Free Rosa by Jonathan Rabb Page A

reasonable.”
    Hoffner took the paper. Very reasonable, he thought. Evidently, Georgi had gotten to Martha first.
    It was an advertisement for an air show out at Johannisthal, a political maneuver masquerading as a father-and-son afternoon outing. The profile of a handsome young sky pilot filled much of the page, with tiny aeroplanes and zeppelins swarming about his head and chest. One actually seemed to be flying up his nose. To his credit, the young pilot was standing firm.
    The Ebert government was being clever, thought Hoffner, taking everyone back to the gentler days. Hoffner had gone several times with his older boy, Sascha, when Georgi had been too little. The shows had stopped, for obvious reasons, and Georgi had spent the last three years reminding anyone who would listen of his considerable deprivation. It had not helped that Sascha had kept several posters of the Deutscher Rundflug —the monthlong rally across Germany—plastered above his bed. “You’re sure you want to go?” said Hoffner with feigned surprise. “It looks like it’s just some old Albatros D-threes, maybe a few Halberstadt C-types. But if that’s all right with you—”
    “Papi!” said Georgi with a look of total incomprehension. He grabbed the paper back and began to scan it with ratlike intensity. His tight dark curls bobbed as he read. Again, he thrust it at Hoffner. “Six-cylinder, liquid-cooled in-line engine! A Fokker D-seven!”
    “A D-seven, you say?” said Hoffner. “Well, then we really have no choice, do we?” He handed back the sheet and set off down the hall. Georgi seemed to dance his way behind.
    The living and dining rooms were dark as father and son passed them along their way to the kitchen, twenty years of accrued furnishings—an amassed life—erased by the shadows, leaving only soulless outlines. Martha preferred it that way.
    She was at the sink, cleaning up the last of the boys’ dinner, her own small plate of potatoes and meat just off to the side, when Hoffner stepped into the kitchen. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, a few stray wisps tickling at her neck. It was still a fine neck, white and soft, in strict contrast to the hands that ran through the steaming water: the one sign of her age—not in the face, not in the full, strong shape of her figure—only in the hands. They had become oddly rough.
    A bowl of brown soup and a loaf of bread awaited him on the table. Hoffner tossed his coat onto an empty chair and sat. Georgi was right behind him.
    “I thought I told you to get into bed,” said Martha without turning around.
    Hoffner thought of something clever to say; instead he picked up his spoon and started in on the soup. It was already cold.
    “Papi said we can go,” said Georgi, sidling up to her.
    Martha shook out a plate and placed it on the rack. “I told you he would. You weren’t supposed to wait up for him.”
    Georgi looked back at his father for help. Hoffner nodded sympathetically, but said nothing. It seemed to take the air out of the little man. Georgi’s shoulders slunk forward and he started slowly for the door. “I just wanted to tell you, that’s all,” he said with exaggerated dejection.
    “Good night, Georgi,” said Martha.
    “Good night,” he said. Just as he was at the door, he raced over to his father and hugged him tightly. He whispered in his ear. “I knew you would, Papi. I just wanted to show it to you, that’s all.”
    Hoffner squeezed the little body into his own. The boy’s back was wonderfully bony. Hoffner wondered how many more of these embraces he would be allowed. He kissed Georgi on the neck then whispered back, “I’m glad you waited for me, too.”
    Georgi was gone by the time Martha joined him at the table. Hoffner concentrated on his soup. “Where’s Sascha?” he asked.
    “Was she worth the struggle?” said Martha, calmly focusing on peeling back the skin of one of her potatoes.
    Hoffner looked up, mildly perplexed.
    “Your hand, Nicki,”