings, but it was only here at the end that Hoffner had found something he could understand. This Rosa was far more compelling than he had imagined.

Nonetheless, she would have to wait: he needed to get in touch with the wire room. Looking around for something to hold the papers, Hoffner spotted a bag that was tucked in between the chair and desk. Evidently K had thought of everything. Hoffner shuffled the diaries and papers into a single stack and slid them in. He repositioned the chair and picked up the Mrike. He was about to place it back behind the row when he stopped. He stared at the weathered cover.

Oh, world, let me be, he thought.

He slipped the book into his pocket and headed for the door.

Downstairs, a strident “Yes” greeted his knocking. Hoffner spoke up and the door opened instantly: the woman’s smile seemed to grow broader with each subsequent unveiling.

“Madame,” said Hoffner. “I was hoping I might use your telephone.”

At once, she stepped back. “Of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Please.”

The woman brought him into her sitting room, which was the same layout as upstairs, although Rosa had shown better taste when it had come to the furnishings. This was a mishmash of styles. Hoffner wondered how many departing tenants had arrived at their new homes only to discover a missing chair or table. No doubt a few of Rosa’s things would soon be relocating a few flights south.

Hoffner put in the call; the woman retreated through a swinging door to give him his privacy.

The wire room had received nothing. According to the new boy, little Franz had not been back since this morning. Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener, on the other hand, had passed by several times to ask Sascha what he was waiting for. Hoffner told the boy to ignore Groener and to remain by his post.

Hoffner hung up just as the woman was returning with a tray of food. Hoffner said, “Very kind of you, Madame, but I really must. .” The look of disappointment on her face bordered on the tragic. “Well, maybe just a sausage.”

She brightened up at once and placed the tray on a nearby table. She then sat and waited for Hoffner to join her: evidently, this was going to be a formal sitting. Hoffner obliged, and she started to spoon out three short, wrinkled pieces of meat from a can and onto a plate for him. When she was done, she poured out a glass of something pale yellow. Hoffner thought it better not to ask.

He took a spoonful and slid the first of the pieces into his mouth. It was army surplus, probably two months old, and had a leathery texture that tasted liked dried tobacco. Hoffner smiled and swallowed. The woman beamed. She was very proud of her husband’s scavenging, and probably had no idea that she was feeding contraband to a police officer. “You knew Frau Luxemburg well?” he said.

The woman watched him with a mother’s joy as he ate. “As well as any of the tenants.”

“You knew her friends?”

Her lips puckered at the thought of them. “No. I didn’t know any of those people.” The word “those” carried a particularly sneering tone.

“Gentleman friends?” He shoveled a second piece of the meat into his mouth, and did his best to swallow it whole. “One reads the papers, hears things.”

The woman gave a tight smile. “I don’t interest myself in such things.”

Really, thought Hoffner. He had noticed several of the more notorious papers-the popular rags-in a rack by the sofa when he had been on the phone. He now looked over again and scanned them for their dates: all late December. It had been about that time that most of the papers had begun to chronicle the seedier side of Rosa’s life, all of it, no doubt, with lies meant to discredit her: “Judah is reaching out for the crown!” “We are ruled by Levi and the devil Luxemburg!” had been the most popular slogans around town. Hoffner knew there was only one reason his hostess would have saved them.

The woman saw where he was looking. For a moment she looked as if she had been caught. Then, just as quickly, the tight smile returned. “I don’t read them. They’re-my husband’s. As I said, I don’t look at such trash.”

Hoffner smiled with her. “Even if you might have been the one to give them the information for their stories.”

The woman’s face went white. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar! I would never-”

Hoffner raised a pacifying hand. “I don’t really care, Madame. I hope they paid you well. But I would hate to flip through one of those rags and find the mention of one of Frau Luxemburg’s special friends. Say, a bearded man who might have had keys to the flat?” The woman’s eyes went wide as she listened. Her entire body stiffened as she tried to find a response. “So there was someone?” said Hoffner. He turned his attention to the last piece of meat; he was trying to scoop it up, but was having trouble getting it onto his spoon. The woman’s eyes darted nervously as she followed his progress. When Hoffner finally landed it, he looked back at her. “There was someone?” he repeated. She stared at him; she nodded once. “Did he have a name?” said Hoffner. He popped the meat into his mouth.

The woman’s hand seemed eager for her neck, but she managed to keep it in her lap. “Most of them had beards.” A light desperation had crept into her voice. “They always had beards. Filthy people. They would stream in and out. I never knew which was which.” She suddenly remembered something. “There was an umbrella,” she said. “Yes. An umbrella. The man-her special one-he always carried an umbrella with him.”

An umbrella, thought Hoffner. Very helpful. That simply meant K was no idiot; after all, he was living in Berlin