A group of children was playing in the short grass as mothers and nannies looked on from the safety of benches. Hoffner and Lina had settled themselves farther off, under a grove of trees where an enterprising vendor with a coffee cart had set up a few tables and chairs alongside the gravel path. Not yet ten o’clock, and they had already made a full morning of it at the shops and markets, which had been up and running since seven. The Gardens were a welcome relief.
“How did you know about this spot?” Lina asked as she poured another healthy dose of cream into her cup. Hoffner had never seen a whiter cup of coffee. From her expression, it was still too bitter.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he said. He had made the telephone call this morning and had been told where to find it. “The concierge,” Hoffner lied. He checked his watch and took a last sip of coffee before getting up. “I need to find the toilet,” he said. “Have a sweet or something while I’m gone.” He placed a few coins on the table and headed out through the trees.
Three minutes later he came across his old friend Peter Barens, sitting on a secluded bench. Hoffner drew up and said, “You give excellent directions, Peter.” He sat.
“It’s good to see you, too, Nikolai.”
They had known each other since university, two young law students with an eye to criminology. Barens had made chief inspector almost eight years ago; there was talk of a directorship in his future. Barens said, “I was sorry to hear about Knig.” Hoffner stared out at the park and nodded. “And now a chief inspector,” Barens continued. “I imagine even you can’t cock up that promotion.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Barens pulled a thin file from his case. “So why the interest in this?” He handed it to Hoffner.
Hoffner opened the file and found ten to twelve pages on the Thule Society, very complete, very organized: Barens really was an excellent detective. “Best not to say,” said Hoffner.
“Naturally.” He let Hoffner flip through to the next page before saying, “Odd how I get a telephone call asking me if I have anything on a man named Eckart, or anything having to do with—what did you call it?—the ‘Thulian Ideal,’ when we’ve been keeping an eye on these people for the past few months.” Hoffner nodded distractedly as he continued to scan the pages. “There’s a lot of money there, Nikolai. Your friend Eckart has more than he knows what to do with, as do most of the names on that list.”
Hoffner continued to read. “And what are they using it for?”
“Besides pamphlets and bad beer . . . They’ve started two organizations. The Workers Political Circle and the German Workers Party. They also recently bought a rag called
The Observer.
Interesting blend of German folklore and race-baiting. They’re going after the workers and the nationalists. Not usually Kripo business to monitor the political fringes, but these fellows throw around too much weight not to.”
“And they still consider themselves a secret society?”
“In theory. I’m sure that’s what they’d like to think. Tough to maintain the image, though, when you go around recruiting as aggressively as they do.”
Hoffner came to what he had been looking for: the name Joachim Manstein appeared halfway down the third page. There was a small paragraph on him, but Hoffner knew he would need more time with it. He closed the file and said, “What about ties to the
Freikorps
?”
“You really have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”
“I always did.”
For the first time, Barens smiled. “They both hate the communists, but the Thulians save their real venom for the Jews. We’ve had a few minor incidents, street vandalism, a few punch-ups. Eisner’s presence hasn’t made it any easier, but it’s all pretty local stuff, which makes me wonder why a Berlin
Oberkommissar,
recent hero of the Republic, has come all the way down to Munich to ask about a group of crackpots he should never have heard of.”
Hoffner placed the file inside his coat and said, “You’re a good friend, Peter.”
Barens became more serious. “I’m a good bull, Nikolai. If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me. Are they moving beyond pamphlets and bad beer?”
Hoffner waited and then stood. “I should go,” he said. “Give my best to Clara and the girls.”
Barens remained seated. There was clearly more he wanted to hear. Nonetheless he said, “I’ll pass that along.” Hoffner turned to go, when Barens added, “And mine to the little chippy by the coffee cart.” Barens waited for Hoffner to turn around before saying, “Some things never change, do they, Nikolai?”
Barens had always been impressive, and always in the right way. It was why Hoffner had known to trust him. “I suppose they don’t,” he said.
Barens stood. “These men aren’t far from doing more than simply tossing a store or beating up a few students. I lost a man on this, Nikolai. Why do you think I could get my hands on the material so quickly?”
It was now clear why Barens had agreed to meet, and why he had brought the file: he was as eager for information as Hoffner was. “Lost a man? How?”
Barens had no intention of explaining. “If you do know something, and you’re not telling me, I’ll be very disappointed.” He paused. “And you’ll have been very foolish. What do you have, Nikolai?”
Barens had always been known as “the old man,” even as a nineteen-year-old at university. It had made him both insufferable and endearing. Hoffner said, “Her name is Lina. And she’s the last.”
Hoffner could see the frustration in his friend’s eyes: favors usually implied a little more give and take. Barens, however, was too good at what he did to let it linger. “I doubt that,” he said.
Hoffner grinned. “There’s always a chance, isn’t there?” He bobbed his head in thanks and said, “Take care of yourself, Peter.”
Barens took hold of Hoffner’s arm and, like an older brother, said, “Know what you’re getting yourself into, Nikolai.”
Hoffner nodded. He waited for Barens to release his arm and then headed off.
L
ina had settled on a large cup of chocolate for lunch; it was all she had wanted. Hoffner had taken advantage of the beef again, this time with a plate of onions and a few potatoes. More daring, he and Lina were throwing provincial caution to the wind and talking to each other—light fare, nothing from last night—when they heard the first sirens. The klaxons grew louder and curiosity gave way to concern as the sound of shouting began to come from the street. Everyone in the place stopped eating as the waiter stepped over to the door and peered out through the glass. His expression turned to confusion. “There are soldiers in the street,” he said to the matre d’.
The man stepped over to verify; his reaction was no more promising: the taste of revolution was still fresh in everyone’s throat. At the sound of more sirens, Hoffner got up. He told Lina to wait, then made his way to the door. Against all protestations from the matre d’, Hoffner stepped out into the street.
It was almost completely empty. The soldiers were positioned in front of a large domed building at the far end of the street, rifles across their chests, waiting. The few pedestrians who remained on the street were doing all they could to find shelter inside. Hoffner managed to flag one down. “Madame,” he said as he tried to keep up with her. “Excuse me, but which is that building up there?”
The woman continued to move quickly as she looked at him: she spoke as if to a halfwit. “That building,
mein Herr
? That’s the Landtag.” She shook her head in disbelief and hurried off. Hoffner stopped: they’re cordoning off Parliament, he thought. Why? He quickly made his way back to the restaurant and over to the matre d’. The man was relieved to see him back.
Hoffner said, “I need to use your telephone,
mein Herr.
” Hoffner pulled out his badge: it might have said Berlin, but the word
“Kriminalpolizei”
was enough to stir the man to action. Hoffner nodded calmly over to Lina as he waited for the operator to connect the call.
“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Chief Inspector Barens, please.” Hoffner gave his credentials. “I’m aware of that, Frulein. This
is
of vital importance. Just connect me with the Chief Inspector.” Hoffner waited through the static until Barens finally came on the line. Hoffner said, “I’m standing a hundred meters from the Landtag building, Peter. What just happened?”
Hoffner could hear the mayhem in the background. “Hold on,” said Barens. There was a round of shouting before Barens came back to the line. “Nikolai, what are you doing near the Landtag?”
It was a meaningless question. Hoffner asked again, “Why are soldiers surrounding the building, Peter?”
There was a pause on the line before Barens said, “Someone’s shot Eisner. Half an hour ago. Eisner’s dead.”
Hoffner tried to stem his reaction. “Who?” he said.
“We don’t know yet. A student. That’s all we have.”
Hoffner asked the more dangerous question: “More than bad beer and pamphlets?”
There was another pause before Barens answered, “I don’t know, but I need you to tell me that you knew nothing about this, not even the possibility of this.”
“Of course,” said Hoffner with more conviction than perhaps was warranted. “What about Ebert?”
“So far, nothing. We’re waiting for a wire to confirm. It might already be here. I don’t know. Look, Nikolai, get yourself back to Berlin. We’ll probably be shutting down the main station in the next hour or so, and if you stay here, you won’t be of any use. Trust me. Safe trip.”
The line went dead and Hoffner handed the receiver back to the matre d’. Twenty minutes later, Hoffner and Lina were getting their bags from the hotel; forty minutes after that, they were on the last train heading north: Hoffner’s badge had seen to that, as well. It would mean that they would have to get out and wait somewhere along the way for the train out of Frankfurt, but at least they would be back in Berlin by tonight. Hoffner now had seven hours to acquaint himself with the men of the Thule Society and Joachim Manstein.
Notes on meetings, December 4, 1918, through January 18, 1919, Thule Society, as recorded by
Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr
Stefan Meier:
December 4:
Our first meeting outside the beer hall. We meet at the house of Anton Drexler, a locksmith in the employ of the railroad shops. Drexler is a small, sickly man who talks for over an hour about the “mongrelization” of the German people and the corruption of the socialist regime. He refers to members of the government as “the Jew Eisner and the Jew Scheidemann.” There are nine of us. I believe we are only one of several cells of “Initiates” meeting throughout the city tonight. Unlike Eckart, Drexler is a poor speaker. We are instructed to bring documented proof of our Aryan ancestry to the next meeting.
December 9:
Again we meet at the house of Drexler. Only four of us are permitted to remain once our papers are examined. Two other members of the Society are present but we are not told their names. One of them is a doctor. He takes a sample of blood from each of us. We are then given copies of two books written by Guido von List (
The Invincible
and
The Secret of Runes
), magazines published by Jorg Lanz von Liebenfels (
Prana
and
Ostara
), a directory of pan-German and anti-Semitic groups by Philipp Stauff (
The German Defense Book
), and the manifesto of the Armanist Religious Revival from the organization known as The Walvater Teutonic Order of the Holy Grail, written by Hermann Pohl. An excerpt from Liebenfel’s
Ostara
I, #69, makes clear the general thinking behind all of these writings: “The holy grail is an electrical symbol pertaining to the panpsychic powers of the pure-blooded Aryan race. The quest of the Templars for the grail was a metaphor for the strict eugenic practices of the Templar Knights designed to breed god-men.”
December 13, 18, 24, 29:
We meet at the house of the journalist Karl Harrer (founder of the Workers Political Circle and chairman of the German Workers Party [see below]). He is no better a speaker than Drexler and, over the four nights, takes us through the history of the Society (see below), the rituals of Rebirth and Order (see below), the Covenant of the pan-Germanic people (see below), and the hierarchy of the races (see below). We are each required to recite long passages from
The Invincible
and to exhibit physical stamina and strength by withstanding long periods of heavy objects being placed on our chests.
January 5:
We are taken to a house on the outskirts of the city, where we are given our first initiation rites. This includes full disrobement, the cutting of two Runic symbols into the underside of the left upper arm, and the laying on of hands by a man we are instructed to call Tarnhari. We are told that he is the reincarnation of the god-chieftain of the Wlsungen tribe of prehistoric Germany. We are now required to recite from memory passages from
The Invincible
and to pledge a vow to our racial purity.
January 9, 14, 15:
The rituals continue at the house of Rudolf Freiherr von Seboottendorf, where we are joined by seven other Initiates from around the city. Seboottendorf is a mystic trained in the art of Sufi meditation. Over the three nights, he leads us in sance-like rituals meant to contact the Ancients from the lost island civilization of Thule. Seboottendorf is the only one of us to make contact.
January 18:
We are brought to the lodge on Seitz Strasse and introduced to the members of the Thule Society. There are, by rough estimation, seventy men present. I am able to learn twenty or so of the names (see below).
Lina was still asleep when Hoffner turned to the final page. It was written in a different hand and detailed Detective Sergeant Meier’s apparent suicide on the twenty-fourth of January: he had hanged himself in his one-room flat. There was no evidence at present to contradict the coroner’s findings. Clearly, Barens was not convinced.