Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Pabst was buttoning his tunic when he invited Hoffner in. He was all cheekbones and charm as he motioned to a chair. “Please, Herr Oberkommissar.” He turned to the two other men. “That will be all, gentlemen.”

The officers snapped their heads sharply and then moved past Hoffner. Pabst waited behind his desk.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, Herr Kapitn?” Hoffner began as he sat.

“Not at all. Cigarette, Herr Oberkommissar?” Pabst kept his private cache in a silver holder, which he now pulled from his pocket. Hoffner declined. “A Kripo chief inspector,” said Pabst. “What can possibly be of interest to you here?” He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit up.

“Routine questions, Herr Kapitn.A formality, really. About the Liebknecht and Luxemburg killings.”

Pabst showed a moment’s recognition before the bland smile returned. He nodded knowingly. “Oh yes, of course,” he answered as if he were talking about a soldier’s missed curfew. “Someone seems to think some of my men were involved, is that right?”

Hoffner found the indifference almost believable. “There was an article, Herr Kapitn.Accusations. We simply have to follow them up, that’s all.”

“Naturally. But, correct me if I’m wrong, Herr Oberkommissar,anything untoward would fall under military jurisdiction? That is right, isn’t it?”

Hoffner wondered if the phrase was printed in some training manual somewhere. He also saw how Pabst had chosen his words carefully: not “wrongdoing” or “criminal activity,” but “anything untoward.” Pabst was setting the tone. “These were very public figures, Herr Kapitn.It’s more about information. How the army deals with its own is not our concern.”

Hoffner was pleased with himself for this turn of phrase, not that he knew what it meant. Luckily, it seemed to be having the same effect on Pabst: mild confusion left him with no real response. “Naturally,” said Pabst, his smile less convincing.

Hoffner spoke directly: “Could you then describe the events of January fifteen?”

Pabst lingered with his cigarette. “Of course,” he said. He let out a long stream of smoke and began to recount a story that both of them already knew: the arrest in the Wilmersdorf flat, Liebknecht and Luxemburg brought to the hotel, interrogation, identification. Pabst finished by saying, “I then had them sent to the civilian prison at Moabit. We were directed to bring all the captured leaders of the revolt to Moabit.”

Hoffner had been writing in his notebook. He looked up and said, “There was some question as to the transport, Herr Kapitn.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Herr Oberkommissar.”

“But they were your men?”

“Yes.”

“So you would have been given a full report on the unit’s activities. That is right, isn’t it?”

Hoffner was hoping for more of a crack in the expression, but Pabst was better at this than the men he commanded. “Liebknecht was shot while trying to escape, if that’s what you mean.”

“And Luxemburg?”

Pabst took his time crushing out his cigarette. “You seem to need it from the horse’s mouth, don’t you, Herr Oberkommissar?” And without waiting for Hoffner to respond, he lifted the receiver of the telephone. “Send in LeutnantPflugk-Hartung. Thank you.” This was not a name Jogiches had mentioned. Pabst looked across the desk as he hung up. “The man who led the unit, Herr Oberkommissar.” Jogiches had assigned that role to a Lieutenant Vogel, although he had kept the information out of his article: only Pabst and Runge had made it to press. Before Hoffner could answer, Pabst was raising a hand to the door and ushering the man in. “Come in, Leutnant.” It was as if Pflugk-Hartung had been waiting in the wings.

The young lieutenant was the perfect specimen of Teutonic breeding: white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes stood at strict attention by the desk. He was a far cry from the slovenly mess Hoffner had left on the first floor. Looks, however, were deceiving. The moment Pflugk-Hartung opened his mouth, it was clear why he had been relegated to the Schtzen-Division.This was not a bright man.

“Liebknecht showed himself to be the dog that he was,” said Pflugk-Hartung. “It was a pleasure to shoot him when he ran like a coward.”

The fact that Pabst had brought him in as his trump card spoke volumes about the Herr Kapitn,as well.

“And Frau Luxemburg?” said Hoffner.

Hoffner could see the wheels spinning; he also noticed how Pabst was gazing up at the man, like a tutor waiting to hear the recitation they had just gone over. Evidently, Hoffner’s time on the first floor had not been all fun and games; it had given the second floor time to prepare.

Pflugk-Hartung said, “She was taken by a mob. I don’t know what happened after that.”

Hoffner said, “A mob was able to steal her away from a crack unit of the Cavalry Guards? That must have been quite a mob, Herr Leutnant.”

Pabst cut in before Pflugk-Hartung could answer. “It was the revolution, Herr Oberkommissar.The streets were madness. After all, there were only six of my men.”

And there it was, thought Hoffner. The first real detail. Pabst might have been far more self-controlled than his men, but he was no less arrogant, and that arrogance was about to be his undoing. “Six men for two prisoners?” said Hoffner. “That seems a bit sparse, Herr Kapitn.” He gave Pabst no time to respond; instead, he turned to Pflugk-Hartung and said, “Were you surprised that you were given only five men, Herr Leutnant,even for a dog like Liebknecht-and Luxemburg, to boot?” Pabst began to answer, but Hoffner put up a quick hand as he continued to gaze at Pflugk-Hartung. “The horse’s mouth, Herr Kapitn,” he said. Pabst was smart enough to know that any further objection would only make things worse. Pflugk-Hartung stared straight ahead; he was clearly at a loss. Hoffner said, “Was a LeutnantVogel a member of your unit?”

Pflugk-Hartung looked momentarily surprised; his eyes danced as he struggled to find an answer.

“I ask again,” said Hoffner. “Was a LeutnantVogel a member of your unit?”

Pflugk-Hartung answered quickly. “Yes.”

“Yes?” said Hoffner with feigned surprise. “Two officers in a unit of six men? Was there a reason for that?” Again Pabst tried to interrupt, and again Hoffner politely held him at bay. “Unless there were twounits of six men led by twodifferent lieutenants? Would that have made more sense?” Pflugk-Hartung was now well out of his depth; he continued to stare ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes, Herr Leutnant.” Hoffner turned to Pabst and spoke quickly. “You sent Liebknecht and Luxemburg to Moabit separately, didn’t you, Herr Kapitn? Two prisoners taken from the same flat at the same time, questioned at the same time, identified at the same time, yet transported to the civilian prison one by one. Who gave the orders to separate them?”

Pabst stared coldly across the desk. This was not the way things had been laid out. He was about to answer, when Pflugk-Hartung blurted out, “Herr LeutnantVogel was delayed by the third prisoner.” The boy truly believed he was helping his Herr Kapitn.“It was therefore decided that my unit should leave at once.”

Hoffner gave Pabst no chance to answer. “A thirdprisoner?” said Hoffner.

This time, Pabst cut in quickly. “The Herr Leutnantis confusing the informant with a third prisoner. The man was brought in at the same time as Liebknecht and Luxemburg. There was no third prisoner.”

Hoffner watched the young lieutenant’s eyes. The boy had made a mistake, and he knew it. “I see,” said Hoffner. “And what was the delay?”

“What usually happens at those moments,” Pabst said coolly. “The informant was demanding more money. Herr LeutnantVogel was resolving the situation.” Without looking up, Pabst said, “That will be all, Herr Leutnant.” Much relieved, Pflugk-Hartung clicked his heels and headed for the door. Pabst waited until he and Hoffner were alone before saying, “It was one more night in the revolution, Herr Oberkommissar.” The affable Pabst had returned. “Guns and mobs. What else do you expect with a Jew radical on the loose? I was lucky not to lose a man. Of course, I take full responsibility for any of the mishaps-the separation of the prisoners, the breakdown in discipline with the informant-but, as you said, that would be for a military tribunal to decide.”

Hoffner saw where this was going; there was no reason to press things further. “Of course,” he said.

Pabst stood. “Unfortunately, I have given you as much time as I can this afternoon. You’ll forgive me, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Hoffner stood. “You’ve been most kind, Herr Kapitn.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner was across from the Gardens and stepping up onto a tram. Jogiches had known about the separation of Liebknecht and Luxemburg; he had known about the third prisoner: Hoffner was certain of that. The question was, what was Jogiches protecting?

“ What exactly were you doing at the Hotel Eden, interrogating a Captain Pabst?”

KriminaldirektorPrager was standing by his window, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve just had a very nice telephone call from the Office of the General Staff, reminding me that Kripo jurisdiction doesn’t extend that far.” He stared across at Hoffner. “What are you doing, Nikolai?”

It was the most animated Hoffner had seen Prager in months. “Closing out a case, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”

Prager nodded skeptically. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what this is.” He moved back to his desk. “I don’t think you realize how tenuous things are right now. You might not care, but no one knows if this government is going to take, so while they’re deciding, the GS is being rather stingy with its allegiances. You don’t want to get on the wrong end of that, Nikolai.”

“You mean I don’t want this department to get on the wrong end of that.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Prager was making this very plain. “Whether you want to accept it or not, you’re a man with a very high profile at the moment. What you do reflects on all of us. So, next time, think about that before you go poking your nose around where it doesn’t belong.”

“And if it does belong?” Hoffner said it just so as to see a little gnawing on the inside of the cheek.

“Look, Nikolai”-Prager’s tone now far more conciliatory-“I’ve never told you how to run an investigation. I’m not going to start now. Just be aware of these things. There’s more at stake now.”

Hoffner wondered if the KD had been talking with Jogiches. He said nothing.

“By the way,” Prager added, “there’s talk that your young Fichte has been spending his time up on the fourth floor. Anything I should know?”

“I’ll keep an eye on it.”

It was all Prager wanted to hear. He found a few sheets on his desk and got back to work. Hoffner was left to show himself out.

FIVE

BARKING SWINE

The sun off the glass walls was almost blinding at this time of morning. Hoffner pulled down the brim of his hat, but the snow was like a double reflector: the glare had him either way. Like a great hunched bear clad in steel armor, the Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof perched wide on the edge of the river and peered out over the surrounding buildings, all of which seemed to be cowering in its presence. Hoffner showed a bit more grit as he pressed his way through the main doors and over to the platforms.

The station was one of the great wonders of Berlin. Its grand hall rose to an indeterminate height as the haze and smoke from the bellowing locomotive engines lifted into clouds of gray and white and left the roof-skin in virtual darkness. Here and there, odd pockets of sunlight sliced through the glass, only to catch a cloud and infuse it with wild streaks of prismed hues, each droplet bringing wanted color to the drab millings-about underneath. A violet-red rested momentarily on Hoffner’s watch face and then was gone. Eight-forty. He had given himself half an hour to see if his note had turned the trick.

At just after nine, she appeared. Hoffner tossed what was left of a roll into a trash bin and headed over. Amid the parade of impatient mothers and men of purpose, Lina seemed to wander in a kind of half-tempo, her small brown case held to one side, her tan coat painfully inadequate for the season. She had spent a few marks on a blue hat that seemed to bob above the sea of endless gray. She caught sight of Hoffner and slowed still further as he drew up to her. An amplified voice barked out a series of platform numbers and departure times; Hoffner and Lina stared at each other as they waited for the tinned echo to fade.

“Shall we get something for the trip?” he said when he could be heard. “Sandwiches, some beer?” He noticed the welt under her eye had all but disappeared.

“That would be nice,” she said. They walked toward a small grocer’s cart. “Did you think I would come?”

Hoffner took her case. “There was always a hope,” he said lightly. “The hat was the great surprise.” They reached the cart and he set the bags down. The movement caused a momentary wince.

Lina noticed it at once. “Is that from Hans?” she said.

Hoffner pretended not to have heard, and pointed to two sandwiches. “And two bottles of beer,” he said to the man as he pulled a few coins from his pocket.

Lina let it pass. “It was a nice note,” she said.

Hoffner pocketed the change. “Just nice enough, I imagine.”

It was her first smile.

They found their seats in the second-class compartment, and Hoffner did what he could getting the luggage up onto the rack. Lina offered to keep hers by her feet to save him any further anguish.

They sat side by side, he by the window, she with her head on his shoulder. He had paid extra for the seats. It had been the right gesture. Hoffner could tell she was appreciating it.

A good-looking young man stepped into the compartment and, checking his ticket, picked out the seat across from Hoffner. The man settled his bags and then looked over at his cabin mates. “Would the Frulein like her luggage up?” he said with an innocuous smile.

Lina hesitated to answer, but Hoffner quickly stepped in. “Most kind of you,” he said.

The man tossed it up and sat. He then pulled out a magazine, but chose not to read. He was looking to see if there was any conversation to be had. “Family outing?” he said.

Hoffner gazed across kindly. “My daughter is a deaf mute, mein Herr,” he said. “We prefer to travel in silence.”

The look on the man’s face was priceless. Hoffner felt the deep pressure on his leg from Lina’s hidden thumb. He was trusting her not to laugh.

“Oh,” said the man, trying to recover. “Of course, mein Herr.” Just then the train began to move. The man smiled awkwardly and opened his magazine. Hoffner took Lina’s hand and gazed out as Berlin slipped by in an ever-narrowing blur.

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 Liebregimentspent 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?”

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 Freikorpsa 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.

Freikorpsand 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 Korpshad 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-Divisionhad provided more than its fair share of recruits-the most powerful of which were now in Munich and Berlin. The Freikorpsmade 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 Freikorpscould 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 Freikorpsclaptrap: 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 Parsifalor Lohengrinrise up from the men sitting around the table.