PART TWO
FOUR
They made them into heroes.
The announcement came on Friday, the day of Hoffner’s scheduled return. Rumors had been circulating, but nothing had been confirmed. “You don’t rush these things, Nikolai.” Prager was famous for his timing. “You have to let the city set the tone.” Evidently the city wanted Friday. And so, with the hysteria at just the right pitch, Prager presented Berlin with her new saviors.
From that moment on, Hoffner and Fichte lived on the front pages of every daily in town. Photographs of Wouters’s body-his chest laid bare, the tiny charred hole where the bullet had entered-sat side by side with images of a beaming Fichte and a less than enthusiastic Hoffner. Prager insisted: Hoffner would be a good little soldier. The last of the interviews dragged on into Saturday.
What was worse was how the papers were harping on the fact that Wouters was a Belgian: still more reason to cheer. Some speculated that he might have been an agent sent in during the last days of the war to create mayhem in the capital. Others took it as a sign that German savvy-if not for the incompetence of the generals-would surely have gained the ultimate victory in the war. Even Kvatsch managed to write something mildly favorable. To a paper, though, all agreed on one incontrovertible truth: that Hoffner and Fichte now stood for all that was right with Germany.
Naturally, the directors of Ganz-Neurath invited them to a special luncheon on the following Monday to thank them for their outstanding work. Chancellor Ebert himself put in an appearance to express his faith in the fine men of the Kripo. Ebert, too, needed to align himself with what was right with Germany.
But the crowning moment came on the Tuesday-one week after all the excitement at the Ochsenhof-when the Kripo whipped together an elaborate promotion ceremony outside the old Royal Palace: Fichte to detective sergeant, Hoffner to chief inspector. The Alex was still a shambles and hardly the image that Prager wanted to convey. More photographs, more beaming from Fichte, and all the while, the Polpo remained curiously silent.
Martha, on the other hand, was enjoying it all immensely. The neighbors down the hall had sent over a small bottle of kirsch-dreadful stuff, and not even a premium brand-in congratulations. All that business about the flat had been a misunderstanding. No reason to let it spoil things. An invitation to tea was extended. “Certainly,” Martha said. “When my husband can find time in his very important schedule, Frau Rimmler. We should be delighted.”
Sascha, too, was reaping the benefits. Herr Zessner, his physics teacher, had cited Sascha as “a model for us all” in front of the entire class. Herr Zessner lived alone with his mother, and had been hearing the poor woman’s torments over the “chisel murders” ever since the news had broken: she was the same age as the rest; she spent time outside the flat. “You know the boy’s father, Heinrich. Have him do something!” Detective Hoffner had saved Herr Zessner from an early mental breakdown. Young Hoffner would therefore be finishing the year at the top of his class. Good feelings all around, Sascha even managed to put in an appearance at the air show at Johannisthaclass="underline" a few cold moments, to be sure, but, all in all, the thaw was progressing quite nicely.
And Georgi-the dailies spread out on the kitchen floor-was making a habit of pointing out his own last name in the papers every morning. “Hoffner. Like Georgi Hoffner.” He cut out each one-not the articles, just the names-and kept them in a cigar box under his bed. If Hoffner was being kept from the office, at least Kreuzberg was radiating a very comforting mood.
When Hoffner did finally get back to the Alex in that first week of February, Prager was prepared for him. Cases Fichte would have handled on his own as a detective sergeant suddenly required Hoffner’s expertise. Pimps and whores, bar-front brawls, lowlifes ending up dead, and Hoffner would be called in to clean up the obvious mess. It was a week into it before he began to wonder whether Prager’s intention was to keep him in the papers or out of the office.
Through it all, the snow returned-again and again-as if it knew that Berlin had something to hide. A hint of grime would peek up through the streets, and a new dusting of white would quickly settle from above. Better not to know what lay beneath. It was a popular attitude.
All that began to change on the twelfth when Leo Jogiches-from somewhere in hiding-printed his account of Rosa’s death. The article had appeared in the communist Die Rote Fahne almost a week ago. The rest of the city’s papers had failed to pick up on it. Hoffner had seen it for the first time only this morning.
It was a startling tale of Liebknecht and Luxemburg on the run. Hunted down by members of the Cavalry Guards Rifle Division-those charming soldiers who had taken such joy in beating students to death in the last days of the revolution-Karl and Rosa had been snatched from an apartment on the outskirts of town and then brought to the Hotel Eden near the zoo, where a Captain Pabst and a rifleman named Runge had seen to the killings. Jogiches had even included a photograph of the drinking bout at which the murderers had celebrated the deaths. It was all very dramatic, very shocking, and, as Hoffner well knew, not even half the story.
Not surprisingly, the government was showing little interest. They preferred the original reports from mid-January: that an angry mob had ambushed the Reds and killed them in a wild frenzy, a tragedy of the revolution, to be sure, but not all that much of a tragedy. “The proper expiation for the bloodbath that they unleashed,” the Tgliche Rundschau had written at the time. “The day of judgment on Luxemburg and Liebknecht is over.” Ebert and his cronies were more than willing to agree. They had no intention of dredging it all up again. There was mention of a possible trial, but no one was all that keen to pursue it, especially as the accusations were coming from the people who had started all the trouble in the first place.
Meanwhile, the Polpo-still silent, and still with Rosa’s body somewhere up on the fourth floor-continued to say nothing. They seemed happy enough to let it all fall at the feet of Pabst and Runge. The Wouters case was closed. Weigland even made a special trip down to the third floor to remind Prager of proper jurisdiction. Luxemburg was a Polpo matter. The men of IA would handle it as they saw fit.
Prager had nodded. He liked a victory-along with the good press-as much as anyone else. However, he also liked his victories clean. Two minutes after Weigland had scuttled back upstairs, Prager called Hoffner into his office.
The photograph that Jogiches had printed now stared up at Hoffner from his desk. It was a dreary affair, twenty or so men in gray uniform, another few in black, one little barmaid in white standing at the center with a tray in her hands. Hoffner had been studying the faces for almost an hour. It was the first such block of time he had been able to devote to the case in almost three weeks.
They had let him see the bodies on that first Friday after he returned to work: the woman inside the trunk had been no different from the others, another lonely seamstress with no family to claim her; Wouters had not been much of a surprise, either, except for his hands. Even lifeless, they had shown remarkable strength, especially on so small a man.
More than that, however, was no longer available. The bodies were in the ground; Weigland had made sure of that during Hoffner’s extended absence. It seemed only appropriate given the speed with which the case had resolved itself: Tamshik’s single shot, all discussion closed. Why bother with the evidence?
Hoffner’s eyes continued to drift to the girl in the photo. It was clear that she had been persuaded to pose with the men: she seemed uncomfortable in their presence. The soldiers, however, needed a symbol for what they had been fighting to protect. The entire group stared grimly into the lens, except for one fellow who was seated at the front. He was sporting a tight smirk, with one hand in his coat pocket, the other around a thick cigar. His had been a job well done.