The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]

by Michael Moorcock

  Such people frequently refuse self-analysis, fearing it would only threaten or weaken them, like actors who change parts, from being ‘themselves’ in the dressing room to being ‘themselves’ onstage. Like an actor, Hitler needed only to work in short, hard bursts. Between his parts he rested. Perhaps the more important the role, the more he retreated into himself?

  The tram stopped suddenly. Most of the passengers began to disembark. The boys waited impatiently to take my luggage off. Evidently they knew where we were going. While showing no insubordination, they clearly thought this job beneath them and were constantly under von Schirach’s disapproving glare until suddenly, they darted down a narrow, cobbled side street. For a second I thought they had decided to steal my bags and shouted in alarm. They were carrying everything of importance to my life. We ran to follow them as they disappeared through the gloomy entrance of a low building. Like a tunnel from one world to another, we were all at once in Wonderland, and childhood images came crowding into my head. My soul knew unexpected joy, a kind of memory. In that earlier time the writing had been in Cyrillic. Now it was in Gothic German.

  Lit by dancing gas jets throwing fluttering shadows on to the ceiling was a vast covered market. Stalls and cubicles stretched almost endlessly into the half-light. The floor of the great roofed concourse was crowded with brilliantly coloured counters crammed with all kinds of country comestibles. Von Schirach told me this was Munich’s famous covered food market, one of the largest in the region. Specialising in delicacies from all over the South, as well as fruit, vegetables, meat and sausages, the place was full of people, in spite of there being so little money about. Folk from the surrounding towns came to buy their annual luxuries and to take advantage of the various beer concessions. Red-faced farmers and their sons strolled around the pitches buying little. Clumps of them exclaimed at the outrageous prices, comparing quality with their own home produce. City dwellers and stallholders regarded them with amiable contempt in the main, but the peasants were by no means unwelcome in this lean year of 1931.

  We passed a monstrous pitch the size of a circus tent selling nothing but a huge variety of cheeses on four sides. Medals and ribbons hung from the striped canvas, advertising the owner and his ancestry. Yellow wheels the size of truck tyres, heavy wedges of blue-veined Cambozola, Stilton and Roquefort, slivers of delicate French Brie and Camembert, and all the good, solid pale pinks and browns of the local varieties, together with the Goudas and Edams and Cheddars. Their combined scent hinted at the ultimate cheese. Beef bones and deer carcasses, hares and rabbits, chickens and geese hung in military ranks from the steel hooks. I smelled blood, fur, feathers, fresh-killed. Glittering candies and rich mounds of chocolate; flowers, toys and slabs of shining fish; wooden booths selling hot dumplings and vanilla custard.

  Rising into the gloom, steam streaked the roof’s dirty glass. We pushed through crowds lining up against a pork butcher’s elaborate canvas, decorated with gold medals and shields, proclaiming prizes won as far away as Saxony and the Sudetenland. Electricity and naphtha buzzed. The wealth of smells made you want to stop and begin eating. You felt you could eat the air itself, it was so rich. Massive men and women commanded those stalls, like so many sea captains aboard their ships. Their wiry, darting sons and plump daughters served the customers, shouting responses and exhortations while still others called to us to buy the best of this, the freshest of that. Old men stood arguing at coffee stalls. Old women disdainfully fingered fruit.

  And then, from a little cleared space near the far side of the huge, echoing hall, a hurdy-gurdy began to sound. Its cheerful, cheap blasts and whines, amplified by the roof, again reminded me of Odessa and my happiest days. An Italian with a huge Kaiser Wilhelm moustache and a tall felt hat, a tiny, red-jacketed monkey on his shoulder, was operating the handle of his barrel organ while in front of it danced a little ballerina in vivid scarlet and green. Her legs and feet were bare but she moved with extraordinary grace, her dark curls bobbing above her grave, aquiline face as she pirouetted. Her dark eyes met mine, and I was back in Kiev, falling in love with Zoyea, the gypsy girl, all over again . . .

  I wanted to pause, to ask her name. To drop a coin in the cup which a boy, by looks her brother, shook at me. But von Schirach was in a hurry, and the youths with my luggage had not stopped. Again I had to trot to catch up. We followed them through another short tunnel before we had left the market and were outside again, marching against the crowd, down a few more streets to a slightly wider thoroughfare with a large carpet store on the corner, selling a rather more conservative selection than in the more fashionable Munich shops.

  I was happy to find myself in a lower-class area dominated by a great, Baroque church. St Peter’s was like one of our Kiev churches, though somewhat plainer. The invulnerable old bricks seemed to offer a stable centre. I felt thoroughly comfortable in this district and was again reminded of my childhood. While my father had been connected directly by blood to the most aristocratic family in Russia, therefore making me vulnerable to assassination by Reds, his irresponsible pursuit of socialism had led to all our ruin. So I grew up in a similar area, with children playing noisily in the streets, women gossiping, washing lines hanging across courtyards, with dogs, carts and bicycles everywhere. To me it was like home. Even the stone and brick felt warmer. The smells were more familiar. I began at once to relax. Here I could escape the hustle and bustle of political and sexual life! As I had been burning the candle at both ends, I needed to rest. I began to relish the prospect of peace. With the elections coming in several key areas, I was not likely to have much company among the Nazis, at least for a few weeks. I would spend my time rethinking my situation, considering what I could do to improve my circumstances.

  A few more doors down the unremarkable street and we stopped at a shopfront whose windows were protected by an iron grille, securely padlocked. The grilles had received a heavy battering at some time. The red, black and white paint of the outside had flaked and the building hardly seemed used any more. Behind the grilles on the windows were older portraits of Adolf Hitler, ‘the saviour of Germany, the keeper of our national honour’. Swastika symbols and the initials of the NSDAP made it clear we were at a local Nazi HQ. I suspected here we would pick up a key to some nearby apartment, but no sooner had Schirach unlocked the side door than the boys were dragging my bags through the gloom, which smelled strongly of dusty old paper, and up a flight of stairs. Von Schirach closed the door behind us, following me as I climbed in the boys’ wake, my face a little too close to the nearest pair of tight black shorts whose owner was inclined to sweat readily and had that sour, unpleasant smell of most young boys, but I watched with pleasure his healthy little muscles and sinews rippling with the effort of dragging my worldly goods to the top of the building where we stopped at last. Von Schirach was beaming as he unlocked the door, flung it open and ceremoniously handed me the keys. ‘Your flat!’

  It was, in fact, a very comfortable little place. I suspected a woman’s touch, a mistress or perhaps simply a mother, for it was almost feminine in its furnishings, with everything one might need neatly placed. Schirach had lived here himself until fairly recently, when his circumstances had improved, he said. His rent had helped the party through some thin times. Now the place was here for me as long as I needed it. The party required no rent these days. He understood I had accomplished important work for the Italian dictator. He was a great fan of Signor Mussolini, who had done wonders for Italy. He had undertaken the Herculean task of bringing masculine fire to that quintessentially feminine Italian soul. If anyone could do it, he could. Meanwhile, his emissaries were always welcome in Germany, especially among the ranks of Nazis. They had much in common with the Fascist cause. He quoted a favourite saying of the great dictators: ‘It is better to spend one day as a lion than to spend a lifetime as a lamb.’

  I was a little taken aback by his apparently rehearsed speech, as if von Schirach suddenly recalled he had not spoken what he had pr
epared, so spoke it anyway, as a specific duty. Doubtless Röhm had offered some instructions on how to address me. Now young Baldur seemed to think he had become carried away in his excitement. Like many polyglots, he said more than he should when speaking a language other than the local one. He had revealed a romantic crush on an older man.

  This generous emotion continued to radiate from him as he flitted about the flat showing me how to work the stove, where the china was kept, how a certain flap worked in the desk. I had a fleeting impression of an angelic visitation. Then he looked at his watch, raised his eyebrows and apologised. He had to go. Berlin and duty called!

  I accompanied him and the boys back down the stairs while he tried to tell me the best baker, the best grocer and so on, suggesting that I could also shop in the Viktualienmarkt, which, as I had seen, offered a convenient short cut to the tram stop. The market was a bit crowded with tourists at the moment, because of the festival, and the prices had gone up, but I would still find it worth trying. There were several good cheap restaurants in the vicinity, also a wonderful new cinema nearby. The whole area was much improved since he had lived there. Even St Peter’s, the local church, seemed a bit brighter. I assumed it was a Roman church and that therefore I might attend services if I were here for a length of time. At that time, you will recall, I had yet to accept the faith of my ancestors and worship in the Greek tradition.

  As I stood in the street doorway bidding my new friend goodbye, the inner door leading into the shop at the side opened suddenly. I had not known the shop was occupied and jumped slightly.

  A black beret perched on the side of his head, a sprightly puckish little face regarded us, looking us over with merry, sardonic eyes. Then, stiffening, the dapper newcomer bowed and heel-clicked to von Schirach. Ignoring me, he advanced upon the scowling Hitler Youth leader.

  ‘Mein lieber Baldur!’ He opened his arms as if to receive a beloved child. But Schirach’s eyes narrowed, and he coloured a little. ‘Good afternoon, Herr Doctor. We thought you still in Vienna. Or was it Prague you went to? I believe you are not supposed to be on these premises. I think you should let me have your key.’

  ‘Why so?’ A jovial Herr Doctor indeed! He twinkled, he was sly, he was warm, sarcastic. His mobile, clever mouth seemed forever smiling, smirking, sneering or grinning. His audacious brown eyes bore a hint of the Mediterranean, reminding me for an instant of my friend Fiorello. The doctor created the same sense in me that I was forever being watched for my reaction, so that he might respond appropriately, or at least know what to think of me, or how to make me think well of him. Yet his words were sardonic enough and showed no lack of courage. ‘Has your lord and master Hitler banned me from the building I first helped him rent? I’m not surprised, since he’s an habitual turncoat. He’ll turn on you one day, my dear Baldur, and then nothing will save your tight little bum. Not even your convulsive poetry.’

  Blurting and blushing, the poor boy pressed a large envelope into my hand and made his escape, warning me that the doctor had no business being on the premises. If he gave me any further trouble the police could be called. The number was in the office near the telephone. He was sorry about the dust. His last words were grimmer, addressed to the newcomer. ‘I believe you have gone too far again, Doctor Strasser. I doubt it will be quite so leniently tolerated this time.’ But because of his lisp, the words had no weight.

  The doctor smiled quietly to himself and, with crooked mockery, bowed to von Schirach. Removing his beret, he placed it against his heart and clicked his heels. ’My good Herr Youth Leader! You’ll discover soon enough that Herr Hitler’s men are not quite as loyal to Big Business as their “Führer”. This murder investigation will only help clear their vision . . .’

  He lifted his black beret mockingly, a cigarette burning between his fingers, and dropped the hat neatly back on his balding head. ‘My regards to your dear fiancée, Miss Hoffman. And to my brother Gregor, if you see him in Berlin. What a shame about Fräulein Raubal. I heard you were on the scene with Hess and my brother in a matter of hours. Clearing up the evidence, were you? Who did it, eh? Hitler hasn’t the nerve for it. Himmler? Don’t worry, my brother wouldn’t tell me. We haven’t been on the best of terms since he made his choice. He’s almost as happy to lick Uncle Alf’s arse as you are. I have plenty of other friends still in the party. Is Germany’s great white hope mortified? How inconvenient for him . . .’ He laughed without malice after them. The little boys were bewildered, perhaps waiting for Baldur to strike back at the man for uttering so many blasphemies at once, but von Schirach murmured something about the plane for Berlin and herded them ahead of him.

  After von Schirach and his lads had rounded the corner, Doctor Strasser turned his cheerful attention on me. Gregor Strasser’s brother was a small man, scarcely taller than myself, but very dapper. His humorous, sardonic manner seemed completely natural to him. He looked at one slightly sideways. Neatly dropping his cigarette butt into the street, he took a small case from his pocket and offered me a smoke but I refused. I told him I had eaten no breakfast or lunch and was beginning to feel peckish.

  If I gave him five minutes, he told me, he would be glad to take me to an excellent and very cheap restaurant. A little worried that back numbers of the party paper would be destroyed during or after the elections, he had come from Vienna to sort out some of the old copies. He had no spares, and everything was stored here at what had been the party HQ until they’d moved to the Brown House. He remembered this place in the old days before the Great Compromise, but now it wasn’t inhabited much. Was I going to live in the flat?

  In spite of Baldur von Schirach’s animosity towards him, Gregor Strasser’s brother Otto was exceptionally charming and far more engaging than his taciturn sibling. He had a mobile, vaguely Jewish, face which could not help but twinkle and smile.

  It occurred to me momentarily that perhaps he indeed had Jewish blood, the reason for his volatility, but it was extremely unlikely. Given their policies the Nazis could not afford to be too careful on matters of early ancestry. For some time I had heard and ignored the persistent rumours of Hitler’s own Jewish grandparents. The theory was that these part-Jews so hated the blood in their own veins that they strove to tear it from the body of Germany as they would tear it from themselves. A popular theory, but not one I necessarily subscribed to. Ludecke, whom I met later, believed that the most virulent anti-Semites had strong doses of Jewish blood. Rosenberg was certainly Jewish, he argued. He had known several such creatures. All possessed a certain pathos. But even Ludecke, that irredeemable cynic, would agree with me that whatever blood animated the Strasser family it came from the right side of the Mediterranean!

  I began to answer but Doctor Strasser silenced me, a finger to his lips. He straightened his beret, put away his case, and began to sink back into the semi-darkness among huge towers of baled newspapers and magazines.

  Come to think of it, he said, he was feeling hungry, too. He would be glad to treat me. I in turn must tell him all about England, which he was thinking of visiting soon. I told him I knew little more of England than did he. I had not been born there. I was an American.

  ‘Oh, you’re the Hollywood actor Röhm’s so taken with? The centre of gossip in Berlin and Vienna. You’re not Jewish, are you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ I laughed. I could see Strasser was trying to get a rise out of me. ‘But it’s true Röhm and I have become great chums. We have much in common.’

  ‘He’s a good man. I’ve hardly seen him since he came back from Bolivia to run the SA, but he’s doing wonders already. I wish he was with me and not Hitler. His heart is much more with the Black Front than the Hitlerists. But like my brother he believes Hitler will take them to power. My brother already has more power than he ever thought he could get. He’ll lose it if he trusts Hitler too much. Gregor is considered by everyone to be the “civilised” Nazi, and it is to him Streicher and Co. turn. But unless they move quickly they will find they have delivered
all their influence to Hitler. Why does everyone think they can take power from Hitler once he has it? We all watched him climb and admired him. But now he is climbing over us. My brother should know better. And, indeed, so should Röhm, who has been around the “little corporal” longer than anyone.’

  I presumed he spoke chiefly of the internal squabbling besetting most political parties and rarely noticed by the world outside. For a few minutes I stood in the doorway watching him rummage about in the room, then I told him I would return to my flat and see him in a little while. He grunted assent.

  I rejoined him about quarter of an hour later feeling considerably more my old self. The envelope von Schirach had given me contained a substantial amount of money. The little flat was quiet, secure and I could use it to concentrate on my own work for a change. Meanwhile, I intended to cultivate the charming doctor, whose tongue was even looser than Röhm’s.

  Dusting his hands he emerged from behind a pile of newspapers, put down a box he had been filling and apologised. He lit another cigarette. ‘I am only looking for my own work. I can’t afford to have it printed again.’ Glancing around him he shook his head. He patted at a pile of magazines. ‘Not that long ago, my young friend, these dreams were mine. But now it’s all corrupted.’