Munich came quickly. The handsome young man had offered his too-loud good-byes less than an hour into the trip, which had left them six more to themselves to eat their sandwiches and drink their beers and while away the time as if the hours were really theirs. Trains had that effect. Now, stepping to the Central Station platform, Hoffner and Lina returned to a world far more concrete.
He found them a modest hotel by the station and, with a last nod to whimsy, registered them as man and wife. They found a small, quiet restaurant-a recommendation from the concierge-and by seven o’clock had two plates of what passed for beef and noodles in front of them. The place had the smell of frying potatoes, and they sat like a good German couple, saying nothing as they ate. Hoffner had splurged on a bottle of wine, and Lina seemed to take great pleasure whenever the waiter would come by to refill her glass. It was only when the bill was brought over that any of the three spoke up.
“Tell me, Herr Ober,” said Hoffner as he mopped the last of the noodles in the broth, “you know of a place to get some drinks? Something a bit lively?”
“Certainly, mein Herr,” said the man as he made change. “Depends on what you want. A little dancing?”
Hoffner smiled. “Not for an old soldier.” He set his fork and knife on the plate. “Just some drinking. Good company.”
The man nodded. “We’ve plenty of soldiers in town, mein Herr. And plenty of beer halls to keep them happy.”
The man suggested the Sterneckerbru beer cellar, not too far a walk, and not so lively that a young woman might not want to venture in. A perfect choice.
Outside on the street, Lina took Hoffner’s hand. “I thought maybe we’d just walk for a bit,” she said. “Find a cafe.” After all, they were no longer in Berlin; she could state a preference. “A beer cellar sounds so dreary, and it’s so much nicer here without the snow and rain.”
She was right. Munich was a far cry from Berlin. It had been nearly half a century since the city had watched the best of its artists and writers and architects flee to the new imperial capital with the promise of fast money and prestige: the heady days of the Wittelsbach princes and their patronage were long gone. Now there was something distinctly quaint to Munich, a slower pace, the buildings not quite so high, though the city had recently reasserted itself as the first to try its hand at revolution. Munich had succumbed to the Social Democrats in mid-November, and had been following the Bavarian Prime Minister, Kurt Eisner, ever since. Eisner might have been a displaced Berlin Jew-hence the feeling among Munich’s more conservative elements that nothing but evil could come from the Prussian capital-but he was showing the way for men like Ebert and Scheidemann. Munich was once again a political maverick. That its streets were awash with even more military detritus than Berlin’s was not, as yet, too pressing a point.
Hoffner squeezed Lina’s hand as they walked, and said, “The city’s famous for its beer halls. We’d be silly not to try out one or two, don’t you think?”
Lina spoke with a knowing ease: “We didn’t come just for a day’s holiday, did we?”
If he had closed his eyes, Hoffner might have mistaken her for Martha: the same resigned concession. He wondered if he was really that transparent. “Holiday with a purpose,” he said. “Not so bad, is it?”
She squeezed his arm a bit tighter. “All right,” she said, striking her bargain, “but tomorrow I want a walk in the Englischer Garten.”
“Fair enough.”
“And a cafe.”
Hoffner brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. This far from Berlin, he could allow himself the luxury.
The place was just what he had expected: a wide-open hall with high archways running this way and that, and long wooden tables stretching from wall to wall. Wrought-iron lamps hung from the ceilings and cast a yellow pall over the cavernous space: men and women perched on benches-some of them even up on the tables-with large mugs of beer at the ready. The echo of conversation made it almost impossible to be heard without raising one’s voice. Hoffner spotted a collection of young soldiers at one of the central tables and headed Lina in that direction.
They found two places on the bench and settled in as Hoffner flagged down a blowsy waitress and ordered two mugs. He was now in character, staring wide-eyed at the size of the place before turning to Lina with a broad smile. She was equally comfortable playing the country rube. Hoffner had prepared her on the walk over: a bit of make-believe might be in the offing, he had said. After all, she had been playing his wife with apparent ease, how difficult could another role be?
Lina let go with a giddy laugh and swatted playfully at his arm.
“Which regiment are you boys with?” yelled Hoffner to one of the soldiers who was seated on the table, and who was deep in conversation.
The man turned around and looked down. “Pardon?” he said.
“Your regiment,” shouted Hoffner. “My son fought with the Liebregiment.”
The man leaned over and indicated the markings on his collar. “Sixteenth Bavarian Infantry,” he said.
Hoffner raised his eyes wide and nodded. He shouted to Lina, “They’re with the Sixteenth Bavarian.” Lina nodded up at the man with a smile. Hoffner shouted to her, “Not with Helmut’s unit.” The man was about to turn away when Hoffner shouted, “My son Helmut was with the Liebregiment.”
The man nodded to be kind. “I don’t think you’ll find any in here tonight, mein Herr.” Again, he began to turn away.
Hoffner said, “He was killed at Isonzo, October of ’17.”
Hoffner had hit upon the unspoken kinship between soldiers. The man now showed a genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Hoffner nodded his thanks. “He won the Iron Cross. For bravery.” The man nodded again. “We’re here for only a few days, and I was hoping to meet up with some of his comrades, hear about it from them. They said the Liebregiment spent its nights here, but perhaps I was mistaken.”
The man raised a hand and said, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to his friends and called out, “Hey. Hello. Liebregiment. Where do they do their drinking?” The others continued to ignore him. He leaned in closer. “Fsst! Liebregiment,” he shouted. “This fellow, his son was killed at Isonzo. He wants to look up some of his mates.” The man now had their full attention, but unfortunately there were no takers. “Ask down the other end of the table,” he said. “Someone’s bound to know.”
Two minutes later, Hoffner had his answer.
The Alte Rosebad was a much smaller affair, more of a walk, though no less popular. The acoustics, however, were not as ear-shattering: it was actually possible to hold a conversation without popping a vein in one’s neck. Hoffner played out the same little drama for a second table of soldiers, this time with a very nice supporting performance from Lina: Helmut was now to have been a butcher and her husband. The men directed them over to a table near the back.
“The roles change,” he said to her as they made their way through. “Just follow my lead.” He could tell she was enjoying this.
They sat at an opening along one of the long benches. This time Hoffner read through the menu and chatted with Lina before calling over a waiter. He seemed completely uninterested in the soldiers who were an arm’s length from them. It was only when he and Lina were halfway through their first mug that he glanced over. “That’s not Liebregiment, is it?” he said with friendly surprise.
One of the soldiers turned to him. “Pardon?”
“Liebregiment, isn’t it?”
The man was already well on his way to a very nice night; he smiled. “And who wants to know?”