Excerpt: Rosa: A Novel by Rabb

Rosa
A Novel
By Jonathan Rabb
Published by Crown
February 2005; $24.95US/$34.95CAN; 1-4000-4921-0

A murdered revolutionary . . .
A vicious serial killer . . .
A city in chaos . . .
All lead to Rosa.

In the last days of the First World War, socialist revolution swept across
Germany, sending Kaiser Wilhelm into exile and transforming Berlin into a
battleground. But for Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner and his young
assistant, Hans Fichte, the revolution is a mere inconvenience. Four women
from the slums of Berlin have turned up dead, all with identical markings
etched into their backs, and Hoffner and Fichte have spent the better part
of six weeks trying to crack the bizarre case.

Things take a troubling turn when the political police begin to show an
interest in Hoffner's investigation. Hoffner has no idea why the Polpo would
want to get their hands dirty with a serial murderer, until he is shown the
lifeless body of Rosa Luxemburg, the same eerie markings on her back. Rumors
abound that Rosa, one of the leaders of the suppressed socialist uprising,
was assassinated by an angry mob, but the pattern carved into her back tells
a different story.

In his remarkable new thriller, Jonathan Rabb paints a vivid, unforgettable
picture of a city and a people poised between the chaos of the First World
War and the darkness to come, a time when political thugs, petty thieves,
and charismatic leaders rushed to fill the void left behind. Into this gap
steps Hoffner, who, while battling his own personal demons, is still
determined to find out who is preying on the women of Berlin, even as he
gets drawn deeper into the mystery surrounding Rosa's death. Hoffner's
search for the killer leads him on a dark and twisted journey through the
battle-scarred streets of the city, where he soon discovers that nothing is
as it appears. And while he finds allies in unexpected places, he is met at
every turn by men who will stop at nothing to keep him from finding out the
truth about Rosa.

A genuine mystery at the time, Rosa's fate has continued to prompt
speculation to this day. Rabb's taut political thriller imagines one
strikingly real possibility. With his first two novels, The Overseer and The
Book of Q, Rabb proved that he had a talent not only for writing suspenseful
narratives but for illuminating the darkest corners of history as well. With
Rosa, his finest work, he brings to life a world capital on the brink of
chaos, a tragic revolutionary who both inspired and enraged, and a
compellingly complex, world-weary, deeply flawed but brilliant inspector
named Nikolai Hoffner.


Author
Jonathan Rabb is the author of The Overseer and The Book of Q. He lives in
New York City.

Reviews
"In Rosa, Jonathan Rabb has created a fascinating tale of conspiracy and
brutality in post-World War I Berlin, an evocative historical mystery that
unfolds one horror after another. Rabb perfectly captures the dark beauty
and complexity of this battle-scarred city, bringing Berlin to life as an
utterly compelling and memorable character." --Philip Kerr, author of the
Berlin Noir trilogy

"As the historical mystery thriller comes into its own, there can be no
doubt that the genre has, with Rosa, gained a new and altogether exemplary
voice: Jonathan Rabb." --Robert Cowley, editor of the What If? series

Excerpt
The following is an excerpt from the book Rosa: A Novel
by Jonathan Rabb
Published by Crown; February 2005; $24.95US/$34.95CAN; 1-4000-4921-0
Copyright © 2005 Jonathan Rabb

ONE

1919

Berlin in December, to those who know her, is like no other place. The first
snows take on a permanence, and the wide avenues from Charlottenburg to the
Rondell breathe with a crispness of Prussian winter. It is a time when
little boys drag their mothers away from the well-dressed windows at KaDeWe
or Wertheim's or the elegant teas at the Hotel Adlon and out to the
Tiergarten and the wondrous row of marble emperors along the Siegesallee.
Just as dusk settles, as the last flurries of the day swirl through the
leafless trees, you can steal a glimpse of any number of little eyes peering
up, hoping, just this once, to catch a stony wink from an Albrecht the Bear,
or a Friedrich of Nuremberg with his large ears and dour expression. Just a
wink through the snow to tell him that Christmas will be kind to him this
year. "There, Mama, did you see! Do you see how he winked at me!" And the
pride that next morning, bundled up beyond measure, racing out from his fine
house on Belziger or Wartburg Strasse to tell his friends of his triumph.
"Yes, me, too! Me, too!" Berlin in December.

This, however, was January, when the snow had turned to endless drizzle, so
raw that it seemed to penetrate even the heaviest of layers. And whatever
civility they might still be clinging to elsewhere, here on the east side of
town, all the way up to the flophouses in Prenzlauer Berg, people had little
time or patience for such gestures. Christmas had brought nothing, except
perhaps the truth about how the war had been lost long before the summer,
how the generals had been flimflamming them all the way up to the November
capitulation. Oh, and of course, the revolution. Christmas had brought that,
a thoroughly German revolution, with documents in triplicate, cries from the
balconies, demonstrations and parades, tea still at four o'clock, dinner at
seven, and perhaps a little dancing afterward up at the White Mouse or
Maxim's. Shots had been fired, naturally, a few hundred were dead, but the
socialists -- not the real socialists, mind you -- were straightening
everything up.

Still, it was the weather that had most people on edge. The rain just wasn't
giving in, and it was why Nikolai Hoffner, rather than waiting out on the
tundral expanse of the Rosenthaler Platz, had snuck off to Rucker's bar for
something warm to drink. Years of experience had told him that nothing of
any significance was going to happen today: later on, he would come to
regret that arrogance. So, with a knowing smile, he had left the ever-eager
Hans Fichte up on the square; at the first sign of trouble, Fichte knew
where to find him.

Hoffner sat with a brandy ("I'd walk a mile for Mampe's brandy, it makes you
feel so hale and dandy!"), the early edition of the BZ am Mittag in front of
him. He had not sat like this in weeks, a quiet read to clear the mind. And
not because of the nonsense that had been going on out at the stables, or up
at the Reichstag: all the pretty uniformed men had managed to disrupt
traffic too many times, now, to recount. No, Hoffner had been up to his ears
in real violence, genuine terror, hardly the kind plotted in Red pamphlets
or designed in back rooms by overfed burghers calling themselves socialists.
They played at revolution; he knew another kind. But for today -- orders
from on high -- he was told to leave that alone and join the rest of his
breed in the streets to make sure "nothing untoward" would come to pass.

Hoffner finished off the last of his drink and nodded to the barman to bring
him another. As he was one of only three people in the place -- a man at a
corner table, his head tilted back against the wall, his mouth gaped open in
sleep; a woman with a beer and bread, her business at one of the nearby
hotels temporarily interrupted -- the service was unusually prompt. The
barman approached with the bottle.

"This, I'm sad to say, will have to be the last."

Hoffner looked up from his paper. "I'm sad to hear." He had a steady,
reassuring voice.

"It's this damned rationing," said the man. "This and another bottle's all
I've got for the day. My apologies."

Hoffner half smiled. "What do you care if the money's coming from me or from
someone else?"

"Simple economics, mein Herr. No brandy, fewer people in here to buy my
sausages before they rot." The man opened the bottle. "It's called the
distribution of capital, or something like that. You understand."

Hoffner's smile grew. "Completely."

"And" -- the man nodded as he poured -- "the money's not coming from you. It
never does. So why don't you be nice to me today and let someone else pay
for the brandy?"

Hoffner reached into his coat pocket and produced a ten-pfennig coin. He
placed it on the table.

The man smiled again as he shook his head. "No, no. I like that you don't
pay. You like that you don't pay. We may be governed by socialists now, but
it's better that you hold on to your money."

The man popped the cork back into the bottle and headed for the bar. "Time
to wake up, Herr Professor Doktor," he said as he moved past the man in the
corner. The man at once opened his eyes, looked around in a daze, and then,
in one fluid movement, pawed out his beard, picked up his umbrella, and
stood. Upright, he seemed far more impressive, though from the look of his
clothes, one had to wonder how much sleep he had gotten in the last few
days. He peered over at Hoffner. "Is it safe out there, mein Herr?"

Hoffner continued to read his paper. "Safe as can be, Herr Professor
Doktor."

"Excellent." The man turned to the barman. "My thanks, Herr Ober." And,
placing his hat on his head, he started for the door, stopping momentarily
to bow to the lady. "Madame." He then glanced quickly through the windows,
and was gone.

Hoffner scanned through several stories, all of which were doing their best
to assuage a devoted readership. The Reds were dead: good old Liebknecht had
gotten his in the park, little Rosa in the clutches of a murderous mob,
though her body was still missing; Chancellor Ebert could be trusted with
the government; business was on the rise, so forth and so on. And yet, even
within the lines meant to pacify, the BZ had that remarkable capacity to
stir up a kind of subdued panic:

Reichs Chancellor Ebert, with the full cooperation of a diligent military,
has declared the streets once again safe for the men and women of Berlin.
Hurrah! With the National Assembly election only days away, we must thank
this provisional government for the speed with which it has put down the
Bolshevik-inspired insurgency, and hope that it is equally tireless in its
efforts to hunt down the deluded lone sharpshooters who still infest our
city. Those living in the area between Linienstrasse and the
Hackescher-Markt are advised to remain indoors for the next twenty-four
hours.

The woman at the table laughed lazily to herself. Still pretty at
twenty-two, twenty-three, she jawed through her bread. She was wearing the
unspoken uniform of those girls who sell roses and matches at the
restaurants along Friedrichstrasse -- the silk-thin dress, ruffles along the
low collar and cuffs, the dark cloche hat with its front trim tucked up,
just so -- except hers was well past its prime, the sure indication that
she, too, had progressed. All pretense long gone, she spoke her mind. "It's
so easy to spot one of you," she said, not looking up. "Long brown coat,
brown shoes, brown hat, brown, brown, brown."

Hoffner flipped to the next page. "One might say the same of you, Fräulein."

She bit into a wedge of bread. "But you won't. As a gentleman."

"No, of course not. As a gentleman."

The woman started to laugh again as she picked at the remaining slab of
bread, her fingers like little bird beaks pecking at the crust. "Another
glass of brandy for my friend, Herr Ober," she said, her eyes fixed on the
bread. "We must make sure to keep our men of the Kripo warm and happy. Who
will protect us from the Russian hordes?" Another laugh.

Hoffner folded his paper and placed it on the table. "Alas, Fräulein, but
the Russians are out of the Kriminalpolizei's jurisdiction. We deal only
with the Berlin hordes."

The man at the bar smiled quietly and retrieved the bottle, but Hoffner
shook his head and pushed back his chair, a bit farther than he had
anticipated needing. His wife was pleased that he was having no trouble
keeping the weight on, a testament to her culinary skills amid all the
shortages. Not that he was fat, but Hoffner had a certain image of himself
that he was, as yet, unwilling to part with: good height, deep eyes, dark
hair (he had gotten the latter two from his Russian mother, likewise the
first name), reasonably fit, and with a thin scar just beneath the chin, a
worthy reminder of championship days as a Gymnasium fencer. At forty-five,
however, several centimeters had vanished to the slight roll in his
shoulders; the depth of his eyes had relocated south to a pair of
ever-widening bags; and while the hair was still full, dark most certainly
would have been a stretch. As to the rest, more like distant friends than
close companions.

"Thank you, Fräulein," said Hoffner. "But I'm guessing you've got better
things to do with your hard-earned money."

The front door opened and a pocket of chilled air quickly made the rounds.
There, slick from the rain and out of breath, stood Hans Fichte, his eyes on
Hoffner.

"Shut that door," barked the barman as he placed the bottle back on its
shelf.

Fichte did as he was told, and moved quickly to Hoffner's table. "You're
needed back in the square, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. It's --" He glanced
around, then leaned farther in over the table. "It's important we get back."
Fichte spoke as if he actually thought someone other than Hoffner might have
any interest in what he was saying.

Fichte was a large man, over two meters tall, and with wide, thick
shoulders. A strip of flaxen hair, matted in sweat and rain, held to the top
of his brow, and his usually gray/white cheeks were blistered in odd
blotches of red. A single drop -- let it be perspiration -- clung to the tip
of his nose, which was too long for his narrow face, and which always gave
him a look of mild disdain. At twenty-three, Fichte still had a boyish
smoothness to his complexion, though the ordeal of the last six weeks was
beginning to dig out some distinguishing lines: hardly what one would call
character, but it was something.

The fact that Fichte had reached twenty-three -- uncrippled and completely
unconnected with any of the convalescence asylums that had recently surfaced
throughout the city and the Reich -- made him something of an anomaly.
Fichte had been fit enough to serve his Kaiser in 1914, or at least up
through the second week of September 1914, when, in a moment of profound
stupidity, he had volunteered during a drill to demonstrate how to use one
of the early gas masks, those chemically treated masks that required wetting
with a special activating agent immediately prior to use. Hans had not known
about the need for the wetting. The gas had come on, he had inhaled, and
from that moment on, he had ceased to be fit enough to serve his Kaiser.

Damaged lungs, however, were just fine for the Schutzmannschaft (municipal
beat cops), and after three years of stellar duty, Fichte had applied and
won transfer to the Kripo. He had been presented to Hoffner two and half
months ago as his Kriminal-Assistent (detective in training), a replacement
for a partner of twelve years who had volunteered and then gone missing in
1915. Victor König had come as close to a friend as Hoffner had permitted,
and his death had taken some time to get over. With the choices on the home
front greatly diminished, the Kriminaldirektor (KD) had been kind enough to
let Hoffner work alone for the better part of four years. Hans Fichte was
now the price for that kindness.

"So important," Hoffner said as he got to his feet, "that you've decided to
leave the square yourself?" He was waiting for a response. "In the future,
Hans, find a boy -- there's always one roaming about -- and send him to get
me. Yes?"

Fichte thought for a moment, a mental note etched across his face. When it
was properly filed, he nodded, and then headed for the door.

Hoffner followed, stopping as he reached the bar. "One more for my friend,"
he said. He pushed a coin along the uneven surface, then turned to the young
woman's table and placed several more in a neat stack next to her glass. She
continued to stare at her bread.

"It'll cost you a lot more than that, Herr Detective," she said.

Hoffner slowly pulled his hand away. "No -- I think umbrellas go for about
that much in this weather, Fräulein."

She looked up. A kind, if sparing, smile curled her lips.

Hoffner turned back to the bar to find two small glasses filled with brandy.
"Come on, Fichte. It'll do you good. Whatever's up on the square can wait
while you get a bit of warming-up."

Fichte hesitated, then strode to the bar and downed the brandy in one swift
movement. He stood there, awaiting his next assignment. Hoffner did his best
to ignore the deferential stare as he sniffed at the liquid and then tossed
it back. He placed the glass on the bar. "You're welcome, Fichte."

Another moment to consider. "Oh . . . yes. Thank you, Herr Komm . . .
Hoffner."

"And to you as well, Herr Economics." Hoffner tipped his hat to the young
lady and motioned Fichte to the door. Together they stepped out into the
street.

The brandy, as it turned out, was no match for the city's infamous Berliner
Luft, a smack of frigid air just the thing to set Hoffner's eyes tearing. He
turned up his coat collar and pulled his hat down to his face. His wife had
insisted he take a scarf, but he had left it back at the office: Martha
would find a certain pleasure in that later tonight. Hoffner noticed Fichte
was sporting a nice thick woolen muffler. And who's been taking care of him,
Hoffner wondered.

Excerpted from Rosa by Jonathan Rabb Copyright © 2005 by Jonathan Rabb.
Excerpted by permission of Crown, a division of Random House, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted
without permission in writing from the publisher.


For more information, please visit www.rosa.crownpublishing.com