Rowland considered the Romany boy. There was nothing more to him than skin and bone. “We’ll start out by feeding him,” he decided. “We’ll work something out after that.”
They found a restaurant that was willing to admit them with a small, dirty child in tow. It was a basic little eatery, sandwiched between two much larger buildings which blocked almost all the natural light. The wooden dining booths were lit by overhead kerosene lanterns and candles. The menu was short, but the business was clean and almost empty.
“Steady on, mate!” Rowland put his hand on Sasha’s bony shoulder as the child launched into the basket of bread on the table and tried to cram an entire roll into his mouth. “You’ll choke.” He checked the time and turned to the others. “What say I go meet Nancy and bring her back here? Don’t wait to order,” he added, glancing at the boy, who was now on his third roll.
The Bismarck was only a five-minute walk away and so it was not long before Rowland returned with Nancy Wake. On the way back he had apprised her of the unexpected addition to their party.
“He came all the way from Vienna by himself?” Nancy asked, shocked.
“The little scamp was probably stowed away on the Orient Express when we first came over. He seems a rather resourceful chap.”
“But he’s just a child.”
“He is.” Rowland shook his head. “It appears the poor lad’s been in Munich all this time, entirely on his own.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t come to the attention of the SA before now,” Nancy said. “The gypsies have always been blamed for the petty crime that occurred in Munich. And the Nazis pledged to restore law and order.”
“It would be just like the SA to do so by bullying a child,” Rowland said tersely.
“If you can get him back to Vienna, at least he’ll be safe,” Nancy replied.
When they walked into the restaurant, young Sasha was devouring sausage. Although he was no longer trying to fit as much into his mouth as possible, he hunched over the food as if he were afraid it would escape. Edna had somehow managed to procure a large glass of milk for him as well. She stroked his hair and observed as he ate, entirely ignoring Milton, who was making purring sounds.
“How long has it been since you last ate something, Sasha?” Rowland asked, as he sat down.
Unwilling to stop chewing, the boy held up five fingers.
“What are we going to do with him?” Clyde asked. “We can’t leave him on his own.”
Rowland studied Sasha for a moment. The child could not have been ten. “We’ll have to take him back to Richter’s until we determine a way to send him back to his mother.”
“What are we going to tell Richter?”
“That we found a little boy who needs help,” Edna said firmly. “Alois is too kind not to be glad. He’ll understand that we couldn’t just leave him to the SA.”
And so it was agreed. They did not question the boy further, allowing him to eat as they spoke with Nancy Wake.
The young journalist was excited. “Colonel Campbell returns from Berlin today,” she said. “I have an appointment to interview him tomorrow afternoon.” She took an envelope out of her handbag. “My friend from the Guardian helped me mock these up,” she said, showing them what appeared to be media despatches from Australian correspondents.
Milton scanned through them. He laughed suddenly. “Look at this, Rowly,” he said, sliding the sheaf across the table.
Rowland’s eyes moved quickly over the page. “De Groot? By George, that’s brilliant!” He looked up at Nancy, who laughed proudly. “Campbell will completely lose his rag if thinks De Groot is staging a coup.”
Captain Francis De Groot was Eric Campbell’s deputy of sorts. A slight, retiring man, who had, by a single act the previous year, gained a notoriety that eclipsed that of his media-courting Commander-in-Chief. During the official opening of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, De Groot had charged in on horseback and slashed the ribbon ahead of the then-Premier of New South Wales. Overnight, he had become a hero of the right wing and Rowland suspected that fact irked Campbell.
They spent the afternoon going through the questions Nancy had prepared, making suggestions and laughing as they anticipated Campbell’s reaction. They spoke in English so Sasha could understand none of it. They kept him distracted for a while with food. When he’d eaten more than seemed humanly possible for such a small boy, he curled up on the bench and slept. They let him be. Every now and then Edna reached over and patted the boy.
Chapter Thirty-four
ART PILLORY
A NAZI SHOW
BY ELLA A. DOYLE
(of Sydney, writing from Munich)
There are two specimens of Dadaism —framed compositions of bits of wire-netting and string and galvanised wire and linoleum and post-cards.
Underneath every picture in the exhibition the price paid for it is given, together with the name of the gallery which bought it, and on a red placard in white lettering one reads “Paid for out of the taxes imposed on the German workers!”
—The Sydney Morning Herald, 1937
Alois Richter had not yet returned from the business which had taken him temporarily out of Munich, and so Rowland was forced to explain Sasha to Mrs. Schuler. The housekeeper was clearly unhappy and not predisposed to making the boy welcome.
“He can sleep on the chaise lounge in my bedroom,” Rowland said, when she moved to assign the child to the servants’ quarters under her charge. “It’s only for a night or two, until we can get him back to his mother.”
“Very well, Herr Negus.” She glared at Sasha. “I have counted the silverware,” she said, wagging her finger at the boy. “I know everything in this house. If anything is so much as moved one inch, I will know!”
“He is not a thief, Frau Schuler,” Rowland lied. “You need not worry.”
They took charge of Sasha themselves, seeing that he was fed once more, and bathed. Mrs. Schuler burned the ragged clothes, insisting that they were infested with parasites, and so one of Milton’s shirts served to clothe the boy as an interim measure. Rowland bypassed the housekeeper and sent one of the housemaids to procure some clothes for the child. When Sasha had been settled under blankets on the chaise lounge in Rowland’s room, Edna braved Mrs. Schuler’s hostility, venturing into the kitchen and returning triumphantly with milk.
Rowland spoke to the boy again. No longer afraid of them, Sasha answered his questions.
“What are we going to do with the cheeky blighter?” Milton asked finally, falling back on Rowland’s bed. “We can’t very well just put him on a train.”
Rowland loosened his tie. “Ed, that Dadaist chap— von Eidelsöhn—has he left yet?”
“For Austria? Hans is going tomorrow or the day after…He didn’t want me to see him off,” Edna replied.
“Of course, he wouldn’t,” Rowland said, glancing at the sculptress. The presence of Edna could well undermine both the will and the ability of any man to leave with dignity. “But we might have to go see him tonight, regardless. He could take Sasha back to Vienna with him and see that the boy’s returned to his family.”
Milton sat up. “That could work.”
Rowland grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. “Right, then—Ed and I will go speak with him now. You two best stay here and protect the poor little chap from that Schuler woman.”
Hans von Eidelsöhn was living in his studio. His work and equipment had already been packed and shipped and all that remained in the generous space was an iron bed and a large suitcase. Given the lateness of the hour he answered their knock cautiously, looking out through a barely cracked door before admitting them. Clearly bewildered, he greeted Rowland with his eyes on Edna. He kissed her hand tenderly and then both cheeks, embracing her as he did so. Rowland cleared his throat.
Edna told him why they had come.
Von Eidelsöhn seemed to collapse a little. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” he stammered. “I hoped that you had decided to come with me.”
“Oh, Hans,” Edna said softly. “That is just not possible.”
Rowland stared out of the uncurtained window, giving them what privacy he could. He had no wish to witness any sign of intimacy between the two, in any case. It was how Rowland had always borne his regard for Edna.
It was perhaps because he was looking so determinedly at the street outside the studio that he saw them: a fleeting glimpse as the men walked through the edges of the yellow cast of a streetlight. Stormtroopers.
“Mr. von Eidelsöhn,” he asked, without turning from the window. “Are you aware that you are being watched?”
Von Eidelsöhn was startled, releasing Edna quickly to switch off the studio’s solitary lamp. Rowland waited until the artist was standing beside him before he pointed out the figures of the men who stood across the street and the commercial van parked a few buildings away.
“Meine liebe Gott,” von Eidelsöhn said grimly. “I have not seen them before.”
“Have you ever looked?” Rowland asked, wondering if the surveillance had just begun or whether von Eidelsöhn was not particularly observant.
“I have not,” von Eidelsöhn admitted. He smiled wryly. “I suppose it is a compliment to be considered so subversive.”
“But why?” Edna asked, pressing her face to the window pane. “What have you done?”
“My work,” von Eidelsöhn replied. “Dictatorship and oppression rely on a conspiracy of society and tradition. My art challenges the apathy of the masses.”
Rowland’s brow twitched upwards. Apathy-challenging was not the way Clyde had described von Eidelsöhn’s work, but then surely the SA were not vigilante art critics. Perhaps they had read some political message into the piles of old hats and empty pails.
“What do you think they’re up to, Robbie?” Edna asked.
“I don’t know.” Rowland frowned. “Perhaps they’re just making sure Mr. von Eidelsöhn leaves…or taking note of who visits him.” He glanced at the suitcase and addressed the artist. “Is that all you have?”
“Yes, I’m catching the train to Vienna tomorrow. The rest of my things have been sent on already.”
“Perhaps you should leave with us…Is there a back way to this place?”
“Yes, there’s an alley from the street behind. It’s a little awkward…”
“We’ll leave that way, then, and hail a motor cab a couple of streets away. I’ll come back for the car tomorrow when you and Sasha are safely on the train.”
Von Eidelsöhn looked at them, alarmed. “Do you think it’s really necessary?”
Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m inclined to be cautious.”
“Very well.” Von Eidelsöhn fumbled about the dark room, throwing a few last items into the suitcase and making up the bed, ensuring the covers were taut and smooth.
Rowland thought the last a little odd, but he let the man be. They were in no particular hurry, though he did wonder what the watching Brownshirts thought the three of them were doing up here in the dark.
When von Eidelsöhn was finally ready, they slipped out of the apartment and onto a small balcony at the rear of the building. From there, von Eidelsöhn tossed his suitcase onto the balcony of an adjoining building. There were about three feet between the two. Obviously well accustomed to using this exit, von Eidelsöhn climbed onto the iron railing and leaped across. Edna removed her shoes. Rowland helped her up on the railing as she too prepared to jump. She glanced down and took a deep breath. He had not yet released her hand when she slipped.
Edna stifled a scream. It came out as a strangled gasp. Rowland held her with one hand. Her shoes clattered to the ground below. She looked up into Rowland’s face, fixed her gaze on his dark blue eyes, and hoped he would not let her go. Rowland had no intention of doing so. He bent over the railing and secured her with his arm around her waist. For a moment they did not move, all straining for any sounds that the Stormtroopers at the front of the building had heard, that they were coming to investigate. Rowland could feel Edna’s heart beating against him as he held her, his feet firmly on the balcony floor, hers in mid-air. There was nothing but the sounds of warring cats in the alley.
Now von Eidelsöhn reached across and grabbed the sculptress. Edna put her arms around his neck. Rowland did not release her until he was certain von Eidelsöhn’s grip was sure, and then he relinquished her to the German artist’s arms.
Von Eidelsöhn dragged Edna onto the second balcony and embraced her silently.
Rowland stopped to catch his breath before he climbed onto the railing himself and jumped across.
Edna pulled away from von Eidelsöhn and reached up to kiss Rowland’s cheek. “Thank you, Rowly,” she whispered.
He smiled. “We’d best go find your shoes.”
They climbed down the narrow stairs into the alley, but in the darkness they found only one shoe.
“Leave it,” Edna decided. “We won’t be walking far.”
And so two men and a barefoot woman stepped out into the night. They walked several blocks. Occasionally, a passer-by did notice Edna’s naked feet, but other than a few disapproving glares, they were unmolested. Rowland hailed the first motor cab he saw and directed the driver to Richter’s.
Mrs. Schuler was clearly livid. “I remind you, Herr Richter’s home is not a hotel,” she spat at Rowland, when they returned with yet another houseguest.
Fortunately their host had returned. “Frau Schuler,” Richter said pleasantly, “I will deal with this, thank you…Perhaps you could make up a bed for Herr von Eidelsöhn in the room the gentlemen use as a studio.”
She sniffed and, glowering at Rowland, shuffled off to see to the request.
“Please forgive her, my young friends,” Richter pressed his palms together apologetically. “She has been looking after me for so many years.”
“Not at all,” Rowland replied. “We realise that we are imposing on your hospitality.”
Richter shook von Eidelsöhn’s hand warmly. “You are very welcome, my boy. I am only sorry of the circumstances.” He looked sternly at Edna’s feet. “You will make yourself ill, Leibchen. The pavements are cold and dirty. I have already told one of the maids to draw you a bath.” And thus, with fatherly concern, he sent her off.
The gentlemen gathered in the drawing room to drink brandy.
“Stasi and I have missed much excitement, it seems,” Richter said, stroking the dog who, as always, seemed incapable of excitement. “Mr. Greenway and Mr. Ryan told me of your latest encounter with the SA. You acted wisely, gentlemen. It is not becoming for the State to bully children, however mischievous they may be.”
“I just hope Mr. von Eidelsöhn will be able to find Sasha’s mother in Vienna,” Clyde said, as he swirled his brandy.
“My family is not without means and contacts in Austria,” von Eidelsöhn said quietly. “I give you my word that I shall find the boy’s mother and until then I will see that he is well cared for.”
Rowland nodded, aware that the prefix “von” indicated some kind of aristocratic lineage. He assessed von Eidelsöhn silently. The man was in love with Edna, but otherwise he had no reason to dislike him. Indeed, he could hardly blame von Eidelsöhn for being enamoured of the sculptress. “Miss Greenway has become very fond of the boy,” he said.
Milton nodded gravely. “She thinks he’s a cat.”
Both Richter and von Eidelsöhn looked strangely at the poet, but Milton simply smiled.
“Then whatever I can do for the boy will be a demonstration of my regard for Millicent,” von Eidelsöhn declared sincerely and earnestly. “You can rest assured, Mr. Negus, that the boy will be well.”
“What about the SA?” Clyde asked. “If they’re following von Eid
elsöhn, perhaps we shouldn’t—”
“I will accompany you to the train myself,” Richter said firmly. “Röhm and his thugs will not bother you!”
Rowland glanced at his friends. They had not seen the SA outside the mansion since Richter had complained to Himmler. Perhaps the Reich’s tailor had more power than they thought.
“Righto, then,” Rowland said. “That’s the plan.”
“What’s the plan?” Edna came in at that moment. She had changed, her feet were once again clad, and she held onto the hand of the boy whose fate they were discussing. “Sasha woke up,” she said. “I thought I should bring him down to meet Alois and Hans.”
Richter spoke first, approaching the boy and speaking softly. Sasha climbed onto the couch beside Stasi, pressing his face against the glossy black coat. The dog moved one ear.
Rowland looked at the tailor curiously. “That wasn’t German.”
“I speak a little Romany,” Richter said. “Picked it up as a young man.”
Von Eidelsöhn shook Sasha’s hand solemnly and explained in Bavarian that he would take him back to Vienna and his mother. The boy considered him for a moment and nodded.
Rowland was relieved. He wasn’t sure what they could have done if Sasha had refused to go, but as it was, the child seemed eager to return to his mother.
Richter played Wagner on the gramophone and summoned Mrs. Schuler, asking the housekeeper to bring sweets for the boy. Edna reminded her to also bring milk.
Von Eidelsöhn asked Sasha about his family, where they had last stopped their caravans. The child answered with directions that seemed familiar to the artist. Sasha’s father had crossed the border on some sort of business, which Rowland assumed was not entirely legal. He had fallen foul of the SA, and been sent to Dachau.
Richter put his arm around the boy and spoke to him in Romany. Rowland could not understand, of course, but Sasha seemed to respond to the gentle tailor.
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