The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]

by Michael Moorcock

  Then, shrugging his shoulders, he took me by the arm, pointed me back into the street, closed and locked the door behind us with his key, and led us in a graceful stroll towards the Viktualienmarkt.

  ‘Herr von Schirach didn’t seem to like you.’ Automatically I looked up and down to make sure we were not being followed.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. But he has to take Hitler’s side in everything. I enjoy embarrassing him a bit. He’s not a bad lad. Just an idiot. He thinks the sun shines out of Hitler’s bottom!’

  We walked slowly towards the market while Strasser explained at length and rather obscurely why he had split with Hitler who, in his view, had made the party into the means of getting personal power at any cost. Hitler had abandoned all their published principles. He would betray everyone who had trusted him, as well as those who had not. He was the reason why Strasser had left and was now based in Prague, where he could publish his refutations of Hitler’s lies. ‘That bastard Göring, the gimpy snake in the grass, set up a rival paper and Hitler backed it. We had no choice but to sell our interests. I got next to nothing. I have still to see the puny sum I eventually settled for. But it’s much worse than that.’ Hitler had sold out all the Nazi principles and spat in the face of his supporters. His obsession with the pursuit of power for its own sake would be the end of us.

  I had heard similar opinions from Röhm, by no means a slavish supporter of the Führer. A couple of years earlier there had been some kind of split in the NSDAP ranks. The Strasser brothers had taken the side of the more revolutionary party members, who wished to tear down the entire structure of the state and start afresh. Goebbels had initially been on their side but later shifted over to Hitler’s camp. Money talked and Goebbels clearly had his price. But Hitler’s debt to Big Business, Strasser argued, would mean that the industrialists would continue to control Germany. The situation would be worse than in Italy where Mussolini had sold off all the wealth of the country to the Pope and a few of his cronies. These businessmen, like Thyssen, Krupp and the rest, were the very people, according to Strasser, who had already brought the country down.

  ‘I’m not denying there exist interests forever alien to the German nation, but we weren’t stabbed in the back. We had bad generals and a bunch of businessmen who were doing very well out of selling munitions and supplies to the army. Believe me, I love Ludendorff, but he was an idiot. Wars are won by the side which makes the least mistakes. Ludendorff made mistake after mistake, and every mistake cost a hundred thousand German lives. Those must never be repeated. These powerful people Hitler’s talking to will insist on mistakes being repeated. And they’ll probably make a load of new ones as well! Two kinds of people should never be allowed near the politics of a country. One is businessmen, the other is soldiers. Whenever those interests start to climb into bed with each other, death and destruction follow for the common people. The creeps will be the ruin of us!’All of this Otto Strasser offered in a light-hearted tone which seemed at odds with his words. He continued to laugh as he walked beside me, a dapper figure in his bow tie and loose coat. Some years later John Betjeman, the BBC rhymester, would remind me of him.

  While I had not been surprised at von Schirach’s lack of insight into Hitler’s character, I was thoroughly astonished at Strasser’s understanding and hoped I did not show it! Strasser had no illusions. Hitler filled a vacuum. But it was a vacuum within a vacuum!

  ‘Time was he knew himself better than he does now. He’s started believing the publicity stories. Hitler’s a feminine type, with a destructive mission, not a constructive masculine one. When I met him just after the War, he saw himself as a drummer, a showman. I remember his saying how he felt like a sleepwalker. The crowd determines who he is. He says the crowd is his mistress, but in some ways the crowd is all he is. Nothing is real or genuine about him. Even the title Führer was imposed on him. The Nazis are creating a monster. What the Jews call a golem.’

  Suddenly Otto Strasser grabbed my sleeve and dragged me down some basement steps into the dark panelled wood of a restaurant with peeling walls and faded floral pictures just visible through a haze of delicious steam. The narrow room was crammed with heavy stained wooden tables and poorly lit by oil lamps. Two grey-haired women were selling cakes from behind a counter display but abandoned their customers when they saw Otto Strasser, greeting him with glad, maternal cries, sitting us down at the best table, getting us a clean menu, telling us not to have the Rotkraut but that the dumplings were fresh.

  A wild barking, and from the back of the kitchen came a little dachshund which somehow reminded me, in its perky manner, of my new friend. He petted the dog. He giggled at its antics. He gave it a lump of sugar. His soft, elegant hands stroked its happy head. Our meal arrived, working-class food, wholesome and filling. Strasser ate with considerable relish, talking between bites and I, also, found the food very much to my taste, similar to Russian food in many ways. My muscles and bones relaxed for the first time in days. The strain of the previous night had left its mark.

  I was very glad to have met Otto Strasser, a man with a good idea of Hitler’s duality. He shared the idealism of everyone around the Führer and had no motive for wishing to see the Nazi Party lose the seats it had won. What was more, Strasser was a man of principle, and an eternal optimist!

  When we left the restaurant, Strasser wanted to buy some apples. He led me through another doorway into a newer part of the great Viktualienmarkt. The busy bustle of the afternoon had been replaced by an early-evening lull, a sense of waiting. As we walked up to a fruit stall, I heard the barrel organ sounding again. I turned, scarcely aware of my own quickness of movement, and sought the source.

  In a dusty ray of late sunshine, the child dancer I had seen earlier stood at rest. Behind her, on his master’s shoulder, the red-coated monkey jumped and gibbered, taking his little fez off and on to the cheap tinkling of the instrument’s mechanical heart.

  I gasped at the familiarity of it. I might have been gazing again on my gypsy love, the young beauty I had so long ago been forbidden to see. For a second her eyes met mine, and I was sure she recognised something in me.

  Strasser bought his apples and was grinning at me. ‘What is she? A relative? If not, she’s probably for sale.’

  I grew a little warm. ‘She reminds me of someone I knew as a child.’

  ‘They have gypsies in America, too? My God, they’ve spread everywhere!’

  But these were not gypsies. Their kind was found in most big German cities. They were Italians, earning their living as street entertainers.

  This time it was Strasser who drew me away from my little Zoyea, but I went less reluctantly than before. She and I were soulmates. Those glances had proved it. I knew it was possible to see her again. As soon as I could I would return to the market to watch her dance. What was her name? Whenever I closed my own eyes I saw hers. They were curious eyes, knowing eyes, not entirely innocent eyes. There was no doubt about it. Zoyea was reincarnated. Restored to me. She had recognised me, as I had recognised her.

  Sie bewegte sich schlendernd wie ein Junge. Dennoch glaubte ich, dass sie an mir Gefallen gefunden hatte. Vielleicht zogen mich jene Augen an, mit denen sie in sexueller Berechnung jedes Lebewesen zu taxieren schien . . .

  But this was natural to my little earth spirit. We were fated, I knew, to become wonderful friends again.

  * * * *

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Otto Strasser was a man of complex charm and quick intellect. Very open, he told me much about himself. An academic doctor, a literary writer, a naturally sociable and sardonic companion, he had his degree in anthropology and through the persuasions of his chemist brother had only reluctantly been drawn into politics.

  While rejecting the Russian model, Doctor Strasser was a convinced and serious socialist, a German nationalist to the marrow. He was horrified by Hitler’s willingness to seek the financiers’ aid rather than seize power through revolution. Matters came to a head in 1930, and Strasser l
eft to form the Black Front. The party was relatively small, its leader scarcely a threat to anyone, but Göring, Goebbels, Heydrich and Himmler still pursued Strasser relentlessly, attempting to ruin and intimidate him. Regretfully, Gregor Strasser had failed to help in any serious way.

  ‘I know I should give it all up. Write some popular books about pygmies and peasant attitudes, but I can’t. I’m an embarrassment. While I allowed myself to be guided by Hitler, I was a hero, he said. Then I began to see flaws in his arguments. I am regarded as an enemy by Big Business as well as by Bolshevik Jewry. Gregor’s instincts are to build bridges between all factions. He’s an optimist! He’s a more typical, good-natured, easygoing Bavarian than I am. He believes everyone unconsciously wants to get along together. I have warned him not to trust Hitler. Hitler uses people and then discards them. Hitler will ruin him. What else can I say or do?’

  I had every respect for Otto Strasser even if I did not share his left-wing views. He knew I believed socialism to be a disease which attacks the soul, an infection carried on the air by word of mouth. He eventually came to accept that when he returned to Germany after the Second War. Finding shelter with the Canadians, Doctor Strasser was one of the few true National Socialists to survive the Second World War.

  He wrote me a letter a few years ago. Posted from Munich. ‘They have restored my citizenship,’ he told me. Hitler knew the meaning of denying German citizenship to a nationalist like Otto Strasser. But this still did not make me comfortable with his socialism, though we were certainly in complete agreement on the Jewish Question.

  He demonstrated the difference between us, say, and Hitler. What so few people now understand. There is a considerable difference between a rational interpretation of a problem and a visceral reaction against an entire people. Both Doctor Strasser and myself agreed on the rational approach. The easiest way to rid oneself of Jewish influence was to make it difficult for Jews to disguise themselves.

  By this, of course, we did not mean a return to the ludicrous medieval approach of making Jews wear some kind of yellow badge. We saw no reason to permit Jews or Catholics full nationality while both paid homage to foreign leadership. Attacking their dignity and self-respect was cruel. We simply wanted to change their political status, requiring an oath that they were loyal to Germany first and that their interests were German interests. A tax structure could be introduced which made it more attractive to be a true German and accept the responsibilities as well as the benefits of full citizenship, which should not be denied to any decently qualified person, no matter what their racial origin. Until then you would be treated as a respected guest worker in the country, always welcome while you pulled your weight. After a period of qualification, you would swear loyalty to Germany as new immigrants in America must swear loyalty to the United States, forsaking all others. Indeed, all schoolchildren in America are required to take the oath of loyalty every morning. He suspected other countries would soon see the sense of it.

  Doctor Strasser did not, like me, feel a strong call of blood. I had no animosity towards Jews. I simply knew Jews would be happier in a homeland better suited to their natures. Their vibrant, volatile blood yearned for a Mediterranean climate. Those exotic hearts came to full flower in the bazaar and the oasis, where gold has an almost supernatural value. Those abstract, intellectual minds could sit and argue to their hearts’ content. Artists could plan their canvases and plays. No action would ever be required of them. They would be home. They would be happy. They could study and talk as all Jews would rather do while the waters of Palestine were theirs to drink and the fruits of Israel theirs to eat. They deserved a homeland.

  Isn’t it what we all desire most? In the thirties I became a convinced Zionist and remain one to this day. I am deeply philo-Semitic. I do share with many Jews, however, the conviction that intermarriage is a mistake.

  Otto Strasser believed Hitler’s approach to the problem was psychological rather than political, which Strasser thought made Hitler unfit to lead. Germany had almost been destroyed by its sentimental liberalism, attempting to eat its cream cake and share it. The opposite side of that coin was conservative bigotry and blustering militarism. We had to look at realities and offer the people a genuine alternative to Soviet tyranny and Big Business manipulation. Strasser’s Third Way would steer a prudent course between the two, taking the best from both systems. He spoke bitterly of his Kampfverlag, which once dominated Nazi publishing in Prussia. First Gregor had sold his third to Hitler, for some mysterious favour, then Hinkel, the other partner, had sold his third share to Hitler, lured by the offer of a Reichstag seat. The other third, Otto’s, was of course valueless. He was a revolutionary. He had no desire to be elected. He knew the compromises one had to make. As a result Hitler had begun a smear campaign against him, calling him a ‘parlour-Bolshevik’ and worse.

  I didn’t take this as seriously as Strasser. Slanging matches were a familiar feature of modern German public life. Those with standards tended to stand back from them. Yet that evening I learned far more from Strasser than I could easily absorb of German politics and internal NSDAP rivalries. He filled in the specifics, although I have never been much interested in minor details. As a Russian visionary the larger issues have been all-important. It is for others, of a more ordinary temperament, to concern themselves with the fine print. Like Hitler, I am a prophet rather than practical politician, and I suspect this was also true of Otto Strasser.

  Gregor was instead somewhat narrowly pragmatic. His temperament would be the end of him. He would be shot in a concrete prison room, disbelievingly running from corner to corner as Heydrich’s bullets sought him through the cell window. A ricochet finished him. A clumsy death for a compromised soul. How I mourn for those poor creatures! How I wish I could go back in time and alert them. If only they had been warned, they might have fled the country. But they believed they could win their case through argument and reason. They never learned the lessons of the trenches, when a bullet not a ballot decided the fate of an unpopular officer.

  Everyone close to the Führer understood he was an inspirational symbol rather than a practical leader. It did not disturb them that he had human traits. Röhm and Gregor Strasser were party to his most disgusting secrets yet remained loyal to Hitler. Their own interest was bound to his. What he represented was more important than what he was. The Crown once represented the spirit of Germany. Now Hitler represented it. He was not merely the head of a political party, he was what the young these days call a ‘guru’. None of his intimates ever expected him to take the daily reins of power. If his followers accepted the power, they had to accept the responsibility. ‘But they’re afraid of the responsibility, most of them.’ Otto had shaken his head. He felt the calibre of the Nazis wasn’t what it should be. Apart from Göring, Hitler’s men were not greatly interested in publicity. Power was what obsessed them. It was what they engaged with inside the party. It suited them to have the public worship Hitler. They knew that public worship could turn to public rage and already had plans in place to take over from him. A few years later Mussolini would learn exactly that lesson. He died as the emperors of old had died when they had fallen out of favour, bloodily and without dignity. In the end neither of these men rose to full potential. Otto could see this better than I. The dictators remain to this day a great disappointment to me. They failed to bear the burden they had sworn to carry. They promised Glory and brought only Shame. To the last they did all they could to put their responsibility on to other shoulders. Only Franco survived, and in many ways he was the least of them. More a reactionary than a progressive visionary.

  Hitler, shivering in his bunker, Eva Braun comforting him, her eyes bright with excitement at the prospect of their marriage, heard of Mussolini’s horrible end and knew he and she would suffer no better at the hands of the Red Army. Hitler understood only too well what torments and disgusting horrors awaited him. A Catholic, he faced the knowledge that the hell he had made on earth was nothing to th
e hell he would suffer in death. Yet he was prepared to meet Satan rather than be subject to the punishments of Stalin. He was by no means the only one. That is how seriously he took the Red Menace. But some cursed him for his suicide. They believed he had failed his people in their final hours.

  Was this Austrian fecklessness of Hitler’s really the nub of the falling-out in 1929—30? Otto demanded Hitler take responsibility, not pass it back or shrug it off. The younger Strasser was not interested in power either. Ultimately I suspect he was also unwilling to accept responsibility. He was someone who blossomed best in opposition.

  Political disagreements aside, Doctor Otto Strasser was stimulating company. Indeed, in the absence of Röhm, he became almost my only substantial company. We dined together the next night, as he was staying at a small hotel nearby. After a simple supper in a local bistro, we took the tram back into central Munich to the famous Hofbräuhaus. The city at night was full of festive light. The blaze of the trams in the warm autumn air, the sound of a distant brass band, the happy laughter of the people all took me again to my past in Odessa, to those golden days before a few alien financiers and their stooges determined we were too happy, enjoying too much progress and therefore not making them enough money. Munich was like Odessa at her best, not the city of marching mobs and street violence, wretched poverty and cruelty which the documentaries always show to explain Hitler. I saw a few starving children, a few beggars, some ex-servicemen working as street traders and the occasional whore - only what you expected in any large city.