Shadow and Light

by Jonathan Rabb

She picked up her glass. “You really can be very dense. They won’t threaten you. They’ll use him to mislead you. It’s much simpler and much more effective.” She took a drink.

  That was twice he had failed to see the obvious when with her: first with the projector, now this. It was unsettling to think of himself as this easily distracted. Hoffner nodded and took a drink.

  She reached for her purse. “I brought you this.” She placed the small notebook from last night on the table. He had completely forgotten it.

  “I’ll just need the page with the names,” he said. “You can tear it out, if you want.”

  “That’s the trouble,” she said. “It’s not mine to be tearing pages from.” And, with no time for him to ask, “It was there last night, in the back room when we arrived. I thought it was the only way they’d let me take it out, if they thought I’d brought it in.” She slid the book across to him. “I think it’s some sort of ledger. It might be nothing.”

  Hoffner wondered if anything was ever as straightforward as she made it appear. “You decided to take it,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “So why not give it to me last night in the cab?”

  “I forgot.”

  He might have pressed, but he knew she would only enjoy it. Instead, he took hold of the book and flipped through the pages.

  She was right. It was a ledger: the classic accountant’s book with a thin red stripe down the left side of the cover. Inside, there was little else by way of detail. The columns were a list of initials—L.F., H.P.—the rows headed by abbreviated phrases—Cam. Tr., Loc. R. Hoffner assumed the initials stood for the names on the film canisters, the rest for terms obvious to those in the industry. More than that was pure guesswork.

  The only thing he was absolutely certain of was that it was German. Who else could so easily dismiss content in favor of strict accounting: so much paid, so much received, so many hours? It reminded him of those volumes he had once seen at the General Staff, endless sheets of boys’ names—14th Bavarian, 11th Jäger, Leibregiment—ranks and dates and death all laid out in perfect lines: a different sort of brutality and humiliation, to be sure, but no less sanitized on an ordered page.

  It was all undeniably German, except for the numbers themselves, and it was there that Hoffner found his deviations. A German 7 would have been far more rigid, the 1’s without so much business at the top. But it was the 4’s that gave it away. Each had a little foot sticking out at the bottom as if to keep the top-heavy digit from tipping over. Hoffner had actually spent a good deal of time studying different styles of numbers during the Taparan craze, a game that had been everywhere just after the war. The papers had claimed it had come from Japan or China, but everyone knew it was the editors at the BZ who had come up with the brainteaser simply to sell more issues. The gist of the thing was really quite basic: take a random series of twenty numbers in a five-by-five grid, and then eliminate them—one by one—by jumping smaller numbers over larger ones into the empty spaces. The object was to have a single number left at the end, although that rarely happened. Naturally, an entire culture of Taparan sprouted up, drawing enthusiasts from across Europe. There were even tournaments where speed and fewest numbers on the end board determined winners—one Italian actually making it down to a “perfect singleton” a remarkable three times in one six-week period. Hoffner had thought it all rather silly until he found himself one morning staring over the shoulder of a not-terribly-adept Taparanist on the tram. Unable to hold back a few simple suggestions, Hoffner had quickly become as addicted as everyone else. Of the fourteen tournaments he entered, he came in first or second in six of them, the third-highest result in Berlin. He was even invited by the BZ to pose with several other “champions,” but passed on the opportunity, although he might simply have forgotten the appointment.

  It was at the tournaments that he discovered the variations in style. The ornate 1 and the footed 4 were a particular idiosyncrasy of the Danes and the Dutch. And as foreign firms were rare in the world of Berlin accountants, Hoffner now had somewhere to go with the little book. He closed it and placed it in his pocket.

  “Probably right,” he said. “Doesn’t look like much of anything.”

  Leni was still with her glass. “That’s a quick assessment.”

  “It is what it is.” Hoffner’s indifference never assumed a practiced tone. It seemed to satisfy.

  She took a drink. “So where are we off to today?”

  She had a talent for making the obvious seem spontaneous. “There’s a man meant to hang at four. I put him there. I should probably put in an appearance. You?”

  She smiled behind her glass. “You won’t admit how helpful I am, will you?”

  “You’re very helpful.”

  The smile rose. “I might head out to the studio. Have a chat with Lang.”

  Hoffner nodded casually. Her subtlety had a distinctly American leadenness. “I hear he’s a rather odd character.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring my monocle.”

  She finished her glass as a series of plates swept onto the table, elegant folds of something white in a cream sauce, along with a peeled orange in the shape of a star. For some reason there was a dollop of raspberry jam situated above it like a floating Mars. Hoffner waited until she had smeared one of her wedges in the red paste before taking his fork to the crepes. They had the consistency of thick butter and uncooked dough, with just the slightest hint of rancid lamb. It was enough just to keep the thing in his mouth.

  “The duck was no better,” she said, reaching for a second wedge. “I wanted to make sure we were on an even footing.”

  Hoffner swallowed, then tossed back his glass before raising it. “Another,” he said as a passing waiter emerged from nowhere.

  TODAY IT WAS GAS. As ever, the stink at the Alex was growing stronger as Hoffner reached the third floor.

  “It’s the back stairwell lamps,” came a voice from one of the offices. It happened to belong to Kriminaldirektor Präger and was therefore enough to stop Hoffner at the door. Hoffner popped his head through as Präger continued to read whatever it was he was pretending to read.

  “They leak,” Präger continued. “The lamps.” Präger’s was the largest office on the floor, although it might have been an illusion given the sparseness of the place—desk, chair, telephone, two filing cabinets. It had been this way for fifteen years, and Präger—slim, tall, and fine-boned—looked like one more perfectly positioned piece of furniture.

  “Might be a kettle on one of the stoves,” said Hoffner.

  “Different taste in the mouth. This is sweeter.”

  “You’ve become something of a connoisseur?” Hoffner thought he saw the hint of a grin as Präger continued to read.

  “You’ve got company at your desk,” Präger said as he flipped the page.

  “You’ve been at my desk. Should I be concerned?”

  “Depends on what you’ve done.” Präger looked up. “Any news on the Burstein case?”

  “He’ll hang. He’s confessed.”

  “Of his own will?”

  “Close enough.”

  Präger went back to his papers. “Let’s remember we’re not the Polpo, Nikolai.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind, Herr Kriminaldirektor. My company—nice long legs?”

  Präger’s grin reappeared as he read. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Shame.” Hoffner started out the door.

  “Oh.” Präger looked up again. “And why do I have a suicide in my morgue?”

  Here, at last, was the point of this little exchange. Präger was never one to come across as aggressive, let alone intrusive. He might have had his moments, but odd bodies in the morgue never provoked them. Hoffner turned back. “Someone gave you a call?”

  “A lawyer. From Ufa. He wanted to know if examining suicides was standard procedure.”

  “And?”

  “I told him of course it was. You’ll let me know if I shouldn’t have.” No
t expecting an answer, Präger picked up his pen and began scribbling something on one of the sheets. Hoffner took that as his cue to move out into the corridor.

  Evidently Ritter had wasted no time in going over his head: at least now Hoffner knew what to expect with Ufa.

  As it turned out, it was Georg who was waiting for him when he stepped into his office. The boy was seated across from the desk, his nose in a book, as Hoffner tossed his coat and hat onto the rack.

  “At least I was right on the legs,” he said.

  “Pardon?” Georg said, looking up.

  “Nothing.” Hoffner headed over. “So—what is it we’re reading?”

  Georg flipped to the front cover and stared down at the title. “It’s good. Everyone’s got it. You wouldn’t like it.”

  Hoffner angled his head and made out the title Fabian. He had seen it in every bookshop in Berlin, not that he knew anything about it. “Bit arty, is it?”

  “No, just young and earnest.” Georg placed the book on the desk. “Look, Papi, I’m as unhappy about this as you are.”

  Hoffner was shuffling through the mail on his desk. “If I knew what this was, Georgi, I’d commiserate.”

  “You didn’t get a call?”

  “Obviously, Ufa’s sent you.”

  The need to explain only heightened Georg’s frustration. “You’re meeting with some of the bigwigs at Potsdamer Platz. At eleven. They wanted to make sure you kept the appointment.”

  “And they couldn’t do this with a telephone call?”

  “Obviously not.”

  Things were becoming clearer by the minute. Ufa wasn’t satisfied merely going over his head: they wanted to kick his feet out from under him as well. “It can’t be much past eight-thirty.”

  “Eight-eighteen,” Georg corrected.

  “So what am I supposed to do with you for two and a half hours?”

  “Funny, Papi, but I was thinking the same thing myself.”

  THERE ARE ANY NUMBER OF THINGS Berliners choose to forget: the best time to arrive at Schuckert’s in the morning for the fresh fig tarts—seven-twenty, but then who doesn’t love waiting in that line with all those aromas and free little cups of coffee; or the fastest way at lunch to get from City Hall back to an office on Spandau Strasse for forgotten papers—you cut through the Alexanderplatz U-Bahn station, but then you miss out on all the salesgirls from Tietz and Aschinger’s darting out for a smoke or a sandwich up on the square; or that Brecht is a Jew and a Communist, and so is Weill, and maybe even Klemperer—but then who needs to be reminded of such things when all those people are so interesting.

  In the case of Französische Strasse, it is their current loathing of the French that Berliners put aside, not all that difficult to do, as the street is a lovely walk, with the dome of St. Hedwig peeking out from over the trees and L’Église Française nestled back within its own garden. And, of course, there are all those marvelous buildings in between, modeled on the Parisian style, although most Berliners would raise an eyebrow these days at the mention of it.

  No one, however, could accuse the Dresdener Bank of approaching anything French. A late arrival on the street, it casts a sour glare through three stories of lifeless windows cut from a palatial slab of gray stone. More off-putting—though so very popular in all those prewar academic and financial institutions—is its ersatz Greek front of four columns and pediment that looks tacked onto the façade like an afterthought: someone’s staggeringly clever idea to transform the place into the high temple of Berlin capitalism. Given the city’s recent fiscal insecurities, the artifice comes across as more apt than ever.

  Heavy, however, was all that came to mind as Georg pushed open the door. He let his father step past him and into the cathedral vastness of the bank’s public hall. This was not a place for the irresolute. If the windows outside conveyed a dull vacancy, here they shone with a precision that seemed to bend the light to their will. Beams of focused white cut through the air and made the chandeliers above almost redundant. The marble floors demanded an equal resolve, a kind of clipped march from those who were moving toward the line of tellers that stood a short tram ride farther in. And beyond them, a legion of desks—each manned by a crisply etched young clerk in a gray suit and black tie—led up to the mezzanine offices, where, behind a series of glass walls, older, even crisper men totted up accounts or filed papers: these were the gray-suited pupils within the six barren eyes peering out.

  “You’d never manage this with a set,” Georg said as he gazed up along the walls and ceiling: the place seemed to swallow his voice. “It’s all too—solid.”

  They drew up to a solitary desk, and Hoffner said, “I think that’s the point, Georgi.” The man behind showed no reaction as Hoffner continued, “Herr Leber, please. You can tell him Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar Hoffner is here to see him.”

  Several hushed “ja jas” later, Hoffner and Georg were pointed in the direction of a row of chairs along the far wall. It was another halfminute before they settled into a particularly uncomfortable pair.

  “Should have brought your book,” Hoffner whispered as they both stared out at the muted give-and-take along the tellers’ windows.

  “I don’t think you’re meant to read in here, Papi. Bit too frivolous for this crew.”

  Hoffner smiled to himself. It was good to have the boy next to him again. He had begun to forget all this.

  A fat girl appeared at the top of the mezzanine steps and made her way down, past the clerks and tellers, across the expanse, and toward them. She seemed to grow wider with each step. Hoffner and Georg stood.

  “Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar.” She spoke in statements. “Herr Zweiter-Direktions-Assistent Leber will see you. Please follow me.”

  Leber’s office was somewhere beyond and above the central hall, difficult to pinpoint given the stairways and whitewashed corridors Hoffner and Georg were now led through. The fat girl knocked once, waited for the barked “One moment,” then nodded to Hoffner. She was gone by the time Leber opened the door.

  “Nikolai!”

  Leber was tall, wiry, and in possession of a set of oddly large teeth: even with the lips closed, the teeth never seemed completely hidden. He wore the same thin mustache from university days, although the rest of his hair had abandoned him. His suit, on so thin a frame, gave the impression of having been bought half a size too large.

  “What a long time,” he said, his smile presenting the entire collection. “And this must be . . . little Sascha? Come in, come in.” Leber ushered the two into his office.

  “It’s good to see you, Jürgen,” Hoffner said as he glanced around. “Very impressive.” It wasn’t. The room had a desk, filing cabinet, and several stacks of account books spread out across the floor. There were no windows.

  “Well, you know—thirty-some-odd years with a bank and they give you your own office, a secretary. I can’t complain.”

  That was the wonderful thing about Leber. He never saw how dreadful his little life really was—no wife, no children, no standing at his beloved bank. Still, he could always be counted on to send a letter out once a year summoning the fencing club back to Heidelberg, a chance to parade around the old stamping grounds, share a few buckets of beer. Hoffner imagined Leber arriving at the station, racing past the old digs, then on to the beer hall to find perhaps two or three equally desperate lives trying to rekindle something from a forgotten past, except Leber’s desperation was never filled with despair. He had found some kind of contentment—perhaps he had been born with it—that allowed him moments of genuine joy.

  Hoffner’s arrival, so it seemed, was one of them. Leber pulled a bottle from the bottom drawer, along with three glasses, and began to pour out what smelled like peach schnapps.

  “Little Sascha,” he said. “Hard to believe it. A young man.”

  “Actually, it’s Georg,” said Hoffner.

  Leber stopped, his teeth more suited to a look of surprise. “Georg?” He passed out the glasses. “I c
an’t believe it. How time goes.” He lifted his glass in a quick toast, then took the smallest sip possible. Hoffner had to remind himself of this little nugget: with all the reasons in the world to drink to excess, Leber never managed more than half a glass of anything. It made him all the more pathetic, even if Hoffner sometimes wondered if it was possible to envy such a man.

  “So what are you, Georg?” Leber motioned to the chairs in front of his desk as he sat. “Twenty, twenty-one?”

  “Sixteen,” Georg said as he and Hoffner sat. “Sixteen!” Leber leaned back and rolled his eyes with a smile. “Do you remember sixteen, Nikolai? And Sascha—he must be—”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-four.” Leber lingered on the words as if they carried some hidden message. He then turned to Hoffner. “So. What brings you to the bank?”

  Hoffner set his glass on the desk. “Georg claims to have a tremendous interest in finance. Accounting, to be specific. He’s asked if I knew anyone.”

  “Really?” Leber straightened up with an air of unwarranted authority. “Interested in accounting.” A sleeve had begun to swallow his hand as he continued to stare across at the boy.

  Georg, to his credit, simply stared back. When Hoffner prodded with a gentle “Georg?” the boy affected a smile and said, “Accounting. Yes. I find it—very exciting.”

  “How marvelous. Finally a Hoffner with some sense.”

  “He met someone,” said Hoffner. “At one of his fencing tournaments.”

  Leber’s eagerness drew him closer in. “You’re a fencer as well? Really. Foil, saber, épée . . . ?” It was all too easy, thought Hoffner.

  “Saber,” Georg answered. He seemed perfectly content to play along.

  “Oh.” For just a moment Leber seemed to deflate. “I was foil. Saber was a bit too . . . unwieldy. I liked foil, though. But I remember your father with a saber—” Leber cut himself off. “So this fellow, at the tournament?”

  Hoffner said, “He’s doing some sort of apprenticing with one of the larger firms. Talks about it all the time.”

  “Which firm?”