The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]

by Michael Moorcock

  Of course Stangl did not tell her everything. The SS were trained in discretion. As they were informed on the first day of their training, their job was to do what ordinary people could not do. Their work was arduous and sometimes difficult, but their sufferings were what made Germany hard and allowed those ordinary, honest citizens to go about their lives in security, comfort and happiness. It took an especially dedicated type to join the SS in the early days. Schnauben himself explained this to me in Dachau. Only later, during the war, did the SS begin to recruit any kind of foreign riff-raff and that, of course, is when their troubles began. I do not defend them. I scarcely have reason to remember them before they received their unfortunate reputation. There are good and bad in every walk of life. I know what the SS was intended to be. Heinrich Himmler, a colourless and humourless individual whom nobody could stand, turned it into the bureaucratic monster it became. Röhm said that his troops had to have shoulders broad enough for the public to lean on and backs broad enough to hide the horror which threatened. Civilians, he said, were inclined to panic at the sight of a spot of blood.

  Röhm would have made the SS what it was supposed to be — the epitome of the Nazi ideal, not a glorified butchering corps. Schnauben knew this. Major Nye is inclined to agree with me. He says this century has been a great century of idealism, in which millions of human beings at last began to believe that they could alter their destiny and improve the human condition. That idealism was one of the most wonderful things he ever witnessed. But he also believes it was subverted by Big Business and its servants for the most appalling and banal ends. The faith that once sent missionary youth to Africa now sends selfish boys to Coca-Cola for ‘the real thing’. The country most able to translate human longing for justice and peace into a good sales pitch and pervert the noblest ideals to commercial exploitation is today the most successful. America is living proof of that. Everyone wants to live in America where money and God are inextricably married.

  Only Mrs Cornelius says she has no wish to go there again. ‘They got a buckbone where their backbone ought to be.’ She doesn’t want to waste time with them any more. The British have always been jealous of American wealth. They were jealous of them in the War because they fought with ordnance rather than men. Both nations in their way have dedicated themselves to avoiding experience. They have the superior attitude of a people who have never had to beg for their bread. They think this reflects a natural superiority. Well, the Germans thought the same thing until 1945.

  And perhaps they had better cause.

  I contacted my journalist friends in case they had heard from Maddy, but they seemed honest in their ignorance. Nobody knew where she was. Judging from the stories she was filing, said Billy Grisham, she was almost certainly covering exclusives out of town. She seemed suddenly to have carte blanche with the Italian authorities.

  The telephone began to assume unusual importance in my life. I waited for Maddy to phone. I waited for my Chief to phone. I even waited for Margherita Sarfatti to phone.

  None of them phoned. But suddenly one Monday, completely out of the blue, my secretary took a call from someone on Signora Mussolini’s staff. Rachele suggested we meet the next day for lunch. I would be expected at the Villa Torlonia at the usual time. I had almost forgotten my Duce’s request for me to teach his boys to fly.

  Was that the reason for my invitation? So uncertain had I become that I immediately wondered about Mrs Mussolini’s motives. Was she inviting me to give me a dressing down? Or to relay a secret message from Il Duce who wished me to perform some discreet task for him? A thousand possibilities passed through my mind. However, I was not, as I had begun to fear, persona non grata at the Italian court!

  Then at about eleven o’clock that same day, I received another telephone call, this time from Margherita Sarfatti in Milan on a long-distance line. She had tried to contact me earlier but could not get through. Apologising for her earlier poor temper, she spoke of my patience, my kindness, my intelligence. She knew I would forgive her.

  As a gentleman, there was little I could say.

  She suggested we meet for lunch the next day. I told her I already had an important appointment. I might, I said cautiously, be able to meet her that evening.

  She accepted.

  Now there were further intricacies to contemplate! In casual conversation with some of my fellow Fascists I tried to find out if something unusual was happening. They were unaware of any such atmosphere. They advised me to relax, as they relaxed, and enjoy the pleasures of office. They tried to get me to meet attractive women of their acquaintance, but I would have none of it. I was still aware of Rachele Mussolini’s bright judgemental eye.

  I had dinner that evening with Major Nye at the Excelsior. He was complaining about the French. ‘They’re behaving like peasants as usual. As if a few miles of land is worth making so much fuss over. The French have never been able to beat the Germans on their own. It’s damned unseemly how they insist on their spoils. That sort of attitude puts the whole of British diplomacy in question.’ Britain was a good friend to Italy. Nye himself saw the German point of view. The reparations question was one which should have been solved and then forgotten about. The Germans wanted a chance to get back on an even keel. ‘Unless they do so soon, there’ll be civil war there. The Soviet Union will get involved, and no doubt the rest of us. They have to find some kind of stability.’ His main hope rested on the moderate Nazis. He was clearly on good terms with Göring, who passed our table in high spirits. He was surrounded by a group of high-ranking Fascists, most of whom were also out of uniform. They seemed to be congratulating him.

  ‘He’s just seen the Pope,’ Nye told me. ‘Apparently it went very well. Odd, really, since Hermann’s a Protestant. Still, that’s politics and the Germans have a big Catholic vote to worry about. Thankfully that hasn’t been a British problem for some centuries.’ He ordered his pudding.

  He had heard of Mussolini’s meetings with Göring via their mutual friend Margherita Sarfatti. ‘You know her, don’t you?’

  I told him that I knew a lot of people in the Italian art world. I had lived here as a student ten years ago. It was in my interest to remain discreet on such matters. He understood.

  ‘Well, she’s still a strong influence on the old boy.’ He had heard that the weather in London was wonderful. He told me something about the cricketing club he favoured. I continue to be puzzled by how the English managed to invent most of the sports enjoyed around the world when their weather makes them largely unplayable at home.

  ‘You should visit England soon,’ Major Nye insisted as we parted. ‘I assure you we know how to put the best resources in the hands of the best men. Especially in science and engineering.’

  He gave me the nearest thing I had ever had to an invitation. I would have been wise to pursue the matter.

  Unusually for me, I took the step of drugging myself to sleep that night. I felt that I had to be especially alert the next day when I met La Sarfatti.

  Altogether I had endured a troubled few weeks, since the night of that party. The arrival of so many foreigners and old friends in Rome had unsettled me. It might have been better, perhaps, had we never met.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-ONE

  My main concern was that, in her mindless jealousy, Margherita Sarfatti had given Mussolini a distorted version of events, implicating me with Fiorello da Bazzanno, the communists and even the Nazis. I saw no reason why she should attack me, since she had initiated our relationship in full knowledge that Maddy was my mistress. Fiorello was as much her friend as mine and had last been seen in her company. On the other hand Italo Balbo and several members of the Grand Council had mentioned in passing how Sarfatti could be as vengeful an enemy as she was a generous friend. Although Mussolini now knew my worth, it was she who had first helped me to my present position and might in turn topple me from it. Perhaps Maddy had poisoned her mind?

  Could I really be in danger? I had done nothing
wrong or disloyal to my Chief. Certainly I did not fear for my life, as I had under the savage El Glaoui. Even the prisoners sent by Mussolini to Lipari or Ponzione were self-declared enemies of the state and had received set sentences. If Sarfatti accused me of rape, things would merely be more awkward. Mussolini had an old-fashioned view of such things. He would see it as a sign of my virility. Rape is not easily proven, especially by a woman of her reputation. My main concern was for my work. I could not bear to see success snatched away from me so soon. I was helpless. Because of my Chief’s mysterious absence, I was without allies. If he was against me now, I was friendless. Had Sarfatti arranged to see me simply to relish her triumph?

  Jewels like stars on her forehead scattered,

  Making a picture of the beast whose tail

  Strikes hard on men, whose blood is chill . . .

  says Dante, taking us through Purgatory. Sarfatti was both beauty and the beast. I began to realise the character of the woman Fiorello had painted as a she-leopard in his Divine Comedy sequence. I wondered how he would have depicted Mrs Mussolini.

  After some consideration I decided to wear civilian clothes to my lunch with Rachele Mussolini. I selected one of my most elegant suits with soft hat, gloves and a cane. Over my patent-leather shoes I wore a pair of the elegant spats Il Duce himself had made fashionable. Then I ordered my car. Rome was unnaturally calm for the time of day, and we arrived a little early. I was driven through three checkpoints and the now familiar gates of the huge villa. The car swung round to the back of the house, past the stables and the menagerie, until we reached the rustic gate to the courtyard where Rosa Casalini, Signora Mussolini’s attractive assistant, waited for me. Around her feet swarmed the usual crowd of happy dogs.

  Signorina Rosa greeted me warmly. This was a good sign. I relaxed at last. I had allowed my fears to get the better of me. Miss Casalini said she had missed my visits. No doubt I had been very busy with the various foreign delegations now in town. Not to mention this business with the Pope. She hoped all that nonsense was settled. She would be glad to see the back of tourists. They were bad enough in the summer, with their Baedekers and their atrocious Italian. Il Duce, of course, had been especially busy finding time to visit the Pontine Marshes and see how ‘the war for dry land’ was going. Il Duce, she said, might try to drop in for lunch. He was only just back in town, so it was unlikely we should see him. Obscurely, I felt relieved. She took me up to the dining room on the first floor where the mistress of the house was waiting.

  Rachele Mussolini had on a pretty dress of dark green silk. It suited her colouring and showed off the large rose pearls at her throat. Her hair had been marcelled and she wore, I think, a touch of make-up. Yet her body and face were still those of a stocky resilient peasant. That same sturdy dignity would see her through all coming vicissitudes. Now it informed her honest smile of greeting. She had none of the court’s hypocrisy. When she came forward to embrace me and kiss me on both cheeks, I felt welcomed by a doting sister. Benito, she said, had told her I had been unwell. A falling-out with my girlfriend, too, she had heard. A handsome fellow like me would easily find another fiancée! I was not to worry. Thousands of girls would break their hearts over me. I must not be weak and allow the first one to come along to claim me. I was both too modest and too good-looking. She laughed easily. A dangerous combination for both parties. But in particular I should watch out for opportunistic ‘vampires’ who attached themselves to men of power and sometimes even brought them down. She continued in this vein as she seated me beside her while I exchanged affectionate greetings with the Mussolini boys. The younger children were absent. Only rarely were they brought to these lunches. They were looked after by a Romagnan girl, Carla, from Il Duce’s own village.

  After seeing him almost daily for weeks, I said, I had not been in touch with Il Duce for some time. She was sympathetic. ‘He’s like an overgrown boy. He pursues passing enthusiasms, then another distraction comes along and the previous craze is forgotten. Yet never forget, dear Max, that my husband is a serious person. He always returns to matters of substance. He telephones me regularly, of course,’ she added. ’I know he has been very busy with affairs of state. These German events and so on. And he had to go off for a few days to the country, to see to things there. The French are being their usual contrary selves. He has so much to do. So many weighty matters. I believe he is also reforming the judiciary this week.’

  I enjoyed her familiar blend of domestic anecdotes and passing references to her husband’s sometimes world-shaking political decisions. She followed his arguments perfectly and could repeat them. Contrary to what many later said, she was completely behind Il Duce’s policies, at least up to the late thirties when Hitler began to have a stronger influence. The only reason she did not speak more about politics was her own sense of propriety. She was naturally discreet about Mussolini’s business and equally silent about his affairs. She always blamed the women but would block any attempt to speak of such things. She loved him as only a Romagnan woman can and remains intensely loyal to his memory to this day. Margherita Sarfatti painted this retiring and intelligent woman as a savage. Rachele sometimes said little, but she had been known to drive off overenthusiastic lovers with a stick. She had a strong territorial sense. Only two women ever ‘defeated’ her: Sarfatti and Clara Petacci, who died with Mussolini at the hands of the communist ‘partisans’.

  The meal was delicious. I said how much I had missed her table and our conversations. She apologised. She had left town herself for a little while. She had also been talking to Grandi about aeroplanes and airfields, she said. He had been a little vague. Did I have any thoughts on the matter?

  Of course she wanted to discuss Bruno’s flying lessons. It emerged she had dissuaded her husband from giving the lessons himself. ‘He is too daring! Too erratic. He flies by instinct, but such instincts are hard to communicate. I wanted someone more experienced. Like you.’ For about half an hour, with Bruno present and making enthusiastic suggestions, we talked about the relative merits of Fiats and SVA-4s for training. We discussed basic flying routines. I pointed out my unfamiliarity with modern controls. The planes in my films, for instance, were all from the Great War period, mostly Spads and Albatrosses. Virtually all the machines I had known since then were my own! I would not like to take the young man up without first being thoroughly familiar with the machines in question.

  She was pleased with my remarks. ‘Flying, I think, is his vocation,’ she said, after Bruno had been sent off to school again. ‘I must let him follow it. I would be a fool not to. And Il Duce, you know, is very pleased. But a mother fears . . .’

  I understood. I reassured her that I had been flying since before the War. I would do nothing to jeopardise her son’s life or my own! ‘I am inclined to err,’ I told her, ‘on the side of caution.’

  I must admit I was not particularly happy with the responsibility. It would have been unwise of me to broadcast the fact, but I had very little conventional flying experience up to that time. Most of it had been fairly disastrous. I knew that even a minor bruise or a bump to Bruno’s head would bring the full fury of the family down upon me.

  Eventually it was agreed. A Fiat would be the best plane to train in. I would set about finding one. .

  ‘I would like to begin as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘Perhaps an initial “hop” this coming weekend? And more intense lessons once the school vacation begins?’

  I could only agree.

  Later Signora Mussolini linked her plump, muscular arm in mine. She asked me if I had much work waiting for me at the office. Before I could answer she said, ‘Never mind. I want a handsome young escort for the pictures this afternoon. Would you mind?’

  She was my strongest supporter. How could I disagree? We went together to her cinema, a luxurious little theatre designed after those private viewing rooms used by directors. I soon knew why she had invited me. The first film was one of my own, A Buckaroo’s Courtship, which, she s
aid, was her personal favourite. Side by side in the red plush seats we watched an Ace Peters who belonged to a more innocent age. Gloria Cornish was my leading lady. Both Rachele and I enjoyed the scene where, kneeling in my saddle and drawing down my bandanna, I reached to kiss my love as she leaned over the rail of the train’s caboose. Inwardly I mourned for my lost youth. I had forgotten how wonderful those days had been. The next film was a romance, Her Secret Man, a locally made confection of the kind that appealed to women. Il Duce’s wife wept lavishly through the final reel. Then, with Vittorio back from school, we watched several cartoons, including a Mickey Mouse I had not seen. I think it was one of the talkers, but the Villa Torlonia was not yet equipped with sound apparatus. Vittorio was as keen on the cinema as Bruno on flying. He wanted me to teach him to become an actor. I felt I would rather be tutoring him at that time than his brother.

  Assuring my patroness that I would make every effort to have a Fiat aeroplane ready and in perfect condition by the following week, I left. My peace of mind had only partially been restored. At least I had not fallen from Rachele’s or her husband’s favour. If anything she was better disposed to me than ever.

  I was relieved to know Mussolini had been unavailable to everyone, including his wife. And clearly Signora Rachele knew nothing about any other irregularities. Her view of men was old-fashioned. She had only certain expectations of us. Rachele believed all males to be pretty much the same in certain respects. If women didn’t cater to them they were fools. She was thoroughly on my side. Indeed, I wondered if Rachele had heard something to make her so sympathetic to me. Perhaps I would get a fuller picture when I met my ex-mistress for drinks at the Excelsior? I looked at my watch. There was an hour to prepare for my next encounter. I made an excuse. The office needed me.