“Stay down,” Unity warned, as they slipped into the wooden seats.
Rowland wasn’t listening to her, staring instead at the thousands of men parading on the oval in perfect formation. They wore the brown trousers and boots of the SA, but their upper bodies were bare.
“What the devil are they doing?” he murmured.
“They’re practising for the victory rally in Nuremberg at the end of August,” Unity said, squirming in delight. “Aren’t they simply magnificent? A breathtaking display of Aryan manhood.”
Rowland’s brow rose. “And will Aryan womanhood be similarly displayed?”
“The girls league does a gymnastics show, I believe,” Unity said dismissively. Clearly the women did not interest her.
They watched for several minutes, Unity pointing out the precision, the discipline, and the sheer beauty of so many honed male bodies moving in concert. Rowland found it interesting, though the performance of military manoeuvres while half-naked seemed a little odd.
The lines of men goosestepped, eight abreast, past the empty grandstand, perfecting a precisely timed fascist salute while maintaining the rhythm of the straight-legged stride. Rowland wondered for a moment what had possessed the Germans to adopt the goosestep as a method of marching. Surely it was not a sensible way to move troops from one point to another? He remembered Richter’s threat to interfere with the trousers of the SA uniform. It would explain the goosestep, he supposed.
“It is a demonstration of Aryan superiority,” Unity explained, when he suggested the parade might look better if the SA had not forgotten to get dressed. “Mr. Hitler is adamant that the body must be exercised and ready to serve the Fatherland.”
The parade now stood in perfectly spaced lines and rows, and in unison began to sing. Rowland frowned. Campbell’s New Guard had also been fond of parading. He had seen several thousand New Guardsmen drill in a farm paddock the previous year. They had been less polished, and completely dressed, but the show of potential force was similar.
“We’d better go before someone notices us and asks awkward questions,” Rowland said firmly.
Unity sighed. “You really are a bit of a bore, Kanga.”
He did not reply, moving so that she had little choice but to be ushered back into the stairwell, and out of the stadium.
Unity Mitford chatted loudly about the shirtless display, giggling in a manner that irritated him to distraction. She pointed out the features of Rowland’s face that she was sure were indicative of his Aryan breeding. “Your eyes are very blue, Kanga. It’s rather a shame you’re not blond, really.”
Rowland hailed a motor cab, relieved when it pulled up. He gave the driver the name of the young Englishwoman’s hotel and ample fare to take her back.
Unity farewelled Rowland with the fascist salute, shouting “Heil Hitler!” at a volume that made him wince, and then lamented that he was not free to take her to dinner that evening. It seemed she was completely unaware that he would gladly have done anything to get away.
Rowland walked back to Schellingstrasse. It was not a trivial distance and it had started to drizzle, but he needed to think. So far, all he had been able to discover about Bothwell’s death was that it was probably not an accident. The actress Anna Niemann seemed to have disappeared and, for some reason, all her belongings had been claimed by Blanshard. Rowland wondered about the book Bothwell had been writing…the one about which he’d spoken to Nancy Wake. Could he have been killed to prevent its revelations? If so, was it just Röhm who stood to be exposed? Suddenly, it occurred to him that perhaps the manuscript was among the papers in Bothwell’s trunk. He had never opened it.
Rowland was, by the time he reached Schellingstrasse, soaked and quite chilled by the cold mist-like rain. Even so, he called in at Hoffman’s Studio to check on Eva, rather than walking on towards home. It had now been a few days since she’d arrived at Richter’s in tears, and left with the portrait he’d painted. He hoped the absence meant that she was happy.
Eva smiled delightedly when he walked in. “Grüss Gott, Robbie. What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing by,” he replied. “I thought I’d say hello. We haven’t seen you in a while.”
Eva sighed and rolled her eyes. “My sister,” she said. “It’s difficult to get away without her questions.”
“And Herr Wolf?”
Her face fell. “He has business away. I have not even been able to give him your beautiful painting.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t—” Rowland stopped as Eva stiffened, startled.
“Of course, Herr Negus,” she said loudly. “We do sell official prints of the Chancellor. How many would you like?”
Rowland turned. A tall thin man stood at the door into the studio proper. His face was long and severe, his hair combed tightly back from a receding hairline.
“I’d better take two of the most recent,” Rowland said, guessing that the man was Hoffman, Eva’s employer and Hitler’s personal photographer.
Hoffman strode over to stand at the counter beside Eva. “I will serve this gentleman, Fräulein Eva,” he said. “There are some accounts that need filing in the office.”
Eva nodded. “Of course, Herr Hoffman.” She paused at the door to glance hesitantly at Rowland before she left them alone.
Hoffman silently placed the photographs into embossed folders before slipping them into envelopes and handing them over the counter. “Will you be staying in Munich much longer, Herr Negus?” he asked coldly, as he took payment from Rowland.
“Sadly not, Herr Hoffman,” Rowland replied. “I shall be sorry to leave.”
“Sometimes it is best to go without delay.”
“Indeed.”
For a moment longer than necessary they eyed each other, and then Rowland tipped his hat to the photographer and left.
Chapter Thirty-three
INFANT ZEAL FOR HITLER
Even the kindergarten schools in Germany come under the influence of the Hitler regime. In a picture, received by air mail, young children—scarcely more than babies—are shown giving the Nazi salute as they march past their school master.
—Courier Mail, 1933
“Whatever are you doing, Rowly?” Edna asked, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind her.
Rowland was kneeling on the floor with the contents of Peter Bothwell’s trunk strewn around him. His sodden jacket and tie were slung over the back of a tapestry-covered stocking chair, and the sleeves of his still-damp shirt rolled up to the elbows.
He looked up and smiled. “You’re back,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder where you’d all gotten to.”
Edna stepped over a pile of clothing as she moved towards him. “Did you miss us?”
“Terribly…give me a hand to clear this up, will you, Ed?”
“Of course.” She kneeled beside him as he repacked Peter Bothwell’s trunk. “What are you doing?” she asked again.
“I was hoping to find something connected with this book Bothwell was supposed to be writing.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No, I’m afraid not. In fact, there’s nothing here but clothes and such. No documents or letters of any kind. It’s odd.”
Edna peered into the large trunk. “Nothing at all? Not even letters, or a photograph?”
Rowland shrugged. He had found nothing.
Edna frowned. “That is rather peculiar. Perhaps it’s because he was…you know…spying.”
“Perhaps.”
“Did you manage to speak to Mr. Blanshard about Anna Niemann, Rowly?”
Rowland sat back on his heels and dragged both hands through his hair. He told Edna of his bizarre afternoon with Unity Mitford.
The sculptress shook her head, smiling. “Oh, Rowly, you do know how to pick them.”
“I did not pick Miss Mitford, she was
foisted upon me,” he retorted tensely.
Edna laughed now, leaning against him companionably. “We’ll have to get even with Mr. Blanshard later. He cannot be allowed to inflict that woman on the unsuspecting public.”
What Rowland wished to voice on the subject of Alastair Blanshard could not be said in the presence of a lady, and so he did not reply.
Edna stood up and sat on the bed. “Why, what’s this?” she said, noticing the folders which he had discarded there when he’d come in earlier.
“Our beloved Chancellor,” Rowland said, getting off his knees and sitting beside her.
“You called in to see Eva,” Edna guessed, running her hand over the embossed name of Hoffman’s Photographic Studio.
“I did. Can’t say I took to Hoffman.”
Edna opened the folder and studied the portrait of Adolf Hitler, considering the photographer’s use of light and shadow. “It’s hard to believe he’s an artist, you know.”
“Who, Hoffman? It’s not that bad a photograph, is it?”
“No, not Mr. Hoffman—Mr. Hitler. His face is so fierce…rigid…not at all an artist’s face.”
Rowland smiled. Hitler did look more like an angry bookkeeper than a painter. “I suppose one doesn’t really smile for political portraits, Ed.”
She closed the folder firmly and reached over to check his watch. “I did come to fetch you for dinner,” she said standing. “But you should probably change before you catch your death.”
The red standards of the Nazis seemed to have multiplied in the weeks they had been in Munich. They hung as vertical banners on the façades of buildings, flew from flag poles, and occasionally fluttered from the hoods of official cars. They marked the territory and dominion of the Nazi Party, celebratory, ominous. The colour was striking and stark and somehow violent.
Silently Milton took in the crimson swathes of fabric which hung from the gallery as they stood in the Königsplatz. Rowland watched the people, the strange exuberance that seemed to have taken hold of the citizens of Munich. A year ago, when they had visited Berlin, there had been overt dissent. Unionists and Communists had clashed with the Brownshirts. Now resistance had been driven underground. Every now and then Rowland thought he saw it in the eyes of a passer-by, but that was all. The trade unions had been routed, their leadership thrown into Dachau, the membership forced into hiding.
Why the four of them had stopped at the site of the book-burning was a mystery even to them. They were not due at the Bismarck for another hour, but there were other places to pass the time.
Rowland had told his companions of the rehearsal in the Wilhelmstrasse Stadium after Richter had left that morning, as well as the practical joke Unity had orchestrated with the assistance of Putzi Hanfstaengl.
Milton had laughed.
“Do you think they’ll manage to carry it off, Rowly?” Clyde mused.
Rowland shook his head. “I don’t know. Campbell is nobody’s fool…but then we managed to convince Röhm that we were the SS.”
“And,” Milton said on consideration, “who would expect the Chancellor’s Secretary to be playing pranks like a bored schoolboy? If this Hang-and-strangle bloke says ‘This is Herr von so-and-so, he’s a very important Nazi’, why would Campbell doubt him?”
Rowland nodded. Milton had a point.
“Schlampen!” Edna turned to them excited, though she kept her voice down. “By the statue…quickly.”
Milton spotted him. “Right.” He pushed his hat more firmly onto his head. “You blokes stay here….I’m going to go around.”
“Milt…” Rowland began, but the poet had already walked into the crowd.
The boy Edna called Schlampen was standing by the window of a small eatery, peering into the restaurant. It was possibly why he did not notice Milton. The poet walked up quietly and seized the child by the shoulders.
The gypsy boy shouted and fought blindly. Milton held on grimly. “Settle down!” He locked his arm around the boy’s chest. Clyde and Rowland strode over to help. Edna got to them first.
“Careful, Milt,” she pleaded. “Don’t hurt him.”
At that point the boy bit the poet. Milton swore and Clyde grabbed the boy.
“We’re not going to hurt you, Schlampen,” Edna said, grabbing the boy’s hands.
Rowland bent to the boy’s level and translated, speaking to the boy in Bavarian German.
The child replied, shouting at first, but as Rowland persisted, his responses became less belligerent, and longer. They spoke for a while.
“What did he say, Rowly?”
“I asked him where his parents were…if he needed help to get home.”
“And?”
“His mother and sisters are in Vienna. He ran away to visit his father who is apparently interned at Dachau. Incidentally, his name is Sasha.”
“Oh, the poor little mite,” Edna said, placing her hand gently on the boy’s sunken cheek.
He gazed at her startled, his black eyes large in the thin, peaked face.
“What did you do with my watch?” Milton said, still scowling as he nursed the hand which been bitten.
“I’d say it’s well and truly gone by now, Milt,” Clyde murmured, relaxing his hold on the boy. “The little scoundrel’s probably pawned it.”
Sasha stared at Milton and thrust his hand into the pocket of his ragged trousers. Then suddenly, panic seized the boy and he twisted to escape again. Clyde reacted quickly and caught him.
“Was ist das problem hier?”
Rowland turned to the voice and saw what had terrified Sasha. Brownshirts—at least six—had been bored enough to investigate the minor disturbance in the Platz.
“There is no problem,” Rowland replied.
“Who is this boy?”
“Kurt Heidler,” Rowland said, speaking loudly enough to ensure Sasha heard him. “He is the son of an old friend.”
“Why, then, is he trying to get away from you?”
“He ran away from home a week ago…to join the SA. No one could convince him that he was too young.” Rowland smiled. “High spirits and patriotism…His father is worried sick. We’ll take him home and sign him up to the Hitler Youth until he is old enough to join you gentlemen.”
The SA officer stared at Sasha. The boy was unkempt and undernourished, but that was consistent with Rowland’s story. He noticed then the boy’s right hand, clenched in his pocket. The Brownshirt signalled his compatriots and the child was taken from Clyde and searched. Aside from a small knife and a few coins, a gold watch was taken from his pocket.
“Hey, that’s my watch!” Milton exclaimed.
The watch was handed to the officer. He turned it over, studying the inscription on the back. A date: 7th September 1918—the date of Milton’s bar mitzvah—and the name Elias Isaacs. The Brownshirt stiffened, his lip curled.
“You are Elias Isaacs?” he barked.
Rowland did not need to interpret. Milton had realised that his name might give them all away.
“No, I am Albert Greenway. I won the watch from a man called Isaacs in a game of poker.”
Rowland repeated the explanation in German.
The boy, Sasha, watched, listening intently.
The SA officer looked suspiciously at both Milton and Sasha. They were both dark-featured. He had been trained to detect non-Aryan features.
Rowland sensed the Nazi’s line of thought. He introduced his friends quickly, explaining that they did not speak German. He made a point of introducing Edna as Albert Greenway’s sister.
“How did the boy come to have this watch that Herr Greenway won from a Jew?” the man demanded, his nostrils flaring upwards.
Rowland translated even as he assessed their chances of escape. Sasha was now with Edna, shaking as she enveloped him protectively in her arms. The rest of the Brownshirts had
circled them.
Bystanders glanced in their direction but did not turn their heads, continuing determinedly about their business.
“I must have dropped it,” Milton said. “The boy was probably trying to return it to me.”
Rowland repeated the lie in German.
“It does not look like the boy was trying to return the watch to Herr Greenway.” The trooper glared at Sasha.
“Mein Herr,” Rowland began, speaking directly and quietly to the hostile Brownshirt. “As you can imagine, Kurt is a handful, but he is not a bad boy. He admires the SA, and wished only to be a part of Germany’s rise. His transgressions are a misjudgement of youth.” Rowland could see Sasha’s face, the black eyes glittering beneath a bewildered scowl. If the boy contradicted him, the situation could become ugly for them all. He pressed on. “Kurt’s father will no doubt give him a good hiding when we return, and show him a stronger hand from now on. Until then, I will personally see that he causes no further trouble.”
The Brownshirt wavered.
The boy then came to the aid of his own cause. He broke free from Edna, throwing his arm into the fascist salute. “Heil Hilter!” he shouted, in a young, tremulous voice.
The Brownshirt smiled. “Heil Hitler, jungen.” He turned to Rowland. “You tell his father to keep a closer eye on him, but not to beat him. German boys should have a sense of adventure.” He tossed the watch at Milton and signalling his fellow Brownshirts, left the foreigners to deal with the runaway.
Edna held tightly to Sasha’s hand as they watched them depart.
“What do we do now?” Clyde murmured.
“We take him home and feed him,” Edna replied.
“For pity’s sake, Ed, he’s not a stray cat,” Clyde muttered. “We can’t very well take him home and give him a bowl of milk.”
Milton laughed. “Ed’s quite good with cats,” he said, though whether he intended to defend or mock her was hard to tell. “Clueless with children, but cats love her.”
Paving the New Road Page 29
