A drawing of Karl Liebknecht inspired nothing so fanciful in Hoffner. Not that he saw it as a random occurrence within a universe lost to chaos: that idea, now all the rage, was equally absurd. Coincidence was born of proximity. Kollwitz was simply the perfect candidate for Liebknecht’s memorial; her drawings and posters of browbeaten Berlin had made her the willing, or unwilling, voice of the working class. That one of their own-a lean, less than beautiful girl with a striking gaze-had drawn Kollwitz’s eye was hardly beyond possibility. It had drawn Hoffner’s as well, albeit for different reasons. Who was to say, then, that artists and detectives were not the ones most likely to see something beyond a stare? It was as much whimsy as Hoffner would concede. Of course, had Kollwitz produced something on Rosa, now that might have been less easy for him to dismiss.
“I wanted to do something on Luxemburg,” said Kollwitz, “but that’s not as clear-cut, is it?” She looked up at Hoffner. “So what do you think, Inspector? Is she off in Russia, or have we seen the last of Red Rosa?”
At least the cosmos had a sense of humor, thought Hoffner. He said, “Are you that keen to have her back?”
It was clear Kollwitz was enjoying this. “It’s not for me that she’d be coming back, now is it, Inspector?”
More than you realize, Frulein, he thought. “Did you know her?” he said.
“Should I have?” she said quizzically. “Yes. We met once, at a concert, two old women enjoying some music. We told each other how much we enjoyed each other’s work. It was very polite.”
He said, “I would have thought the two of you would have been kindred spirits.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” said Kollwitz dryly. “I’m sure history will have it that way. And Emma Goldman, too. Lump all of us in together. In fact, we might just be the same person. Wouldn’t that be something?” She smiled. “I thought she was a devotee of feminism. I asked her, and she took it as an absurd question. Women, Jews, it didn’t matter to her. Socialism didn’t care about those distinctions, so why should she? Everything would be made right after the great event. I thought it was very. . honest. . though not terribly helpful. But she did do profound things, and for that I’m infinitely jealous. You don’t have a drink, Inspector. Let’s go get you one.”
Hoffner gazed over at Lina and was reminded that, yes, he really was the old one. For all that was behind her stare, Lina looked as if she had just spent the last few minutes lost in a foreign country.
They made it halfway to the drinks before Kollwitz was torn from them. Hoffner’s last image of her was of a small gray rabbit being sucked into a bottomless pit of groping hands. She went bravely and even managed a little smile back to them before she was gone. Hoffner took a whiskey and wondered how much longer they would need to be here.
The answer came far more quickly than he could have imagined. There was a loud conversation outside the door, and a moment later Hans Fichte-a drunken Hans Fichte-stepped into the studio. Hoffner had had his chances not to be here: the look of the building, the ice in the seat of his pants, Lina’s first hesitation; he had taken none of them. This was now his reward for those missed opportunities.
Fichte’s face was red from the climb, his eyes marginally focused, though he spotted Lina at once. A man in front of him tried to ask what he was doing here, but Hans already had Hoffner in his sights: nothing was going to keep him from the drinks table. He pushed through.
Fichte stood there breathing heavily and saying nothing. He took no notice of Lina; his gaze was fixed on Hoffner.
“Hello, Hans.” Hoffner spoke with no emotion. “You’ve had a bit to drink.” Fichte continued to stare in silence. “This isn’t the place for this.”
There was a rage behind the eyes; Fichte was doing all he could to keep it in check. “And where would that place be, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?” Fichte suddenly spoke in a loud voice. “Where you could throw her over a chair and fuck her?”
Everyone in earshot looked over. Hoffner could feel Lina’s embarrassment, though he felt none for himself. He waited for the conversations to pick up again before saying, “Why don’t we go downstairs?”
Fichte was having none of it. He reached out for Hoffner. “And why don’t you-”
Hoffner caught him by the wrist and twisted. Had Fichte not been drunk, it would have made no difference, but Fichte was drunk, and his reaction was slow. Hoffner twisted tighter and saw the pain run across Fichte’s face, the shoulder now on fire, even as Hoffner felt his own rib cage wrenching at the exertion. Fichte teetered, and Hoffner put out a hand to steady him. They now had a captive audience, and within seconds Hoffner was maneuvering Fichte to the door, then to the staircase, forcing him up against the wall for balance as they sped down. Two floors on, their momentum drove Fichte into the front door, which seemed to stun him for a moment. It was enough time for Hoffner to move him back, pull open the door, and take them both out into the cold air. With what little strength he had left, Hoffner dropped Fichte onto the snow pile and then bent over and gasped for breath. His ribs were in agony as he staggered back to the wall and continued to suck in for air, all the while keeping his eyes on the lump that was Fichte.
It was nearly a minute before either of them could say a word. Hoffner spat. “You all right?” he said, still breathing heavily.
Fichte was having trouble focusing. The door had done more damage than Hoffner had imagined. Fichte was trying to rub his shoulder when Lina raced out onto the street. She was holding her coat, and stood there motionless as the door clicked shut behind her.
Hoffner got himself upright. The bandaging was now useless and only making things worse. “Put on your coat,” he said. “You’ll freeze.”
Without thinking, Lina did as she was told.
Fichte had recovered enough to lift his head. “You always do what he tells you?”
Hoffner said, “Watch yourself, Hans.”
Fichte let go with a cruel laugh. “That’s rich. And what do you need to watch?”
Hoffner’s head was buzzing; he thought he might be sick, and he bent over. Lina was still by the door. She had pulled her coat tight around herself, her arms crossed, her hands tucked up under her chin. She was doing all she could not to cry.
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” said Fichte. “That’s a laugh.”
“Shut up, Hans.” Her face became laced with anger. “Don’t tell me anything. Not a thing. You think I don’t know what’s been going on with you? You think I didn’t know all along? Did you hear anything I said last night?”
Fichte shook his head sloppily. “Since Belgium,” he said. “Since before any of this, which makes you a whore.” He looked over at Hoffner. “Congratulations. You made her a whore.”
Hoffner saw Lina raise her hand to strike Fichte, and he quickly reached over. Her arm was shaking when he caught it; Hoffner tried to pull her into him, but she threw him off, barking out in frustration as she stepped away. Hoffner could feel her loathing as he leaned back against the wall. Fichte had slouched over his open knees, his arms resting on his legs. Lina kept her back to both of them.
Staring down at the ground, Fichte said aimlessly, “You’re a son of a bitch, you know.”
Not much question in that, thought Hoffner. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”
There was a long silence. “I thought I was in love with her,” said Fichte. “I did.”
Lina turned toward him, the rage now in her eyes. She stared at Fichte’s hulking shoulders and his blotchy skin, at his enormous fingers clenched together in one giant fist. “Shut up, Hans,” she said bitterly.
Fichte bobbed his head once. “‘Shut up, Hans,’” he echoed.