“Where are your friends?”
“In the car.”
Kisch nodded. “Bring them in. Eisen will get rid of the motor car.”
Clyde took the trunk and the cash from the vehicle before relinquishing the Mercedes’ keys to Eisen.
Any doubts the men of the Underground may have had about the veracity of Clyde’s story were set to rest by the physical state of Rowland Sinclair.
They took them up to the concealed attic. Beimler, who had escaped Dachau, had now fled Germany, but Heinrich remained in hiding. Kisch shook his head grimly as he examined Rowland. “If that arm isn’t set correctly you may never use it properly again, or you may lose it altogether,” he said. “Just two days ago, we had a doctor, but he has escaped to Vienna now.”
“Well, we’d better find another one,” Milton said tensely. “Just look at him…”
“That is not possible.”
“Rowly needs his arm,” Clyde insisted. “Can’t we—?”
“We cannot risk taking him to a doctor…So many are with the Nazis, and the Jewish physicians are watched…It is too much of a risk.”
Rowland pulled his arm away from his chest slowly. “Nancy,” he said quietly. “She trained as a nurse.”
“You need a doctor,” Clyde replied.
“I’m not expecting her to operate.” Rowland flinched as Edna held a soaked cloth to the burns on his chest. “She just needs to pull a bone into place…Surely they teach you that in the first week.”
Milton glanced at the men in the room. “Will they allow us to bring her here?”
“Who is she, this Nancy?” Kisch asked.
“Nancy Wake,” Rowland replied. “She was the girl who scrubbed the Königsplatz with me and Heinrich. She’s Australian originally, now French. She can be trusted.”
“And she’s a journalist,” Milton added. “It mightn’t be a bad idea for you to tell her what’s really going on in Germany.”
Egon Kisch put it to his comrades and for a while they debated the idea of allowing Nancy into their sanctuary. Though he could understand, Rowland did not interfere to argue on his own behalf. Considering what was at stake, he could understand their reluctance to take such a chance on another stranger. Heinrich argued for the idea, recounted the public stance in the Königsplatz with nothing to gain and much to lose. Kisch, too, seemed inclined to take the risk.
Eventually they all gathered around Rowland again. “We must know exactly what happened with the SA.” Kisch pointed at Rowland’s arm. “Why this was done to you.”
Rowland nodded though he was not entirely clear on the incident himself. He took a chance and told the band of fugitives who they really were and why they had come. He spoke slowly, stumbling frequently when pain challenged his coherence. Kisch translated into English so that the Australians could follow the conversation. Rowland explained what they had done at the book-burning. Then he recounted the intrusion of the SA at Richter’s mansion, the exception the Brownshirts had taken to his painting. “They broke my arm to make that point.”
“And the cigarette burns?” Kisch asked, as spokesman for his comrades. “The SA uses such tortures to coerce information. What did they wish you to reveal?”
Rowland shook his head. “Röhm recognised me from the night of the book-burning. He was angry that we had made a fool of him.”
“And then they just left?” Kisch prompted.
“They thought I was dead.” Rowland rubbed his face. He was suddenly unbelievably tired. And dizzy. “Of course, Herr Richter tried rather hard to finish the job…but I got hold of his gun.” Rowland did not see any reason to mention Eva. It was essentially the truth.
Kisch and his comrades conferred. One man suggested they try to set the bone themselves, contending that if they pulled hard enough it should all snap back into place. To Rowland’s relief, the proposal was not popular. Heinrich, who remembered the young woman who had joined Rowland and Göring in the Königsplatz, argued for allowing Nancy Wake into the abandoned factory to help.
Kisch concurred strenuously. “If we allow this man—who put himself in danger to save Comrade Beimler—to lose his limb or worse, what then are we fighting for, Comrades? Is there any point to resistance if we are too frightened to help one another? If we cannot aid a comrade for fear, then Hitler is already the master of our souls!” The writer’s oratory moved the men in hiding and soon helping Rowland Sinclair became a statement of their own resistance. Possibly, it helped that Eisen had not yet returned.
Kisch turned to Milton. “Do you know where to find Miss Wake?”
Milton stood immediately. “Yes. It might take me a little while without the motor.”
Kisch frowned. “We have a bicycle. Can you operate one?”
Milton nodded. He’d had a job delivering telegrams during the Great War. He’d lasted a week, but he’d learned to ride a bicycle.
“It is better you should change clothes,” Kisch said, looking the poet up and down. “You are a little overdressed for cycling…I find coat-tails can get caught in the chain.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
FIRST AID AT HOME:
BROKEN BONES
...Splints can be improvised from almost anything long enough, but they must be well padded, especially where they bear on bony points. Cut the splint material to the length required and pad with newspapers and tie round twice, using triangular bandages. Keep the patient warm. Get in touch with a doctor as soon as possible and do not omit to tell him the nature of the injury, so that he may come prepared and not lose time.
—The West Australian, 1933
It took Milton about two hours to return with Nancy Wake sitting on the handlebars. He had found her asleep in the small flat she shared with another journalist, and pretended he was a suitor inviting her out for a moonlit tryst. She had recognised him and agreed without hesitation. They had meandered back like a young couple on a joy-ride, just in case they were noticed.
She gasped when she first saw Rowland, and then, gathering herself, she smiled. “Kissed the wrong girl this time, did you, Rowly?”
He smiled weakly, and made a valiant but vain effort to stand. “Hello, Nancy.”
She looked dubiously at his arm. “It’s been a while since I’ve even watched anyone set a bone.”
“We don’t have many options, I’m afraid.”
She pushed up her sleeves. “We’d best get started before the bones begin to knit, I suppose.” Nancy borrowed Clyde’s pocketknife and cut off the blood-stained remains of Rowland’s shirt. She stared for a moment at the bruises and burns on his body, before she said, “You’d better remove your belt too, Rowly.”
“Whatever for?”
“You might need something to bite down on while we do this.”
“Oh, right…” Rowland fumbled with the buckle.
Bruised and swollen, the site of the break was obvious though the bone had not come through the skin. Nancy started at the elbow, encircling Rowland’s arm with her hands and manipulating the bone. As she got near the tender lump about halfway down his forearm she asked Clyde to grip Rowland’s hand and pull. Under this tension, she aligned the bone. Egon Kisch and the men in hiding watched closely, offering encouragement and groaning in sympathy. It was not a pleasant process; by the end, Rowland was damp with cold sweat and his belt had seen better days, but once the bone was set in place the relief was significant.
There was, unfortunately, no way to immobilise the limb in a plaster cast, and so after a brief search around the factory, Rowland’s arm was crudely splinted with wooden rulers and secured with packing tape. Nancy was quite pleased with the end result. “It’s quite straight, isn’t it?”
Edna considered it. “It looks a little longer than the other arm.”
Nancy tilted her head, comparing. “Hopefully, that’s just the swelling. If not,” she laughed,
addressing Rowland fondly, “you might need to roll up your shirtsleeves, my darling, so no one notices that one sleeve’s too short!”
“I’ll do that.” Gingerly, Rowland tested the movement in his fingers. “Thank you, Nancy.”
Briefly she caught his eye and, for a glance, the moment was theirs alone. She kissed his cheek quickly. “You did well,” she whispered. “Rest, now.”
Then Nancy Wake sat down on the cot opposite, and held court, much as she had been doing when Rowland first met her. She told the fugitive gathering then what had happened at her interview with Campbell. Egon Kisch translated for his comrades. Quite proudly she recounted how she led and hinted and finally outright asked the leader of the New Guard about the supposed rise of Francis De Groot in his absence.
“Colonel Campbell laughed it off at first. He was rather cocksure and full of himself…boasting that he’d just come from a meeting with the most important men in the Nazi leadership.”
Not quite yet able to laugh, Rowland smiled.
Nancy continued. “But then I showed him the false despatches and he became remarkably quiet. He decided very quickly that he had to get on and, when I asked for another interview, he declined.” She smiled triumphantly. “He said he’s leaving Germany.”
Edna applauded, Milton cheered, and approval was voiced in both German and English. Nancy stood and curtseyed deeply.
Rowland lay back on the worn mattress as the loft buzzed with excitement. The men who spent their days in hiding seized and celebrated this small success, though it meant little to them. Rowland was certainly pleased, but Campbell seemed the least of their worries now. It was nearly dawn. Richter’s body would soon be found and they would be the quarry of a manhunt. If Campbell was leaving, Blanshard would most likely depart with him. They could expect no further help from the Old Guard, anyway. He shook his head….It was a frightful mess.
Edna took his left hand and whispered, “Does it hurt terribly?”
He turned his head to look at her and smiled. “No.”
She seemed sceptical and scared, and so he continued in an effort to reassure her that he was not in excessive pain. “I’m just not sure what we’re going to do, Ed. If they aren’t already doing so, I expect the Munich police and the SA will soon be hunting us. Robert Negus will be wanted for murder and, somewhat inconveniently, the poor chap doesn’t have his passport.”
Edna smiled wistfully. “Well, it’s rather fortunate, then, that you’re Rowland Sinclair.”
Sensing her mood, Rowland squeezed the sculptress’ hand gently. “I’m sorry about Richter, Ed. I know you were fond of him.”
Her eyes grew moist and she shook her head. “I was wrong…How could I have been so wrong, Rowly?”
“We all liked him, Ed.”
“I should have known. I let him treat me like Stasi, a passive pet to be indulged.” Her brow descended angrily. “I can’t believe I was so fooled by him…Oh God…” Her eyes traced the red and blistered line of the burned swastika which seemed to pulsate as he breathed. She swallowed, her throat tightening. “Rowly, they…he might have killed you…if not for Eva…”
Rowland frowned as he thought of Eva. “Damn! ” He stroked Edna’s hand absently. “I wish I’d got through to her…I hope she’ll be all right.”
Edna nodded slowly. “Eva’s Herr Wolf—who do you suppose he is?”
“Some prominent Nazi, would be my guess,” Rowland said, thinking of Röhm’s questions, his determination to exact an admission of a liaison with Eva Braun.
“You don’t suppose it is Mr. Röhm himself?”
“Ed, I got the distinct impression that women do not particularly interest him.”
“Oh, I see.” She bit her lip as she tried to piece together a picture of the SA leader from Rowland’s account. “He’s like Gerald Haxton, then?”
Rowland almost laughed. “Nothing like him, Ed. I don’t suppose either would take to the other. Röhm is a different animal altogether.” He struggled up on the elbow of his good arm. “Richter simply used Eva to summon Röhm like some flaming attack dog.”
Edna sighed. “Alois must have guessed Herr Wolf’s identity. I wonder if Eva realised…”
Rowland looked at the sculptress sharply. The thought had not occurred to him. He had never asked Eva why she’d actually come to Richter’s that night. Closing his eyes, he remembered that moment when he thought she might shoot him, but then her horror at what she had done…No, he was sure Eva had shot Alois Richter only to save him.
“Do you suppose Mr. Bothwell was about to expose Alois?” Edna asked.
Rowland shook his head. “That’s the tragedy of it. Richter seems to have mistaken Bothwell’s spying for the Old Guard as some plot against him. I doubt Peter Bothwell was anything but a friend to the man…Perhaps he tried to reunite him with Anna Niemann…Richter misinterpreted it all.”
Egon Kisch shuffled over to them with two tin enamelled cups of tea and passed out the steaming brews. “We must consider, Comrades, how we are going to get you all out of Germany. In some ways, the Nazis are happy for us to escape, to leave the beloved Fatherland so they can say the Communists have been expelled. But you…they will be looking for you.”
“Can’t we just drive across the border somewhere?” Edna asked.
Kisch laughed. “You come from a great flat country, Comrade Higgins. The borders of Germany are mountainous; the passes through them will be guarded. We could avoid the passes, of course, and cut across, but Comrade Sinclair is in no condition for such a trek.”
“We’ll just have to wait until he is, then,” Milton said joining them.
Kisch leaned in, speaking quietly though his comrades could not understand English. “Comrades, if your friends—those who sent you here—are able to help you…”
Rowland groaned.
“Whatever your falling-out,” Kisch persisted, “it is your best chance. Those of us who have escaped have had friends to help us.”
“We have a friend.” Edna stood. “I’ve got to change. Egon, would you ask your comrades to turn away, please?”
“Pardon me, Comrade Higgins?”
“I’m going to ride that contraption back with Nancy.”
Milton looked up sharply. “No, you’re not.”
“No one will look twice at two girls on a bike,” Edna said, pulling a pair of breeches from the bag she had packed.
Rowland tried to reason with her. “Blanshard was adamant, Ed…He will not help us.”
“I’m not going to see Mr. Blanshard, darling,” she said, bending over to push the hair back out of his eyes. “I’m going to find Mr. Göring.”
Instantly, all sound died in the loft at the mention of the Göring name.
“She means Herr Albert Göring,” Rowland said loudly in German, before suspicion could take hold. And then in English, “Ed, no…”
Edna ignored him and spoke to Kisch and Heinrich. “Mr. Göring has proved his colours, has he not?”
“He was the man who led your protest in the Königsplatz?” Kisch looked to Nancy, who was listening with interest.
She nodded. “Yes, he was truly splendid.”
Kisch translated for Heinrich, who agreed wholeheartedly. “It is a good idea, but you must be careful. The SA will be watching him.”
“I’ll go with you,” Clyde said, putting down his tea.
“No, Clyde, I’ll be less conspicuous alone…or with Nancy. And Mr. Göring knows me and Nancy.”
“It’s a positively smashing idea,” Nancy said, clapping her hands. “And it’s still early. If we hurry, we’ll catch him before breakfast.”
“It’s settled, then,” Edna announced. “Now gentlemen, if you’d all kindly turn away so I can change…”
Edna slipped the black beaded cocktail dress on over her head. She studied herself in the cracked mirror in Nan
cy Wake’s tiny two-roomed apartment. The dress would have been quite chic, worn in the evening. At this time of day, however, it made her look like a certain kind of woman.
They had reached Göring’s hotel in Ludwigstrasse to find that word of the brutal murder of Alois Richter had hit the newsstands. The papers speculated on a foreign conspiracy to assassinate citizens invaluable to the Reich…apparently beginning with the execution of tailors. Magda Goebbels, wife of the Minister for Propaganda, was calling for a ban on the sale of imported garments. Röhm declared that Munich would be scoured and every port checked until Robert Negus was found and brought to justice.
The foyer of the hotel had been posted with guards, in a show of protection. Simply walking in and requesting an interview would not be possible.
And then an idea had begun to glimmer in Edna, the flame of which had been stoked by Nancy, and the sculptress and the journalist had retreated to Nancy’s apartment to prepare.
Nancy Wake’s housemate was fortunately out…possibly reporting on Alois Richter’s murder. Nancy had pulled out the black dress for Edna and a red one for herself which was equally inappropriate for the morning. They applied rouge and scarlet lipstick and blackened their lashes.
Then they caught a motor cab back to Ludwigstrasse.
“Ready?” Edna asked, as they alighted from the car.
Nancy winked and they walked into the hotel foyer arm in arm.
The manager stared as they walked in. Edna braced herself. Would the man recognise her as Mme. Marcel, the demonstrative newlywed?
They spoke to him exclusively in French, telling him that they were there for Monsieur Göring.
Edna put her hand on the manager’s as he reached for the phone. “Please, Monsieur, we are a gift…a special surprise. Monsieur Göring is not to be expecting us.”
The manager turned crimson very quickly. “This will not do…this is not that kind of establishment! The good name of—”
Paving the New Road Page 34
