Rosa by Jonathan Rabb Page B

cigarette into the basin, retrieved his razor, and set to work on the stubble just under his chin.
    The fires were still burning out in Treptow, where, up until a few days ago, a “unit” of university students had been fighting with epic navet. The last of them had fallen on Tuesday to a roving band of Garde-Kavallerie-Schtzen-Division men who had pulled the three boys out into Weichsel Square and beaten them to death. On a whim, the right-wing thugs—only the uniforms made them soldiers—had then lit up the place. According to the papers, the fire brigades had thus far recovered the remains of two children who had been burned alive. Hoffner listened as the scream of the siren faded to nothing.
    “And he still won’t admit it?” said Martha from the bedroom. “Even after all this time.”
    Hoffner waited while another siren passed. “Of course not,” he said. For some reason he was having trouble with the angle this morning: his neck was sore. He did what he could, then unplugged the drain. He was wiping off the last of the shaving soap when Martha brushed by him with a pile of clean towels. She placed them in a cupboard by the tub. Hoffner tossed his into the hamper.
    “You can use them more than once, you know,” said Martha.
    Hoffner picked at a piece of raw skin on his cheek. “I thought I had.”
    She retrieved the towel and hung it on a rack. “Did he mean it as a threat, do you think?”
    Hoffner continued his examination. “He’s never been that clever.” He splashed some cold water on his face.
    “Then why bring it up?”
    “Make things right,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” Hoffner dried off, put on his shirt, and started in on his tie as Martha knelt down to rub a damp cloth over the tub. He said, “You know, I think he was actually asking for my forgiveness.”
    “For something he claims he never did?” She shook her head and pushed herself up. Hoffner said nothing. “You shouldn’t work with those people, Nicki. Especially now.”
    “Not my choice.”
    Nudging him to the side, she wrung out the cloth in the sink. “Sa—” She caught herself. “Alexander has a match this afternoon. Four o’clock.” She hung the cloth next to the towel. “You should be there.”
    The morning had been progressing so nicely, thought Hoffner, talk of Weigland notwithstanding. Now he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach: why was it that she could never understand he would be the last person Sascha would want to see at a match?
    “I’ll try,” he said.
    “Try hard, Nicki.”
    She moved past him and into the hall. Hoffner was left alone to sort out the mess he had made of his tie.
             
    H ans Fichte was waiting for him outside his office when Hoffner got to headquarters. The boy’s face was bloated from last night’s alcohol, and his inhaler seemed to be doing double duty. Fichte was in the midst of a good suck when Hoffner walked up.
    “Glad to see you’re here early,” said Hoffner, busying himself with his coat so as to give Fichte a moment to recover. He stepped into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and settled in behind the desk. “Come in, Hans. Close the door.” Fichte did as he was told. “You’re not a drinker, Hans. Try to remember that. Take a seat.”
    Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ” He sat.
    “Your girl get home all right?”
    “Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”
    “Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”
    Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina—”
    “Yes,” Hoffner cut in