“Yes.”
“And he knew your wife.” Again, she was stating, not asking.
Hoffner felt the pull of his cigarettes from across the room. “I suppose. Does it matter?”
“He wanted to help her.”
Whether days or weeks from now, he thought, he would always look to this moment as their last. “Do you know where I put my cigarettes?” he said.
“Why did he want to help her?”
Lina was digging with no care for the consequences, and that left him no room to hide. “He didn’t,” he said. He struggled to get himself upright, then brought his legs over the side and sat with his back to her. “He thought he was helping me, which showed how little he understood.” Hoffner got up and moved across to the pile of clothes. “Did I put them in my jacket?”
He was fumbling through his pants when she said, “And what didn’t he understand?”
The sting, of course, was in her feigned indifference, but it was hardly fair feeling the least irritation when it had been his own stupidity that had put them here. The past was kept in strongboxes for a reason; he had removed the lid and had been forced to peer in for himself. How could he blame her for making him rummage through to the bottom?
He located the pack and lit one up. “Victor saw things differently at the end,” he said. “That’s all. I never floated over battlefields and so never gained the same appreciation.”
Lina spoke with an honesty that went beyond her years: “That seems unkind.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” He suddenly recalled the name. “Terranova. Palazzo Terranova. Victor found it all very meaningful.” She looked confused. “New ground,” he explained. “‘Terranova’ means ‘new ground.’”
“You resent him for it.”
She had never challenged him like this: endings, he imagined-even at their inception-granted a kind of invincibility. “For what?” he said.
“For seeing things in a way you couldn’t.”
Hoffner shook his head. “He was creating his own version of nobility, the great sacrifice, and he wanted me to do the same thing.”
“So being faithful to your wife was a sacrifice?”
It sounded so hollow, coming from her. At least Victor had done what he had in the name of something vital, a life rediscovered, a gift repaid. But it was a vicious circle: that kind of redemption was only for those who could embrace vitality. Hoffner had survived on an imitation kind, his own fueled by infidelity, which only made his choice to make good on the promise an even greater hypocrisy. He had let himself be fooled-just once-into seeing it for more than it was: some meaningless argument with Martha when he had revealed his self-denial and had staked his claim to nobility, but she had been no more unforgiving than Lina. “What sacrifice?” Martha had said with justified bitterness: his sudden rage, her body sent crashing to the floor. Hoffner now realized that it was the shame of that moment that he had grown tired of; and it was that fatigue, and nothing more, that had led him to Lina.
He took a pull on his cigarette and said, “It’s difficult to sacrifice something you never had.”
She had watched the sadness in his face, but she showed him no pity. “And you think getting into bed with me makes any difference?”
He looked over at her and he knew: I won’t even be a memory to her one day. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
There was something comforting in the truth, even for her. He lay back down and she placed her arm across his chest. Later they made love and they fell asleep and Hoffner dreamed of Rosa.
A group of children was playing in the short grass as mothers and nannies looked on from the safety of benches. Hoffner and Lina had settled themselves farther off, under a grove of trees where an enterprising vendor with a coffee cart had set up a few tables and chairs alongside the gravel path. Not yet ten o’clock, and they had already made a full morning of it at the shops and markets, which had been up and running since seven. The Gardens were a welcome relief.
“How did you know about this spot?” Lina asked as she poured another healthy dose of cream into her cup. Hoffner had never seen a whiter cup of coffee. From her expression, it was still too bitter.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he said. He had made the telephone call this morning and had been told where to find it. “The concierge,” Hoffner lied. He checked his watch and took a last sip of coffee before getting up. “I need to find the toilet,” he said. “Have a sweet or something while I’m gone.” He placed a few coins on the table and headed out through the trees.
Three minutes later he came across his old friend Peter Barens, sitting on a secluded bench. Hoffner drew up and said, “You give excellent directions, Peter.” He sat.
“It’s good to see you, too, Nikolai.”
They had known each other since university, two young law students with an eye to criminology. Barens had made chief inspector almost eight years ago; there was talk of a directorship in his future. Barens said, “I was sorry to hear about Knig.” Hoffner stared out at the park and nodded. “And now a chief inspector,” Barens continued. “I imagine even you can’t cock up that promotion.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Barens pulled a thin file from his case. “So why the interest in this?” He handed it to Hoffner.
Hoffner opened the file and found ten to twelve pages on the Thule Society, very complete, very organized: Barens really was an excellent detective. “Best not to say,” said Hoffner.
“Naturally.” He let Hoffner flip through to the next page before saying, “Odd how I get a telephone call asking me if I have anything on a man named Eckart, or anything having to do with-what did you call it? — the ‘Thulian Ideal,’ when we’ve been keeping an eye on these people for the past few months.” Hoffner nodded distractedly as he continued to scan the pages. “There’s a lot of money there, Nikolai. Your friend Eckart has more than he knows what to do with, as do most of the names on that list.”
Hoffner continued to read. “And what are they using it for?”
“Besides pamphlets and bad beer. . They’ve started two organizations. The Workers Political Circle and the German Workers Party. They also recently bought a rag called The Observer. Interesting blend of German folklore and race-baiting. They’re going after the workers and the nationalists. Not usually Kripo business to monitor the political fringes, but these fellows throw around too much weight not to.”
“And they still consider themselves a secret society?”
“In theory. I’m sure that’s what they’d like to think. Tough to maintain the image, though, when you go around recruiting as aggressively as they do.”
Hoffner came to what he had been looking for: the name Joachim Manstein appeared halfway down the third page. There was a small paragraph on him, but Hoffner knew he would need more time with it. He closed the file and said, “What about ties to the Freikorps?”
“You really have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”
“I always did.”
For the first time, Barens smiled. “They both hate the communists, but the Thulians save their real venom for the Jews. We’ve had a few minor incidents, street vandalism, a few punch-ups. Eisner’s presence hasn’t made it any easier, but it’s all pretty local stuff, which makes me wonder why a Berlin Oberkommissar, recent hero of the Republic, has come all the way down to Munich to ask about a group of crackpots he should never have heard of.”
Hoffner placed the file inside his coat and said, “You’re a good friend, Peter.”
Barens became more serious. “I’m a good bull, Nikolai. If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me. Are they moving beyond pamphlets and bad beer?”
Hoffner waited and then stood. “I should go,” he said. “Give my best to Clara and the girls.”
Barens remained seated. There was clearly more he wanted to hear. Nonetheless he said, “I’ll pass that along.” Hoffner turned to go, when Barens added, “And mine to the little chippy by the coffee cart.” Barens waited for Hoffner to turn around before saying, “Some things never change, do they, Nikolai?”