“Yes,” said Hoffner calmly. “But it’s always good to hear it again. Make sure you haven’t remembered something new in the meantime.” This seemed to make sense to her. “Did the men take a look upstairs?” Again she nodded. “I’ll need to do that, as well.”

Luxemburg’s flat was as large as his own, although the decor tended to stifle the space under a thick, middle-class charm: dark velvet curtains and oriental rugs followed him from room to room, as did endless rows of photographs and books that were placed along the shelves and bureaus; pillows of every size, color, and origin seemed to be lounging on whatever surface was available-twin settees, chairs, window seats, even by the fireplace; and the smell of dried wood hung in the air. This, thought Hoffner, had been a home for gatherings, a place of deep warmth. It emanated most vividly from the faces in the pictures, a few of which he recognized-Karl Liebknecht, Franz Mehring-but most told of a life unseen by the newspapers: laughter, a kiss, things incompatible with the iron stare of socialist zeal. He noticed, too, that Luxemburg had had a taste for things Japanese, a silk screen in her bedroom, a series of candid photos in kimono and jaunty parasol. Even so, it felt odd seeing her like this. Not that Hoffner was new to spending hours rummaging through the lives of any number of victims, but this was his first taste of one so public. It made even a cursory investigation seem somehow indiscreet.

He moved from dining room to parlor, then back to the bedroom, unsure what it was that he had come to see. He looked in her closet: he noticed that a suitcase’s worth of clothing was missing; the rest hung neatly in rows. He leafed through several stacks of papers and books on her desk-from what he could tell, the bound drafts of speeches she had never delivered-and then made his way to the kitchen. The cabinets were reasonably well stocked; a teacup sat in the sink. The decision to live closer into town had obviously been a last-minute one.

The porter’s wife remained by the front door, waiting nervously as Hoffner made his way from room to room. She said nothing; she could barely bring herself to look inside. As he passed by her for a second time, Hoffner thought that perhaps the prospect of entering the house of the dead-the newspapers had said as much-was too much for her. On closer examination, however, he saw it was something far less primal: this was where the end of her Germany had been plotted, where revolution and destruction and terror had first been conceived, and as much as she wanted to believe that Frau Luxemburg’s absence over the last weeks had mitigated her own responsibility, she could not. Hoffner sensed how much the flat’s untouched gentility served only to compound her guilt.

He was about to say something when he suddenly realized what it was that was out of place: nothing. The rooms were exactly as they had been the day Luxemburg had left them. And yet, if the Polpo had been here only a few days ago, there should have been some trace of their visit: at least the papers should have gone missing. Hoffner spoke as he walked toward her: “How long were the policemen here the other day?”

The sound of his voice momentarily startled the woman. She peered in through the doorway. “I don’t know. My husband-”

“Five minutes?” he cut in bluntly as he drew up to her. “Ten? An hour? You were here, weren’t you?”

The woman began to nod nervously. “Yes. Of course I was here, but my husband let them in.”

Hoffner kept at her: “Did he stay with the men while they were up here?”

“Of course.”

“To lock the door after them.”

“Yes.”

“Did they take anything?”

She looked confused. “The men?”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Did they take anything?”

The woman became more flustered. “I don’t-no. They took nothing.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, yes.” The nodding became more insistent. “I would have seen. My husband would have seen.”

“So how long was he up here?”

The nodding became a shaking of the head. “My husband? I don’t know. Five minutes?” Her eyes went wide. “Yes, five minutes. No more than that. Why is this of any importance?”

“And you haven’t been up to the rooms since?”

Once again she began to shake her head vigorously. Her answers became clipped. “No. Of course not. Why should I come-”

“And neither has your husband? To straighten up, remove anything?”

“No.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes. Of course. Why would he come up to this flat?” She had reached her limit; her words spilled out of their own accord. “We did what we were told to do. We took the name away. We’ve been to the post office and to the local precinct to tell them that she no longer lives here. Why would we come up to these rooms? We’re to wait until her family writes us about the furnishings, the clothing, everything else. Until then, we’re to touch nothing.”

The orders had been precise, thought Hoffner: the woman and her husband had followed them to the letter. Hoffner knew why, but he asked anyway. “You were told,” he said, his tone less strident.

“Yes.”

“Who told you?”

She hesitated. “The men who came.” There was a hint of defiance in her voice, as if their very mention exonerated her. “They told us.”

It was clear that even the name frightened her. Hoffner decided to make things easier. “The Polpo,” he said.

With a short, swift nod, the woman said, “Yes.”

“And they’ll be back in a few days.”

“Yes. A few days. I don’t know.”

Hoffner knew it was best to let it go. He could see the conversation still spinning in her eyes. He waited, then said quietly, “I see.” He then turned back into the flat and let his eyes wander from space to space.

Five minutes, he thought. What could they have wanted with only five minutes? And why days before her disappearance? That made no sense. And why nothing since then? More than that, why announce that they’d be back? Not like the Polpo, at all.

Hoffner felt suddenly ashamed of the way he had treated the woman. She had been hiding nothing, except perhaps her own fear, and even that had been too much for her. He considered an apology, but knew that would only embarrass her. Instead, he turned and, with a warm smile, slowly reached out for her hand. Uncertain for a moment, she let him take it; he cupped it in his own and said, “Thank you, Madame.” His tone was once again reassuring. “You’ve been very helpful.” Still uneasy, she nodded. “Extremely helpful.” There was a genuine tenderness in the way he spoke to her. “Especially given how difficult it is these days to know everything that goes on inside a building. Not like the old days.” Again she nodded. He said, “Who could expect you to know everything that goes on?”

The woman tried to find the words. “That’s right,” she said, convincing herself as much as agreeing with him. “I can’t know everything.”

“How could you?” Hoffner said kindly. “So I want to thank you for being so perceptive, even when it’s not your job to know everything that goes on inside these walls.” For the first time, she smiled. “Even before all of this, Madame,” he said with greater emphasis. “That wasn’t for you to know, either. Or for you to do anything about.” He paused and then squeezed her hand. “You understand?”

She stared up at him. For a moment it looked as if she might say something. Instead she pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and turned her head away.

Downstairs, she insisted he stay for a cup of coffee-a real coffee, she said. Hoffner thanked her, but instead headed for the front door.

Twenty minutes on, the dense, sweet smell of adolescent exertion filtered through as Hoffner made his way along the corridors of Sascha’s school. The walls were dotted in a row of saluting wooden pegs, half of them buried under the hanging clumps of boys’ athletic gear. Hoffner had forgotten how quiet the place could be in the late afternoon; its stillness and scent walked with him like old friends. Even the memories of untold torments within its walls-those simple cruelties that all boys endure, yet which seem so uniquely pointed at the time-blurred into a larger sense of belonging. What was here remained fixed, his-for good or ill-and even Hoffner could take solace in that. Martha was convinced that they had sent Sascha here for the fine education, the family ties-even if it was out of the way-but Hoffner knew otherwise: survive this and survive anything. Already, Sascha was doing a far better job at it than his father ever had.