“That bad, is it?” said Hoffner.
Fichte coughed once and spat. “It’s not that simple.”
“I’ve been reading the papers, Hans. It looks pretty simple to me.”
Fichte said nothing; he hadn’t the will to argue.
They found a cafe and settled in at a table amid the morning rush, men behind papers, girls lost in chatter. No one was taking any notice of the two detectives.
“This is what they had in mind all along, isn’t it?” said Fichte. He kept his hands cupped around his coffee for warmth.
Hoffner had no reason to make the boy feel any worse than he already did. He shrugged and said, “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“It’s all the second carver, you know.” Fichte spoke in a hushed tone. “Braun won’t let me release it. He says it would only make things worse. I don’t understand that. It wouldn’t make things worse for you or me.” Hoffner took a sip of his coffee and let Fichte talk. “It’s all going to fall on me, isn’t it? The idiot in the papers. The bull who’s been covering up something. I don’t even know what they’re talking about.” Fichte was slowly unraveling. “A member of the Reichs Ministry was by to have a chat with me. There might have to be formal charges if things don’t get wrapped up quickly.” Again Fichte shook his head to himself. “Formal charges.”
“They won’t do that,” said Hoffner with as much reassurance as he could. “They’d come after me first.” He saw a glimmer of hope in Fichte’s eyes and said, “The minister’s name wasn’t Nepp by any chance, was it?”
Surprise quickly turned to relief. The glimmer grew. “Yes,” said Fichte. “Why?”
Hoffner nodded. There was no point in rattling the boy further. He said, “Where are they keeping her?” Fichte was too tired to follow. “Rosa,” said Hoffner. “Where is she?”
The pain returned to Fichte’s eyes; he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Hoffner had expected Braun to toss the boy at least this bone. “Can you find out?”
“Why are they doing this?” Fichte said with a child’s incredulity. “If they want me to look stupid, I can do that just fine on my own.”
“It’s not you, Hans.”
“Then, what?”
Even now it was all beyond Fichte; Braun had chosen wisely. Hoffner wondered if in fact that choice had been made as early as last November: had Prager been encouraged to assign Fichte to him all those months ago? Hoffner said, “Can you find out where she is?” Fichte thought for a moment and then nodded. “No heroics, Hans. Just the room.”
Again Fichte nodded. “Where do I send the information?”
“You don’t. You bring it in person.” Hoffner checked his watch. “Two hours. Rcker’s bar.” He stood and left a coin on the table. “She’s gone to live with an uncle in Oldenburg.” Hoffner saw the hope in the boy’s eyes. “You go and find her when this is over.” Hoffner placed his hat on his head and made his way to the door.
Twenty minutes later he stood on the tree-lined Sterner Strasse. It was over a year since he had seen the place, the pleasant little street, the playful curtains in the windows. It was not the Berlin he knew. Here, life actually sprouted in the flowerpots; there might even have been friends among the neighbors, an accountant’s wife, a bachelor schoolteacher with whom to share a tea or a chocolate now and then. No doubt Giselle and Eva had long ago given up trying to find the man a wife: he preferred the company of his students. They had left it at that.
Giselle had come to Kreuzberg on the afternoon of the funeral to take the boys. By then, Sascha had already gotten to her, and even if Giselle might have known more about her sister’s marriage than she had been willing to let on, death had a way of hardening the heart. The exchanges had been brief.
Hoffner pulled a wire cord and heard a bell ringing beyond. Half a minute later he heard the sound of several locks being unbolted, then a second series of locks, and finally the door coming open.
Giselle stood in a tile foyer, a glass-paned door behind her that was opened to a hallway. Her skirt and bodice were thick wool, with just a hint of cotton creeping out at the stiff neckline.
“You look dreadful, Nikolai,” she said.
“Thank you. May I come in?”
With a certain reluctance she motioned him through; she then went back to her locks before joining him in the hall. “Georgi’s asleep,” she said. “I don’t want to wake him.”
Hoffner had expected as much; it was not why he had come. “Your lawyer is making do without you?”
“Herr Schmidt has been most kind, yes. He understands the situation.” She corrected herself. “Not the entirety of the situation. Herr
“Good,” said Hoffner. “Then I need you to take the boys away for a few days. Into the country.” He gave her no time to respond. “Not to friends or relatives. A train, an hour away. It doesn’t need to be more than that. Find a small hotel and sign with a different name, not your own. Do you understand?”
Confusion registered as disdain in her face. “What are you talking about, Nikolai?”
Hoffner had no interest in pacifying her. “What wasn’t clear in what I just said?” He had never spoken to her in this tone; her shock stifled any further questions. “You need to go this morning. Wake Georgi, get Sascha.” She blanched at the suggestion. “What?” he said briskly.
For several seconds, she seemed uncertain how to respond. Finally the resolve drained from her. “I have something for you,” she said. “Wait here.” She left him in the hall and half a minute later returned with an envelope, which she handed to him. His full name was written across the front in Sascha’s hand. “He left one for us, as well,” she said, trying to explain. “Two days ago. We tried to find you-”
Hoffner put up a hand to stop her. He continued to stare at the envelope. “Two days ago?” he said, more to himself than her.
“Yes.”
Hoffner tore open the envelope and read:
Hoffner stared at the page. Kurtzman. Sascha had taken his mother’s family name just in case the message had not been clear enough.
The paragraphs were precisely spaced, the letters exact. How many drafts had the boy written before completing this perfect page, Hoffner wondered. There was only one flaw: a slight swelling of ink at the end of the word “untrue.” Had a moment of conscience prompted the hesitation with the pen? Hoffner hoped not. It would be better for Sascha to forget his own last moments with his mother. The same might not be so easy for Georgi.
An anxious Giselle said, “Does he tell you where he’s gone?”
Hoffner was still with the letter. He turned to her: Tamshik would have to wait. He said calmly, “I need you to wake Georgi and get to the station.” He folded the letter and dug it into his pocket.
She pressed, “All he said was that he was leaving.”
