The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]

by Michael Moorcock

  The movie we eventually shot starred Desmond Reid as the greenhorn ‘Old Shatterhand’, Gloria Cornish as Nosha Tishi, Winnetou’s adopted sister (and actually the Baroness Henrietta Stark), Lon Creighton as Davy Crockett and Seryozha stained a dark red and in full war paint as Winnetou’s Kiowa enemy, Chief Tangua, who also becomes Old Shatterhand’s enemy. Thankfully, Seryozha’s vanity still gave him a muscular appearance. Stripped and with his hand movements restricted, he was perfect for his part. Even Mr Mix, Ol’ Shine, the comical Negro cook, made his role into a substantial one.

  In real life Seryozha also doubled as our SS guardian angel, having been given the authority by Himmler. Heaven help us, I thought, if he were called upon to use a real revolver in our defence! With luck he would be the first to be shot!

  The second film was to be called Winnetou: Prince of the Sacred Land. The same character actors continued their ongoing subplots, but now Winnetou, Old Shatterhand and his beloved Nosha Tishi must face more Eastern invaders, rascally speculators whipping up trouble among the Kiowa and Kakatanawa in the hope of starting an Indian war which would bring the army in and allow them to steal Winnetou’s traditional tribal homelands. By the end of the film our band of brothers, standing side by side, had driven out the Eastern invaders, shown them for the scheming crooks they were and reclaimed their whole tribal homeland. Something about this story struck a deep chord in my soul. I gave what were without doubt my greatest performances as the philosophical Apache warrior, whose simple words carry profound wisdom. Here was the epitome of the natural man, the soldier-poet of the plains, a samurai of the rocky deserts. Through all his vicissitudes, you were constantly aware that Winnetou was the superior human being.

  At Nuremberg Doctor Hugenberg was later to suffer accusations of racism. Evidence was given in his favour, however, that he had encouraged his company to depict a Red Indian as an example to young German manhood! A strange and complicated form of racism, I think! Similarly there was not a hint of caricature in the depiction of Ol’ Shine. The Germans had no tradition of casting darkies in demeaning roles.

  What so few people seem to understand is that those who warned of the Jewish threat were not racists. They had nothing against the Turks or the Japanese. Why should they have? The Turks and the Japanese had not taken over their culture and their financial institutions, sending a generation to die in the trenches in order to line its own pockets. Mr Kamitami had not changed his name to Mr Campion, and Mr Atatürk was not demanding that we call him Mr Atkins. I am not an anti-Semite - I am an anti-hypocrite!

  By July we had completed most of our location work. The weather was becoming too hot to work. Doctor Hugenberg had failed to join us. We shot some interiors in Split and the villages of the hinterland and then took the train back to Zagreb and from there via Vienna to Munich where we immediately began the sound scenes. Many of these were set against subtle back projections of waterfalls, forests and scrubland, so that while the camera itself had little movement, there was always action in the backgrounds, themselves often reflecting the moods of the characters. Hugenberg, making a dashing visit down to Bavaria, was delighted. Ingram was a master of layered visual narrative and silent meaning. Many of his highly developed skills were now useless to him, yet he did his best and it was wonderful to see him work. I began to entertain thoughts of directing my own film one day. This, of course, led me to consider a new kind of projector and camera, and my brain raced off along another inventive road!

  As soon as I was back in Munich I went to the market. I shook hands with a rather gloomy Signor Frau. Zoyea was delighted to see me and pouted that I no longer loved her. To prove it, of course, we must go to see the latest Tim McCoy and Buck Jones as soon as possible!

  I found a note in my Corneliusstrasse rooms. Kitty had come and gone from Munich and now returned again, staying at Prince Freddy’s apartment. The Hungarian was at the moment, she said, in the Middle East. Some business interest, she thought. So we had the exotic flat and its stores of stimulants to ourselves since Prince Freddy had given her freedom to use whatever was his and do whatever she liked. At that stage in my life, relaxed and no longer feeling dogged by fate and my enemies, I was glad to see her. Since she said nothing of the boy, I asked nothing. Clearly the little chap was in good hands.

  Kitty and I enjoyed some extraordinary parties which, after a week or two, I was forced to abandon. Work and duty called. The day’s shooting schedule now began at seven in the morning. To keep my concentration I drew more frequently on Prince Freddy’s first-quality cocaine.

  Our group acted excellently together now, functioning as a near perfect team, save that Seryozha had to be replaced in close-up. He spoke every language with a sibilant Russian accent. Although he was given very little dialogue, he had one or two fairly important speeches, so Hans Greisenbach became his substitute. Greisenbach turned out to be a member of the SA and a colleague of Seryozha’s. He told me the SA were not being properly paid. While the men had every faith in Röhm, they were growing impatient, wanting to take with force what Hitler insisted on winning through the ballot box. They were giving Hitler every chance to deliver but, if he couldn’t they would transfer their loyalty to new leaders. Strasser and Röhm were a better alternative anyway, declared Greisenbach. The power of the SA was the power of the National Socialist movement. Even at that early stage I foresaw the fault lines which would result in a terrible martyrdom.

  * * * *

  THIRTY-NINE

  The first Winnetou film was released that September simultaneously in Berlin, Hamburg, Cologne, Frankfurt and Munich at the main UfA luxury Kinos, which had superb sound systems in place. Backed by all the publicity Hugenberg’s papers could give it, Winnetou: The Red Gentleman was an instant success with the German public, who made heroes and heroines of us all. We appeared everywhere in the Hugenberg publications and in other magazines, too. The Elastolin firm did a series of models of our characters. Even Ol’ Shine got his own figurine complete with banjo and cooking pots. Elastolin were the very best at producing tiny likenesses. Eventually they would produce figurines of the NSDAP hierarchy and troops.

  We were feted. Kitty was pleased to be seen on my arm wherever we went in fashionable Munich. People mistook her for a film star and indeed I did get her a test. She proved to be a poor candidate. Zoyea also begged me to put her in a film, but her father said she was too young. He did not want her corrupted by such things. I fully understood. Mrs Cornelius became an instant sex symbol, a rival to Lilian Harvey. Unfortunately, the May firm were dismayed at Ingram’s minor changes and claimed they worked against the true meaning of the books, which was of course outrageous nonsense. The result was that while the first three films appeared contractually as ‘Winnetou’ films, by the time we came to plan the next three (Doctor Hugenberg’s budgeting cut many unnecessary costs) we had been forced to change our characters to Hawkeye and Cochise of the Fenimore Cooper tales. The two still defended a sacred land, but it was now further to the North-West, allowing us to make better use of local terrain, though in 1933 we were once again filming scenes around Split.

  Our team spirit remained high. We had become rather adept at our parts, and only the schedules themselves exhausted us. The work was rather enjoyable. The stories did not vary a great deal from film to film, but the same good values were hammered home.

  Mrs Cornelius, separated from her lover, spent a great deal of her time in Mr Mix’s undemanding company. She did not wish her name to be linked with mine or Reid’s, and I must say I could not blame her. Reid had made himself available to every village maiden between Split and Zagreb, not to mention his many mistresses in Germany. As a matter of pride he never spent more than one night with any girl.

  Doctor Hugenberg decided to save money by making a permanent set, so by now Hawkeye and his bride had built a homestead and were thinking of having children. The stories revolved more around the ranch than the Indian village and the wilderness, allowing us to work within the tighter b
udget Doctor Hugenberg had given us. We found an attractive exotic Jewess, Myra Friedmann, to play the Indian maiden to whom the Apache prince loses his heart.

  City slickers from the East were still our enemies, and we defended our territory in a dozen ingenious ways as they became equally inventive in devising ways of stealing our wild paradise. Our philosophy remained faithful to the ideas of Karl May. The public understood who our characters really were. They did not mind what we were called. What was important were the manly virtues of courage, steadfastness, loyalty and honour we represented. No doubt we lit the flame of idealism in many a German boy.

  I still have one poster with Reid, Mrs Cornelius and myself dramatically posed against a violent backdrop. ‘Greed, violence and savagery lay the land to waste,’ runs the banner for Apache Gold. We knew all too well what we were defending! With the departure of Chaney, an Austrian character actor played Bowie, and then Seryozha was replaced entirely. He said he was very upset about it, though he was glad to be going. He had grown tired of compromising his artistic principles and would give himself back to the ballet. Sulking, he offered his notice and returned to Berlin.

  At last I felt free to move into an apartment of my own in a more fashionable district. The flat in Wurzerstrasse had a good view and was decorated to my own taste. I was photographed in it for publicity articles. The magazines called it ‘Winnetou’s New Ranch’ and other fanciful names.

  To my fans I was still ‘Winnetou’; that became my nickname when I made public appearances holding my famous silver rifle. Politicians, of course, now flocked to be photographed in the company of ‘Winnetou’ Peters. We opened drugstores and groceries, municipal works and cinemas, railway stations and road developments all over Germany, Austria and Bohemia. We were on the covers of every kind of magazine from children’s journals to sophisticated picture weeklies. Our appearances were recorded for the newsreels. We were constantly interviewed on the radio. Our off-screen lives were the subjects of ecstatic examination. Doctor Hugenberg was delighted to hint at a relationship between Gloria Cornish and Desmond Reid, since I gathered his wife had discovered some compromising letters. He expressed dismay when Ingram left after the fourth picture claiming that his professionalism had been attacked, but the formula had been thoroughly established, and we had no trouble finding a new and cheaper director in Willi Frisch, though we missed Ingram‘s genial, sardonic company.

  The NSDAP came to full power in February 1933 and almost immediately a sense of peace and purpose settled on the land. Doctor Hugenberg had played a crucial part in the NSDAP success, throwing the weight and authority of his Nationalists behind the ‘brown tide’. Mrs Cornelius told me that her Huggy Bear and his friends believed they had control of Hitler. The morning before Hitler took the full reins of power, Hugenberg had held out his fist to her and told her that he had Hitler like that! As a tribute to his authority and integrity he now became Agriculture Minister in the new government and, rather reluctantly, joined the party.

  Hugenberg’s elevation gave us even more prestige and him far less time to take a direct interest in the films. He had seen the profits of the first two or three and was perfectly content for us to continue in the same successful vein. He knew we were in safe hands, he said.

  Though no admirer of the Führer cult, Desmond Reid was also delighted by the NSDAP’s peaceful path to power. Soon a new, better German order would restore all the nation’s traditional virtues. The Nazis were a no-nonsense party who locked up troublemakers before, not after, they made trouble! We could feel it in the air. All the paradoxes and failures of Weimar were at last being swept away and a firm but fair hand was on the tiller of the ship of state.

  Everywhere the new youthful Germany rose like spring sap as the summer approached. We returned from the Bavarian Alps to discover a fresh festive Munich where clean-cut SA youths maintained the role of public militia. They were for and of the people. Counts and carpenters marched side by side, the old order forgotten, as the new one arrived, of egalitarian brotherhood under the guidance of Adolf Hitler, now known only as The Führer.

  Strength through joy! From the public billboards young steady eyes regarded the future with confidence and optimism. I was so impressed I decided it might be time to return to my old calling. Having made copies of some of my drawings, I sent them off to Göring at the Air Ministry. Now Germany had a government I could trust, I wanted him to be the first to see what I was capable of. I had a polite note back from a secretary. Göring would be in touch as soon as possible. There was much work to do to save Germany from the quagmire into which she had been allowed to drift. I understood, of course.

  When I visited my Italian friends, anxious to see how Zoyea was growing, I found they had mixed feelings about the ‘German Mussolini’. Their experience in the markets had sometimes been unpleasant, and the police had been slower to defend them. Perhaps the Storm Troopers mistook them for Jews, they said reasonably, but to make a living had become difficult without some kind of harassment.

  I was sympathetic. I understood that laws had been proposed which would force Jews to identify themselves. This would have the positive effect of showing who was not, in fact, Jewish. Meanwhile, it might be wiser to modify their gypsy image and return to a more evidently Italian role. Perhaps they should concentrate on their icecream business? They appreciated my advice. To reassure them I revealed I held high rank in the Italian fascisti and took orders directly from Il Duce. If there were serious trouble, I would reveal that identity. I also had powerful friends among the Nazi higher ranks, but on that occasion I did not make a great deal of my SA connections, since the Italians saw the SA as their chief enemy.

  My attempts to contact journalist friends in Berlin were frustrated. I had even asked Hanfstaengl to see what he could find out about the situation in Rome, but from Mussolini himself I still received no word. It became clear to me that my association with Fiorello and his group had made me permanently persona non grata. Signora Sarfatti had no doubt added to the poison, and Mussolini had done what he sometimes did to others he felt had betrayed him: simply cut them out of his life and his memory. That, sadly, is the price a man of integrity pays for staying loyal to his friends. Signor Frau was deeply impressed by my revelation of Fascist contacts, however, even if I doubted their worth myself. He blessed the Virgin and all his saints for the coincidence of our meeting in the food market.

  That afternoon for the first time little Zoyea took tea with me in my new flat in Wurzerstrasse. I had hung framed pictures of myself and fellow stars on the walls, all artfully coloured and looking extremely realistic. The furniture was in the latest modern styles, big and solid and reflecting the values of the crafts guilds of olden times with the same simple beautiful lines. The walls were in neutral tones, the pictures carefully lit. The bedroom was a reproduction of Emil Hoffer’s famous set for The Golden Shadow, and Zoyea instantly recognised the tall posts and heavy draperies. She gasped her delight and hardly dared to enter the room in case she be swallowed whole by the oriental fantasy! It was one of my few indulgences. I had let one of UfA’s top designers prepare the place for me while we were filming, and I was pleased with the result.

  With her father’s permission, Zoyea stayed overnight, sleeping in the big bed all on her own while I was engaged with a number of new lady friends and resumed my adventures with Kitty von Ruckstühl. She found it politic, she said, to leave the capital where there was considerable unrest among the demi-monde. Not a few had already been taken into protective custody. Some had been released but would not speak of what had happened to them. They tended to be the ones who now remained silent in any conversation. She said they had done nothing. Many had even been Nazi sympathisers. I could not believe she had the full story. She was speaking from her own subjective perspective with its own special significance. I was not surprised some of Prince Freddy’s unsavoury drug-pushing friends might have been given a warning by the authorities. But I pretended a certain sympathy, if only to k
eep the social peace.

  Still I had not asked Kitty about her half-brother. I intended to raise that subject the evening we met in the Caversham Bar of the Hotel Bavaria in the most fashionable part of Munich. I had grown fond of the place and was well known there. But Kitty did not arrive alone. She brought her ‘gang’ with her. The bar was what Hanfstaengl called his ‘favourite watering hole’, and he, too, was there that night. Putzi had lost much of his earlier cheer. Events had pushed him into the margins, whereas he had expected by now to be at the centre. He still boasted of his friendships with Hearst and many of the other big American newspaper tycoons, but one had the feeling he pumped up his own ego. He was not aggressive enough to enjoy the public meetings, though he faithfully accompanied Hitler on his flying tours of the country. He hated air travel, he said, but Hitler insisted his ‘clown’ go with him everywhere to play him to sleep after a hard day with a crowd.

  Hanfstaengl came in with a group of visiting Americans, and they sat down together at a distant table. They did not seem to like Kitty’s friends, who were a rather bizarre party, mostly theatricals from the Franz Lehar touring company and a couple of Prince Freddy’s freaks. At first I thought Major Nye, who entered quietly wearing a soft hat and a raincoat and seated himself in a corner, was there to join Hanfstaengl; but his glance when he recognised me was eloquent, and I said nothing. I was faintly reassured by the English secret agent’s presence in Munich. Mrs Cornelius was always safe when Nye was near.