Rosa

It was nearly four when the phone finally rang. Fichte counted ten before calling the operator.

“Bezirkssekretr Fichte here,” he said. “Was there an error made just now?”

A woman answered quickly. “I don’t believe so, Herr Bezirkssekretr,” she said. “I put the call through, but the party must have disengaged.”

“Thank you, Frulein.”

Fichte grabbed his coat and moved down the corridor: his heart was racing. He felt a momentary twinge in his chest and reached into his coat pocket: nerves always worked their worst. He took two quick sucks on his inhaler and then headed down the stairs. Things were about to be set right, he thought. Fichte permitted himself a momentary wave of exhilaration.

He was nearly to the landing when he noticed a sweet metallic taste in his mouth, followed by a sudden heat in his lungs. He stopped and placed his hand on the banister. For a moment he thought it was simply overexcitement, but his chest suddenly convulsed and he began to choke for breath. It felt as if his throat had sealed entirely. He dropped down and struggled to bring his inhaler up to his mouth, but he was losing focus, and there was a drumming in his ears as if he were about to faint. Frantically he wrapped his lips around the nozzle; he pressed down on the cap, but it was too late. Hans Fichte was already dead by the time the mist had passed his tongue.

The rain had returned, and the streets around the square ran with melting snow.

Hoffner gazed out from the darkness and into the drizzled lamplight. They had chosen a small storefront, its display window offering a perfect view of the side entrances to the Alex. A few soldiers were wandering aimlessly up by the square; another two had positioned themselves inside a doorway across the street and were doing what they could to keep dry: these were the only signs of life. One of Pimm’s men pulled out a cigarette and a voice by the door whispered, “You light that and you lose a finger.” Pimm had placed Zenlo in charge; he was little more than a skeleton’s shadow skulking by the door as he stared out, listening and watching.

Hoffner had waited nearly an hour at Rcker’s. When Fichte had failed to show, Hoffner had told himself that the boy had simply lost his nerve; anything other than that was too much to consider. Across town, Pimm had not been pleased: he had wanted Hoffner nowhere near the Alex tonight, but the best-laid plans. . “And you’re sure they’ll come for her?”

Hoffner had been sure. “As long as you have everyone in place.”

Pimm had nodded. “He’s done work for me before. He’ll do what he’s told.”

Now it was just after eight, and the first echoes were begi

“Forty minutes,” said Zenlo. He turned back to the men. “Now you can have your cigarette, idiot.”

There was hardly room to breathe.

Jogiches had forgotten the feel of a surging mob, the pulse of bodies all around him. He had forgotten the mood that comes with a column of arms and legs striding as one, the song in the footfall, the rhythm that drains each man of his singularity. It was nearly fifteen years since he had stepped from the shadows and onto the line: then there had been possibility, purpose-Warsaw, Rosa; now he marched alone, drifting within the current, yet no part of it. He gazed up into the night sky and felt the rain on his face, the taste of moist air in his lungs, and he breathed in with a sense of finality. The men around him strode with no such appreciation. For Jogiches, these were the only sensations left to him.

The column turned and the bodies poured out into the square. Jogiches felt the tempo rise. He saw the swarms spilling out from across the square and he ran, faster and faster, just as the first cracks of gunfire echoed into the night.

Zenlo led Hoffner across the cobblestones and over to the gate. Somewhere beyond the building the battle raged on, but here-on the side street and less than a hundred meters from it-there was an eerie stillness. The army reserves had yet to be called in: only the square had been engaged. Hoffner pulled out his key and opened the outer lock. Zenlo struck a match, and within half a minute the five men were inside the Alex.

The walk to the back stairs was uneventful: all activity was taking place on the other side of the building. What shouts and scampering they heard continued to move away from them. Even so, Hoffner paused at each landing as he led the men up.

At the fourth floor, he stopped again. There was no reason for it: the place felt as deserted as the rest. He began to move, when Zenlo grabbed him from behind and pulled him back down the steps. The grip was remarkable and utterly immobilizing. A moment later, Hoffner heard the faint sound of footfalls rising from down the corridor. He had been completely unaware of it until this moment: clearly these were men who knew their business. Hoffner pressed himself up against the wall with the rest and listened as Zenlo pulled a short blade from his pocket and held it flat against his leg.

The sound grew closer, and a shadow appeared on the corridor wall. From this angle, Hoffner could make out only the top of a head as it passed. He thought it might have been Kommissar Braun making his way to the front of the building, but it was only a guess. Hoffner said nothing and waited in the silence. Half a minute passed before Zenlo quietly pocketed the knife. He then motioned for Hoffner to lead them up to the landing.

The corridor was equally still, the door handle as cold as Fichte had described it. At once, one of the men went to work on the lock and within seconds had it open. He stepped back and let Hoffner push open the door. When all five men were inside, Zenlo closed the door behind them and flicked on the light.

The precision of the next few minutes astounded Hoffner. He had always attributed a certain recklessness to theft: this had the grace of a choreographed ballet, two men with the burlap tarp for her body, two others at the tank. Hoffner focused on the jars. Taking them one by one to the sink, he turned on the faucet and began to dump out the contents. The stink of the grease forced him to place his handkerchief up to his face; even with it, he felt a momentary wooziness and had to turn away: this was no time for hallucinations. Only then did he notice a second examining table up against the wall on the far side of the door. A sheeted body lay on top, one of its hands having slipped out. Hoffner placed the bottle on the counter and stepped over. There was no reason to wonder what he would find: Hoffner knew who lay beneath.

Fichte’s cold stare gazed up into the light as Hoffner pulled back the sheet: Braun hadn’t even bothered to shut the boy’s eyes. Hoffner did so, and saw the slight discoloring on the lips and tongue. He bent over and smelled the faint metallic scent that lingered in the mouth. Hoffner guessed prussic, maybe oxalic acid: in Fichte’s lungs, either would have been instantly fatal.

There was nothing serene in the face, no peace at the end. The boy looked as muddled by his own death as by those he had investigated and had never fully understood. Hoffner tried not to think of those last moments, Fichte clinging to the hope that things could be made right, only to be brought face-to-face with his own futility. Perhaps Fichte had made it only to confusion. That was Hoffner’s hope for the boy.