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"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
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Rosa: A Novel

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"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." Jonathan Rabb paints a 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.
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Editorial Reviews

"...astonishing...a ghostly noir that could have been conspired at by Raymond Chandler and André Malraux."
Detroit Free Press
"...a novel so richly drawn, so dark and so compelling it reaches into your gut and holds on tight... "
Boston Globe
"...Berlin is the chief character here, and Rabb artfully delineates the city as it emerges from war, defeat, and revolution ...."
Toronto Globe and Mail
"Any fan of historical mystery should read this. ... at its heart, it is a brilliant, real-life mystery transformed into fiction."
Publishers Weekly
Based on the obscure four-month-long disappearance of the corpse of Rosa Luxemburg, the "Devil Jewess" Socialist Democrat revolutionary, after her summary execution on January 15, 1919, this brooding, studiously researched fiction noir from Rabb (The Overseer; The Book of Q) imagines the maelstrom of conspiracy and political unrest in post-WWI Germany. For six dreary weeks, starting in early December, veteran Det. Insp. Nikolai Hoffner-along with Hans Fichte, an ambitious 23-year-old detective trainee-has been baffled by the corpses of middle-aged women appearing around Berlin with signature designs carved into their backs. In mid-January, Hoffner is called to see a fifth corpse in an abandoned subway station, and at the morgue, he is shown a sixth body-that of the infamous Rosa Luxemburg. Her corpse has similar markings, but there are subtle differences. These suspicious variations-coupled with the arrogant intervention of the powerful Polpo (political police), who spirit the corpse away to a morgue upstairs-launch Hoffner on a perilous, labyrinthine inquiry. Sometimes the novel's prose is rather tangled and Rabb struggles to get his story told, but subtexts of love, betrayal and a detective at war with his feelings illuminate this gothic tapestry of anti-Semitism and ethnic elitism with its foreshadowing of the Nazi era. Agent, Matt Bialer. (Mar. 1) Forecast: Fans of Philip Kerr and Alan Furst are Rabb's target audience, but his latest may disappoint them. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
In 1918 Berlin, the cops think they've got a serial killer on their hands until the latest victim turns out to be Rosa Luxemburg. The killer's fifth corpse has been mistreated in keeping with the established pattern, complex markings chiseled on its back. This is no ordinary corpse, however, but that of a driving force of the recently crushed socialist revolution. Suddenly, the Polpo (political police) are showing interest. Ever so politely, a territorial struggle has begun, and Kripo (criminal police) Detective Inspector Hoffner soon realizes he's being warned off. But Hoffner, as all his colleagues know, is a bulldog who investigates with a tenacity often amounting to rashness. "It's my case," he tells his wife when she tries to suggest that some warnings might be well meant. "It ends when it ends." Rosa is the obvious key. Was she the random victim of a killer whose bloodlust was up, or is someone using a madman to camouflage a conspiracy? Hoffner becomes a Luxemburg expert. He gets to know her friends, her early life, her writing. He gets to know who loved her, who hated and feared her. It's an investigation that leads him to strange places and disturbing ideas, and when the case finally ends, he must come to terms with grievous loss. As before (The Book of Q, 2001, etc.), Rabb saps the strength of a perfectly good story by taking too long to tell it.
From the Publisher
"A wonderfully evocative novel." —-Booklist Starred Review
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781250008725
  • Publisher: Picador
  • Publication date: 1/3/2012
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 416
  • Sales rank: 737,389
  • Product dimensions: 5.40 (w) x 8.40 (h) x 1.20 (d)

Meet the Author

Jonathan Rabb is the author of the novels Rosa, The Overseer, and The Book of Q.

One of AudioFile magazine's Golden Voices, Simon Prebble has received over twenty Earphones Awards and five Listen-Up Awards, and he has been a finalist fourteen times for an Audie Award. In 2006, Publishers Weekly named him Narrator of the Year, and he was named Booklist's 2010 Voice of Choice.

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Read an Excerpt


By Jonathan Rabb

Random House

Jonathan Rabb
All right reserved.

ISBN: 1400049210

Chapter One



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 theflophouses 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, Fraulein."

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, Fraulein, 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, Fraulein," 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 Konig 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, Fraulein."

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 Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

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Sort by: Showing 1 – 8 of 7 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2006

    Spectacularly good 'alternative history'!

    An ideological thunderstorm brooded over Berlin in 1919. Armed political extremists clashed in the streets and the social democratic government tottered precariously. What better place for some murders and desecrated corpses? This a benchmark book against which other works of intelligent historical fiction can be measured in the future. So seamlessly is the deep research behind Rosa integrated into a gripping story that we learn much about Berlin during the seedtime of Nazism as we flip pages briskly seeking clues about a depraved serial killer, a mysterious political assassination, and the bizarre abuse of a celebrated cadaver. The more German history you know, the more you will appreciate Rabb's remarkable achievement.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 16, 2005

    Rosa: A Novel

    I read a lot of historical fiction, and I haven't come across a book in a long time that captures the feel of a place the way Jonathan Rabb's Rosa does with Berlin in 1919. The sounds, smells, and even tastes are perfectly described, but I was especially impressed with the way Mr. Rabb's dialogue sounded of the time. His characters are rich and complex, his plot is complex without getting convoluted, and both leave you wanting to spend more time in the world he's created. I'm really looking forward to his next book. Enjoy.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 26, 2005

    Rosa: A Novel

    Rosa by Jonathan Rabb is one of those books you pick and don't put down until your done. The characters are very good and the story takes you to 1919 in Berlin where six women have been killed by a serial murderer. One of them turns out to be Rosa Luxemburg who was a revolutionary. Inspector Hoffner is put on the case and it leads him to some of the early Nazi leaders. It all seems true and that makes it an excellent historical novel. I recommend it highly.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 1, 2005

    Rosa: A Novel

    I read the review in Harper's, went out and got the book, and finished it in three days. It's amazing. You feel like you are in Berlin in 1919. For anyone who likes Raymond Chandler or any of those noir type books, Rosa is the one to get.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    intriguing historical police procedural

    In the Berlin area in 1918 four homicides of middle-aged women with a signature design etched onto their backs have the criminal police baffled by what appears to be a German Ripper. Heading the investigation Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner sees the pattern, but as tells his trainee Hans Fichte, they have plenty of clues that go nowhere. In other words they have made no progress as the new year begins.--- In mid January a fifth victim is found in a subway station. At the morgue, Nikolai is shown the sixth woman, Rosa Luxemburg, the 'Devil Jewess' Socialist Democrat who was involved in the recent failed revolution. However, Nikolai quickly sees the signature on Rosa¿s back differs slightly from the five other dead women. Before he can delve deeper into his theory that the serial killer is being used to cover the Rosa murder by someone else, the political police arrive to take over at least that element of the case. In spite of friends, family, and colleagues telling him to back away, Nikolai makes inquiries into his two cases, but especially Rosa who takes over his life.--- ROSA is an intriguing historical police procedural that at times does get bogged down in Nikolai¿s Laura-like obsession, but that also provides the motive for him to continue seeking the truth. Most interesting character is Rosa, a real person, whose attitudes, life and death provide a pre-Nazi look at the roots of anti-Semitism; this gives the fine police story a stronger historical perspective than most sub-genre novels contains. Readers will appreciate this deep look at post World War I Berlin mostly from the eyes of a caring honest cop.--- Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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    Posted July 27, 2011

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    Posted January 17, 2010

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    Posted July 4, 2010

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