Rosa

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.”

“That was Oster?” said the friend, who was trying to remember, as well. “You mean up at the Brennessel?”

“Yes. The Brennessel. A poet or something.” They had forgotten Hoffner and were now set on figuring out the man’s identity.

“Decker or Dieker,” said the friend, trying to recall. “Something like that-”

“Eckart!” said the first man. “Dietrich Eckart. Up at the wine cellar.”

The friend nodded. “Excellent. That’s exactly right.” The discovery merited a few quick gulps of beer. The man wiped his mouth and looked back down the table to Hoffner. “You want to know about Oster, you go and see this Eckart fellow.” He gave him the name of the bar.

Freikorps and a mentor, thought Hoffner. Oster was becoming more interesting by the minute.

The Freikorps, or volunteer corps, had been formed as a direct response to the revolution in late November. Drawn from discharged officers and soldiers, it was initially called on to ward off presumed threats from Polish insurgents. Those threats, of course, had never amounted to much, and by December the Korps had taken it upon itself to blot out any potential communist threats, ostensibly so as to protect the burgeoning German Republic. Recently, units had begun to sprout up throughout the country-Hoffner was guessing that the Schtzen-Division had provided more than its fair share of recruits-the most powerful of which were now in Munich and Berlin. The Freikorps made no bones about its politics; they were far to the right, which meant that its supporters came from a wide range of backgrounds: monarchists, militarists, thugs, and-as the boy at the beer hall had said-nutters of every size and shape. As of now, the Reichswehr-the Bavarian Regular Army-was holding them in check. Anyone with any sense, though, knew that it would only be a matter of time before the Freikorps could build up enough of a following to exert a little muscle.

It was nearly eleven when Hoffner and Lina stepped into the Brennessel wine cellar. The place was little better than a grotto, run-down and ill-lit, and seemed to encourage its patrons to stoop, even though the ceilings were well over two meters high. Lina had grown tired of the charades, but was being a good sport. Hoffner explained that it might be a bit easier this time round: mentors had a tendency to enjoy an audience. All Hoffner needed was to get a few drinks into Eckart, and the rest would be easy enough.

As it turned out, Eckart was doing just fine on his own. He was in the back, holding forth to a half-full bottle of schnapps and a group of dedicated listeners when the barkeep pointed him out. Eckart was the obvious choice, all bulging eyes and thick gesticulating hands: the round head-completely hairless-was the final, perfect touch. Eckart might have been a caricature of himself if not for his evident commitment. Hoffner directed Lina over, and the two took seats on the outer rim of a gaggle of soulless eyes and eager ears. They began to listen.

It was several minutes before Eckart noticed the recent additions. He had been going on about the “source of the ancients” and something called the fama fraternitatis, when his eye caught Hoffner’s. Eckart measured his prey and said, “You’re intrigued by what I’m saying, mein Herr?”

Hoffner felt every face within the circle turn to him. “It’s most interesting, yes,” he said with a quiet nod.

“And you just happened upon us?”

“Happened upon you?” Hoffner repeated. “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, no. Not exactly. A friend said I might want to hear what you have to say. I hope that’s all right?”

“And who might this friend be?”

Hoffner glanced at the eyes that were staring across at him; he wanted to make sure he was playing the neophyte with just the right degree of hesitation. He looked back at Eckart and said, “Oster. Erich Oster. He was handing out pamphlets. We chatted.”

The name produced a knowing nod. “Erich,” said Eckart. He waited, then said, “Good man. Welcome.” Eckart poured himself another drink and went back to the faithful.

It was remarkable to see a man speak with such energy to so small a group. The hand movements alone were almost athletic, pumping fists and sculpting hands, his pauses equally mesmerizing: the sweat on his cheeks glistened as he lifted the glass to his lips. It hardly mattered what he was saying, not that Hoffner could follow much of it. He had been expecting the usual Freikorps claptrap: that the Reds had lost them the war; that the socialists were now denying them their rightful jobs; that the old Germany was being sold off to placate the bloodlust of the French and the English, so forth and so on. This, however, was something entirely different. Eckart spoke about things far more elusive, a German spirit that had been lost to “the struggle with the anti-life.” He seemed obsessed with the ancient tales of Fenrir the Wolf and Tyr the Peacemaker, Wotan and Freyer, Asgard and Ragnarok: this was where nobility was to be found, where courage and purpose spoke in a language known only to the “adepts.” Hoffner half expected to hear a hushed chorus from Parsifal or Lohengrin rise up from the men sitting around the table.

It all seemed to be leading somewhere, when Eckart suddenly stopped and began to examine his glass; like the bottle at its side, it was now empty. With practiced ease, he looked to his audience and said, “But the glass is empty. And when the glass is empty, the wise man knows to quiet his mind.”

Hoffner was not familiar with this particular aphorism, nor was he prepared for the response. Without a word, the group calmly began to get up. Whatever Hoffner thought had gone unsaid was evidently not as pressing to the men now gathering up their coats. One of the younger ones-a student, judging by his clothes-rushed over with a few questions, but Eckart made quick work of him. It was clear, though, that Eckart was still very much aware of Hoffner. When the boy had moved off and the table was again empty, Eckart turned to him. It was only then that Eckart seemed to notice Lina. He leaned to one side so as to get a better view and said, “And another friend, I see.” Lina produced a pleasant smile.

Hoffner said, “I hope we haven’t been the cause of an early evening?”

Now Eckart smiled. “There are no early evenings, mein Herr.” He waved them over. “Come, sit with me.” Hoffner and Lina joined him. “I’m drinking schnapps,” he added. Instantly, Hoffner turned around to call over a waiter. Hoffner ordered a bottle.

Eckart said, “You sit patiently. You listen and wait. So what is it that interests you, Herr. .”

Hoffner resurrected the name from earlier this evening. “You speak with great passion, mein Herr.”

“And passion is enough for you?”

“When there’s something behind it, yes.”

Eckart liked the answer. “And what do you imagine lies behind it?”

Hoffner had several choices. He could follow the Freikorps trail, although he doubted more than a handful of recruits were finding inspiration in the retelling of childhood fairy tales; the pamphlets, of course, were the most telling feature-where there were pamphlets, there was organization; and where there was organization, there was money-but it was too large a risk to venture into something he knew nothing about, which left him with Eckart’s enigmatic stopping point. Hoffner said, “I thought I was about to find out.”

The response seemed to surprise Eckart. The pleasant grin became a look of focused appraisal. “Did you?” he said. Hoffner thought the conversation might be heading for a quick close, when the bottle arrived and the waiter began to spill out three glasses. Without hesitation, Eckart downed his and held it out for a refill. The waiter obliged and then set the bottle on the table. Eckart slowly poured out his third as Hoffner pulled out a few coins to pay. This time Eckart let his glass sit. He waited for the man to step off before saying, “The German people lie behind everything, mein Herr. Sadly a German people now struggling to find themselves.”

Hoffner heard the first tinge of political disenchantment; he took a sip of his schnapps and nodded. “I lost a son in the war,” he said, opting for what had been working so well tonight. “The Frulein a husband. I don’t imagine this is the Germany he thought he was giving his life for. It’s not the Germany I knew.”

Eckart understood. “It’s still there, mein Herr. It simply needs some guidance.” Hoffner now expected the full weight of the Freikorps credo to come spilling forth; what