Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  “A boy at a murder site. I imagine we each build character in our own way.” When Hoffner said nothing, Hermannsohn added, “A joke, Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  Hoffner waited, then said, “I imagine it was.”

  Hermannsohn smiled quietly and then motioned to the gate. “The body is this way.”

  Hoffner was about to follow when he saw the uncertainty in Sascha’s eyes: there had been no mention of a murder or a body during the tram ride out. How could there have been? The complete absurdity of this moment only now came clear to Hoffner. What had he been thinking? “I can’t take you inside, Alexander.”

  Sascha showed an instant of relief before nodding in disappointment. “Well, then, I’ll wait here, Father.”

  The boy acted with such poise, thought Hoffner. “Good man,” he said. For just a moment, Hoffner placed a hand on Sascha’s arm. Somehow, neither seemed to mind it. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small flask. He opened it and handed it to Sascha. “Should keep you warm for a while.” Sascha hesitated. “Go on. She doesn’t have to know.” Sascha took a quick sip, and coughed as he handed it back. Hoffner smiled. Just a boy, he thought. What had been so frightening in that? Hoffner then held the flask out to Hermannsohn. “Kommissar?” Hermannsohn politely refused. “No, I didn’t think so.” Without taking a drink, Hoffner pocketed the flask and followed Hermannsohn out into the Gardens.

  There was something so depressing about the zoo in rain. The little buildings—some Frenchman’s notion of international kinship—were each designed in the style of the countries from which the animals had come. Laden with ice and damp, they looked less like invitations to foreign climes than sodden gingerbread houses. A merry skip past them became a somber slog: not much fun in knowing what dreary looked like in China or India or darkest Africa.

  Hoffner said, “Nice when the Polpo puts in an appearance on a criminal case. Or did I miss the Oberkommissar’s point yesterday?”

  Hermannsohn ignored the question; he seemed the type to ignore anything he found unpleasant. He took them past the elephant house—Hoffner wondered how many elephants actually roamed the Taj Mahal—and into the more remote regions of the Gardens. “You were planning on bringing the boy to the site,” said Hermannsohn. “I find that most interesting.”

  “Do you?” Hoffner could change the subject just as easily. “As interesting as I find having the Tageblatt and the Morgenpost on hand?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Hermannsohn. “You really never can trust these Schutzi patrolmen, can you?” He led Hoffner away from the animal houses and down a path that wound its way past a public toilet and beyond a small utility shed. The trees grew thicker as they walked.

  They came to a link chain that hung across the path. A small sign dangled from it that read, DURCHGANG VERBOTEN. Two exclamation points hammered home the message: Passage Forbidden!! Hoffner knew his Berliners. This would have been enough to keep a small band of revolutionaries at bay. Hermannsohn stepped over the chain. Hoffner did the same. Half a minute later, they came to a clearing.

  Hoffner was genuinely surprised by what they found: at the clearing’s center was the all-too-familiar fencing, scaffolding, and power engine that had come to define Berlin under construction. Two Schutzi patrolmen stood at either end of the small opening to the pit. Beyond them was a wider gap in the trees, an avenue for a single wagon to make its way through with supplies. More interesting were the three black Daimler convertible saloons that were parked at its edge; their chauffeurs were each enjoying a nice smoke.

  “At least your man is consistent,” said Hermannsohn, as he led Hoffner toward the ladder.

  Hoffner kept his eyes on the automobiles. The chauffeurs’ coats were not yet soaked through: they had not been here long. “I had no idea they were building this far out,” he said.

  “They’re not,” said Hermannsohn. He reached the ladder and started down. Hoffner followed.

  Had Hoffner been looking for consistency, the excavation site would have served perfectly. The climb down brought him into a cavern that seemed almost identical to the one he had seen two nights ago in Senefelderplatz, police lamps and all. Even the group of four men standing at the far end of the tunnel felt eerily familiar. That, however, was where the similarities ended.

  It was clear from their clothes which of the four belonged to the Daimlers above. Like their automobiles, three of the men were long and sleek: Russian fur lined their coat collars; English wool creased the cuffs of their trousers; and their boots had the shine of Italian leather. War had done nothing to compromise their politically impudent tastes. For Hoffner, though, it was the fingernails—even at this distance and in this light—that made plain the stratum from which these men had descended: flat and pink, and never once having been cut by the men themselves. Hoffner knew exactly who they were: Prussian businessmen, and a far more dangerous breed than their military counterparts. War never thinned their numbers; inflexibility never stifled their success. They spoke to one another in hushed tones, a language that required fewer words, though greater subtlety of gesture, than the patter that flowed from the jaws of common Berlin. These were men who survived—and survived well—no matter who might be wielding the reins of government.

  The fourth among them was Polpo Direktor Gerhard Weigland, in all his roundness. He looked completely out of place, nodding continuously while the others spoke. When he caught sight of Hoffner, he clumsily cleared his throat. The others turned.

  “At last,” said Weigland with no small amount of relief. “Gentlemen, this is the Kripo detective I’ve been telling you about.” Hermannsohn remained in the shadows as Hoffner drew closer. “Kommissar Nikolai Hoffner, may I present the Directors of Firma Ganz-Neurath. Herren Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf”—Weigland motioned with his arm—“Kommissar Hoffner.”

  Hoffner had never been the recipient of three such crisp bows of the head. “Meine Herren,” he said, with a lazy nod of his own.

  “Herr Kommissar.” Trger spoke for all three.

  Hoffner cut right to it. “I’m guessing this would be one of your sites, Herr Direktor?”

  “Along with those in the Senefelder and Rosenthaler Platz, yes, Herr Kommissar. I believe you’re familiar with them?”

  “The projected U-Bahn stations,” said Hoffner. “And dead women keep cropping up inside of them.”

  Trger appreciated Hoffner’s bluntness. “Yes. They do.”

  “You’re aware, mein Herr”—Hoffner spoke as if neither Polpo man was present—“that Herr Direktor Weigland and Herr Kommissar Hermannsohn are not with the Kripo?” He was enjoying seeing Weigland stand silently by.

  “I am.”

  “So you consider this a political case?”

  Trger took a moment. He was gauging Hoffner, not the case. “The Herr Direktor and I are old friends, Kommissar. He has been kind enough to extend the services of his department.”

  Hoffner had no reason to believe that fealty was the sole reason for the Polpo’s continuing interest in his case. Weigland might have convinced Trger and his fellow Directors of that, but Hoffner knew otherwise. “I see.”

  “I’m not sure you do, Kommissar.” There was nothing combative in the tone: it was a simple statement of fact. Trger continued: “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this site. Are we clear on that?” Hoffner nodded. “Good, because where we are standing doesn’t actually exist.” Trger saw the surprise in Hoffner’s eyes. “Yes. We first moved ground here just over five years ago. December of 1913. This was going to be the grand terminus for a line leading all the way back into the heart of the city. By the end of the decade. That was the aim, Kommissar. That was what the Kaiser wanted.”

  “Forgive me, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner, “but I don’t recall reading anything about a proposed line this far out.”

  “Of course you don’t. No one does. The Kaiser was afraid that if news got out that an underground train—not a tram, mind you, or an omnibus, not something in the daylight
, Kommissar—but something like this was being designed to connect Berlin West to the scum of Kreuzberg and Prenzlauer—well then, a great many people might have had good reason to make the Kaiser’s life as uncomfortable as possible. Safety, insulation—that sort of thing. What the Kaiser knew was that his Charlottenburg faithful simply needed time to see how wonderful his new underground trains were going to be. He knew they would eventually come begging for their own, so why not have the trains at the ready when they did?”

  “But only as far as the zoo,” said Hoffner.

  “Yes.”

  “No reason for the Kaiser to press his luck by taking the trains into the heart of the West.”

  Trger was enjoying this more than he was letting on. “Something like that, Kommissar.”

  “And then the war came.”

  “Exactly. We all discovered that the Kaiser was more interested in the world beyond Berlin than in her trains. Everything came to a stop, and the Number Two U-Bahn line happily drifted into oblivion. That is, of course, until last week. I can’t say we enjoyed hearing that women were being killed and then moved to our sites, but until this morning, Kommissar, no one knew about that. Luckily, they still have no idea about the Rosenthaler station. That, I have no doubt, will come out soon enough. When it does, our firm will have to answer some rather unpleasant questions. That, however, does not concern us. Embarrassment fades. The sites in the middle of town threaten no one.” He paused. “This one, however, does—especially given recent events. You understand what I am saying now, Kommissar?”

  Hoffner did. The revolution had made an underground site this far west far more troubling. The image of a ten-thousand-strong mass moving down the Siegesallee in early January was still fresh in everyone’s minds: how much more frightening would the prospect be of an endless stream of such filth making its way out from beneath the streets in the dead of night? At any moment, they could emerge like rats to run rampant. Herr Direktor Trger and his cohorts might be willing to stomach the hysteria produced by a maniac on the loose; they would not, however, tempt the kind of panic that could tear Berlin apart at the seams. “And you’ve managed to keep it hidden all this time?” said Hoffner.

  “They think we’ve been building a holding pool for some enormous fish,” said Trger. “Tell me, Herr Kommissar, does this look like a holding pool to you?”

  Hoffner said, “May I see the body, Herr Direktor?”

  “You understand our concern, Kommissar.”

  Hoffner spoke candidly: “That the Polpo knows how to keep the press at bay, and that we in the Kripo—especially those of us who live in Kreuzberg—have never been quite as useful? Yes, Herr Direktor. I understand that quite well. May I see the body now?” Hoffner enjoyed the sudden tension that was radiating from Weigland.

  Trger, on the other hand, seemed amused by the jab. “Then we’re clear, Kommissar?”

  “Absolutely, Herr Direktor.”

  “Naturally, my colleagues and I are eager to assist you in any way we can.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Herr Direktor.”

  Trger waited. He continued to gaze at Hoffner as he spoke to Weigland. “You shouldn’t have let this one get away to the Kripo, Gerhard. That’s not like you.”

  Weigland tried a smile. “No, Herr Direktor.”

  “Any help at all, Kommissar.”

  Hoffner nodded.

  Weigland waited to make sure that Trger was finished before motioning Hoffner in the direction of the body. “It’s this way,” he said as he led Hoffner to the end of the tunnel; the three directors started back for the ladder.

  “Always have to be clever, don’t you?” said Weigland under his breath.

  Hoffner said dryly, “You have some very impressive friends, Herr Direktor. I’m very impressed.”

  “Just finish the case, Nikolai. Make all our lives easier.”

  The woman was lying facedown in the dirt, at most a day since she had been killed. Hoffner crouched down next to her and saw the drag marks leading up to the spot; he saw the ripped bodice of her dress, the age in her face, the diameter-cut design etched across her back, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was not the work of Paul Wouters.

  Hoffner might have been guessing had he come to the conclusion from her clothes alone. The dress and shoes were too young for a woman her age, and there was nothing of the solitary nurse or seamstress in them. Hoffner drew out his pen and lifted up the back hem of her dress. There, as he had expected, he found the telltale sign just above her knee: a little purse was tied on tightly to her thigh. He weighed it in his hand. It was still filled with coins. This woman had been a prostitute, and far more than Wouters could ever have handled.

  The clothes and occupation, however, were only confirmation for what Hoffner saw in the design. He ran his thumb along the ruts. He pressed down onto the cold flaps of skin. They were jagged, their angle wrong. These had come at the hands of the second carver.

  Hoffner glanced down the tunnel and felt Weigland’s gaze over his shoulder. Someone had gone to great lengths to create the perfect setting. Everything was laid out exactly as it had been in Senefelderplatz two days ago, as it had been over the last month and a half at each of the other sites: the Mnz Strasse roadwork, the sewer entrance at Oranienburger Strasse, the Prenzlauer underpass, the grotto off Blowplatz. Everything perfect, thought Hoffner, and just a day after Herr Braun’s revelations.

  He was about to turn back to the body when something else stopped him. Hoffner continued to stare down the tunnel. He saw it in the lights hanging from above, in the placement and dimension of the wooden boards along the dirt walls. It was in the layout of the planks, in the steel beams, in the height of the ceiling, its contours—everything about the tunnel. He had been distracted, first by Trger, then by the victim. Now it was infinitely clear.

  Hoffner jumped up and started toward the directors, who were almost to the ladder. He quickened his pace. “Herr Direktor.” He began to run as he yelled out, “One moment, please.”

  Trger stopped. He turned around. “Herr Kommissar?”

  Hoffner drew up to him. He could hear Weigland trying to catch up from behind. “Herr Direktor.” Hoffner spoke with intensity. “This site. These sites. How are they designed?”

  Trger seemed unsure of the question: “You mean how is the tunnel built, Herr Kommissar?”

  “No, the designs, Herr Direktor. How are they configured?”

  Trger glanced momentarily at his colleagues. “We have a model. What’s called a Master Draft. It acts as a central plan. Why, Kommissar?”

  “Each site, Herr Direktor? Each one is designed in the same way?” Hoffner felt the pieces falling into place.

  “In theory, yes.” Trger was still not sure what he was explaining. “One basic tunnel design. One basic track design. It makes for much more cost-effective production of materials, instruction to foremen, so forth and so on.” Trger was finished answering questions. “Why is this of any importance?”

  “So the Senefelder site would be almost identical to this one?”

  “More or less, yes.” Trger was growing impatient. “Why are you asking this?”

  “Even something as involved as the Rosenthaler Platz station. An arcade. That, as well?”

  Trger answered abruptly. “With a few modifications, yes. The same construction. Kommissar, what has this to do with your case?”

  Images were flying through Hoffner’s head. He saw the frustration in Trger’s eyes. “Thank you, Herr Direktor.” And without another word, Hoffner took hold of the ladder and headed up.

  Out on the plaza, Sascha was holding court among a group of Schutzi patrolmen. Hoffner caught his breath as he made his way across.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, still winded. The men moved off. “I need a favor, Sascha.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, and not for the misuse of his name. This was the first time he had ever heard his father ask for help. “A favor?” Sascha said uncertainly.

&nbs
p; “I need you to go back to the Alex. To my office.”

  “Now?” he said more eagerly.

  “Yes, now. There might be a telephone call. If Herr Fichte shows up, you tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Sascha nodded through the instructions. “And if the telephone call does come in?”

  Hoffner had not thought that far ahead. “Good point. You tell the gentleman that I’ll call him back. A Herr Kepner. Take his number. He’s to say nothing else on the line. You’re to make sure of that. Nothing else. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Excellent.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. “You’re doing me a tremendous good turn, Sascha.” He handed the coins to the boy. “Whatever you don’t use on the trams, you keep for yourself, all right?” He squeezed a hand on the boy’s arm. “Thank you.” He then headed off.

  “You’re welcome, Father.” But Hoffner was already out of earshot.

  Five and a half kilometers across town, a sign had replaced the Schutzi patrolman: ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. Evidently it had worked just as well. The Rosenthaler site was completely deserted. Hoffner took hold of the ladder and headed down.

  Fifteen rungs in, the cavern became pitch black. He reached the bottom, struck a match, and gently wedged it between two wooden slats.

  From the little he could see, Hoffner managed to locate a stray pick lying on the ground. He took it and began to wrap his handkerchief around its wooden end. He then pulled out his flask and doused the cloth in liquor. Holding the pick by its chisel edge, he struck a second match and lit the improvised torch. At once the underbelly of the station opened up in wild shadows in front of him. The odor of feces was long gone, as was any indication that a family had been living down here until ten days ago. Even the boards for the feather beds had been restored to their rightful places.

  Trger had been right: the space was virtually identical to the other designs Hoffner had seen in the past three days. The spokes that led out into the arcade were simply other single-line tunnels, those “modifications” Trger had mentioned. They, however, were not the reason Hoffner had come.