Hoffner made up a name and said, “That is Liebregiment.” He turned to Lina eagerly. “What do you think of that?” She smiled and nodded. Hoffner turned back to the man. “My son had a number of friends back home who went into your regiment.”
The man nodded with a bit more interest.
Hoffner said, “Second Battalion.”
The man now shook his head with a smile. “No luck, then. It’s First Battalion here. Still, I might know a few fellows in the Second.”
Hoffner listed three or four of the names he had written down at the GS, making sure to pick the ones that had had the word “deceased” written after them.
The man’s face was now more somber. “Yah,” he said with a nod. “I knew Schneider. Good man. He was killed in the Italian campaign. Tell your son I’m sorry.”
The man began to turn when Hoffner said sadly, “My Helmut was killed at Arras. Sixteenth Bavarian; 1917. But thank you.”
There was an awkward silence between them-the man aware that he had no choice but to listen to the story of this man’s son-when Hoffner suddenly looked down at the table as if he were trying to recall something important. “What was the name of the boy he said they were always talking about?” He looked to Lina. “The one Helmut met on that leave? You remember the letter?” Lina tried to think, as well. Hoffner popped his head up. “Oster!” he said in triumph. “Erich Oster. Does that sound familiar?”
The man was happy enough to have been given a reprieve. He shook his head, and then turned to his mates, shouting above the din, “Anyone know an Oster? Second Battalion. Friends with Schneider?”
There was a lull, then a shaking of heads, followed by a chorus of noes. The man turned back to give his apologies, when a voice from the far end said, “Erich Oster? Second Lieutenant?” Hoffner leaned in over the table to get a better view of the man.
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
“If it’s the same fellow, he joined the Freikorps a few months back.” The man looked to some of his friends. “You know. The fellow who sent out all those leaflets about the Poles.” The man laughed, and several others now nodded as they remembered. “Bit of a nutter. I think the battalion was glad to see him go.” He laughed again.
Hoffner did his best to look hurt by the accusations. “Oh,” he said sadly. Hoffner nodded slowly and sat back.
The first soldier did his best to minimize the damage; he spoke to the far end of the table. “Oster was a friend of this man’s son, who died at Arras,” he said, emphasizing the word “friend.” “I’m sure you remember more than that, don’t you?” He prodded with a few nods of his head.
“Oh,” said the man, quick to revise his portrayal. “Oh, yes. Of course. He. . he was a thinker, that Oster. Always reading. And a poet. He wrote those. . poems.” The man suddenly thought of something. “There was that 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.