I began to speak of this to Röhm, but he was not in the mood to listen.
‘We’ll go to the pictures tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘There’s a film I want to see at the Karlsplatz. A comedy. It’ll cheer us up. We’ll meet at the Kino. Fourteen forty-five sharp. In the foyer. Dress down. We’re going to have to take some ordinary precautions.’
As I have said, Röhm was rapidly distancing himself from me emotionally. For once in my life I was too dim to realise it. I should have known a soldier like him could not afford to lose himself in love. Part of his contradictory nature was explained by his masculine duty being constantly at odds with his feminine sensitivity.
The sun had still not risen when we returned to Röhmannsvilla. Yet I had to remain in the car while Röhm went cautiously in to get my things. Strasser said very little. Not once had his eyes met my own. He seemed no friendlier towards Röhm. No doubt he considered himself superior to us. He was a deputy, of course. He had a wife. A business. He had his own car. He would drive it home.
Our chauffeur restarted the Mercedes’s engine. Röhm was embarrassed and a little apologetic. He offered Strasser a reassuring gesture and turned to me. ‘It’s no good your staying at the villa. We’ll have to avoid too much friendly association for a bit. Don’t want you to be endangered, you know. Don’t want anyone putting one and one together and making two, eh?’
I murmured that I appreciated the need for discretion, but what would our driver report? Röhm was amused by this. His driver was a trusted SA man willing to die for his Captain if necessary.
We drove directly to Munich and the Königshof. Noticed only by a frowning night porter, I made my way swiftly to my room. Dawn came at last. The night seemed to have gone on for ever. Another foul dream over. I must admit I was totally exhausted and wished only to forget the entire disgusting episode. Why had I allowed myself to be dragged into Röhm’s scheme? And for what? How could that perverted creature in Tegernsee ever hope to be Chancellor of Germany?
A man’s life plan takes him down some strange paths, I thought. Then I sniffed one of my powders and, my mood much improved, was soon in a deep and dreamless sleep.
I slept until noon when I was forced awake by the loud banging on my door. Thinking it was a telephone message from Röhm to change the time, I dragged on a dressing gown and stumbled to answer the knocking. Instead of a busboy, I was greeted by a somewhat surly Frau Socking, the head housekeeper, who had until now been rather pleasant. Her speech seemed rehearsed. ’I am sorry, Herr Peters, but you have to vacate your room today.’
‘At once? An emergency?’
‘Refurbishment works,’ she said firmly but without conviction. ‘The manager has asked me kindly to ask you to find fresh accommodation.’ She softened apologetically but recovered herself. ‘By tomorrow.’
I was baffled, suspecting every kind of attack from every possible source. Had Hitler found out about me? Unlikely. Had Röhm turned against me? Equally unlikely. Mussolini’s people? My male and female nemeses, the Baroness, Frau Oberhauser, and Comrade Brodmann? Surely neither of these would have influence over such a respectable hotel? I protested. I would speak to the manager.
Realising I would be meeting Röhm in a couple of hours and knowing that he had considerable influence in Munich, I decided to avoid serious confrontation. After bathing, ‘coking’ and preparing myself elegantly for the day, I strolled down to the lobby and ordered some coffee. At the reception desk I asked to speak to the manager, knowing he was almost certainly at his lunch. Sure enough he was not currently available. I left my card and said I had an important meeting this afternoon. I would return later. Meanwhile I assumed my room would not be disturbed. I would no doubt be ready to leave by that evening or the next morning. I also took it for granted that the presentation of a bill would not add insult to injury. I spoke with some force. I had no intention of being identified as a common bilker. They knew that I was a Hollywood star. To his credit the youth at the reception desk dropped his gaze, blushed and promised to pass on the message. I made it clear that I was extremely displeased.
My own belief at that time was that my association with various high-ranking members of the NSDAP had not improved my standing at the hotel. Röhm and Strasser were associated with the party’s left wing and had once even proposed a pact with Soviet Russia. The party was not, after all, the party of the rich and powerful, but the party of the poor and powerless. What was more, hoteliers were infamous snobs. Too many Prussian noblemen had declared themselves socialists for a gentleman’s politics to be trusted any longer.
Influential anti-Nazi elements in Munich included top policemen and politicians. The press speculated wildly about the Raubal case. Some hotels, shops and restaurants went so far as to refuse Nazis service. What possessed them to punish only the Nazis, when the Sozis were equally guilty of excesses, I need not tell you. The flow of stolen imperial gold from Russia into Central and Northern Europe at that time was as steady and as unstoppable as the Rhine herself.
I had already experienced the management’s animosity, and they had been cavalier in moving my room. Whatever the reason — and I did not suspect a mistake - it was prudent to look for a hotel that would give me credit. My credit at the Königshof was overextended. No doubt this had not improved their attitude in spite of my assurance that I was due to receive sums from Los Angeles and New York at any moment.
Without credit, however, it would be difficult to find a decent place. I would have to make some rapid arrangements. Taking a discreet pinch of ’snuff’ on my wrist, I strolled through the pleasant autumn weather to meet Röhm at the Karlsplatz. No doubt he or one of his powerful friends might be able to help. Yet underlying my pleasure in the day was a shadow of a question. Had I already been betrayed? I pushed the ideas aside. I am not by nature a suspicious man.
In compliance with Röhm’s request, I had dressed ‘German’ in my borrowed Crombie and Tyrolean hat with a big scarlet scarf flung over my shoulder. On the inside of my lapel was my party badge, the fashion among many middle-class Nazis.
Still something of a somnambulist, I managed to get to the big cinema at Karlsplatz. An historical extravaganza was playing as the main feature. I remember being mystified by the title, Der Kongress tanzt (Congress Dances). Would I have to endure some unfathomable expressionist film of which the Germans were so proud? I had already seen Caligari and the like, and while I had found Der Golem especially involving, I was not a great fan.
I entered the lobby at the same time as my friend in his wide-brimmed beaver hat, a loden overcoat with a tall wolfskin collar, dark glasses, the usual make-up over his scars. Today Röhm, too, wore his badge inside his lapel. Pretending to take an interest in the posters for coming presentations, he indicated I should join him in the men’s urinal. As soon as we were alone, he gave me my ticket. We would go in separately, he said. I had not, he was sure, been followed.
This was surely overly cautious? But Röhm was a planner; his success was due to his ability to foresee every possible detail. So we entered the auditorium individually after the lights had dimmed. When it was safe, we joined each other in the dark of the expensive back rows. He had bought one of those boxes of chocolates they sell in foyers. He told me to eat all the dark ones. He preferred milk. He shouldn’t have chocolate at all with his arthritis.
Even as we settled in our seats, the interior was slowly transformed to a glorious cathedral of multicoloured neon. There came the wafting scents of spring roses. Pretty blonde girls in traditional costume went up and down the aisles freshening the air with spray guns. Then the whole theatre vibrated to the roar of a single, massive chord. Playing selections from well-known film scores, from the lovely operettas of Strauss and Lehar, the great organ began to rise from the pit.
My Virgil seemed tense, but he was jovial enough in his passing remarks, loosening his clothing and lighting a cigarette. The back of the Kino was completely empty. A few couples occupied the front seats together with
some solitary men, but nobody was interested in us. Unusually, Röhm smelled of spirits. I heard the swill of a bottle in his pocket.
We began as usual with a newsreel. The excitement of the current political situation, the dominance of the Nazis in the Reichstag. The need for strong government. A rally of Nationalists and their own supporters, the impressive Stahlhelm battalions. Various Nationalist politicians were prominent. There were pictures of Hindenburg and of Hitler, of von Schleicher, von Papen and various other politicians. A general milling about outside parliament. Sozis raising their clenched fists in the air. Storm Troopers giving Nazi salutes, clearly in defiance of a disapproving constabulary. Nazi deputies returning the salutes as they made their way en masse into parliament. Socialists returning the clenched fist signal. All it needed was a deputy or two making scissors with their fingers and we should have had the entire scissors-paper-stone routine. Perhaps that was the origin of Churchill’s famous V-sign?
A mixture of Nazi uniforms and conventional pinstripes. Hess and Strasser mounting the steps. Scenes inside the Reichstag. Where is Hitler? Goebbels speaking to the congress. Shots of the corner of Prinzregentenplatz. Policemen interviewed. Considerable space given to the death of the niece of ‘prominent young Munich politician’ Adolf Hitler. Various other men gesticulating urgently. A general sense of tension and uncertainty. Röhm seemed horrified when, for a few moments, his gigantic uniformed image appeared on the screen. He was, of course, an increasingly well-known figure. No mention of him was made by name, but the marshalled ranks of Storm Troopers were testimony to his power.
I do not remember if there was sound. In those days the news-reels did not always have it, since most regional theatres were not converted. Röhm seemed unhappy with the reporting. He said that it was UfA news and that meant it was slanted towards the ideas of a few reactionary old industrialists who wanted to restore the Wittelbachs and the Kaiser. He relaxed into innocent amusement as we watched a concoction called something like Nie wieder Liebe. I found it mildly funny but Röhm was roaring and slapping at himself, his bottle forgotten. He was in excellent spirits when the two-reeler came on, a Western with Buck Jones. Jones was a new star, the best type of All-American boy, righting wrongs and rescuing fair maidens. Full of wild action and wholesome heroics, the film was well above the usual quality. People find it fashionable to mock at morality these days, but I see nothing amusing in showing evil thwarted and virtue triumphant. Röhm loved these tales. He nudged me once and whispered in fun that Mr Jones was an even better rider than I. The film had been given a decent budget. The subtitles were German, of course. Not a talkie, but a musical soundtrack had been attached. Röhm agreed with me that he would rather have a live orchestra.
Next came a pre-war Douglas Fairbanks Keystone comedy in his old style, with organ accompaniment, the titles in Gothic German, giving them all a vaguely Victorian quality, but the sparse audience filled that great cinema with appreciative laughter. Mack Sennett was a hero in Germany. They were fond of saying how much of the technology had been invented by Germans, how many of the American film-makers had German names. I sensed a peculiar feeling of goodwill towards America in those days, because the USA had not fallen into the vengeful trap of the rest of the Allies and made vast, unmeetable reparation demands on the defeated country.
With over a third of her citizens of German origin, America had no great animosity towards Germany. America had not been the cause of inflation. Wall Street, as Germans were fond of saying at that time, was not Wisconsin. When Röhm explained the reality, it made perfect sense. Most of Germany’s major national debts were either paid in deliberately inflated currency or written off. Big Business had taken advantage of a disaster which left ordinary families destitute but allowed private companies to make massive profits in foreign currency. Until the government produced the new hard mark those few fat businessmen benefited very well from inflation. Their profits were not poured back into the needy country but sent to Switzerland, England, Liechtenstein and America. Röhm understood this as well as any Bolshevik.
The understanding was beginning to dawn on the victors, too, I think, that an impoverished nation impoverishes the nations it trades with. The French and American Jews in particular had been quick to take advantage of Germany’s rock-bottom prices. With his eyes fixed on the screen, Röhm talked through the Keystone comedy in a low monotone which only I could hear. He was clearly a man obsessed. He had come here with the intention of forgetting his problems, but the problems had followed him into the Kino.
He only fell completely silent when the main feature, a glossy confection set in Vienna some time early in the nineteenth century, began, a talkie. I must admit, I was astonished by the quality of the sound. It was as if a full orchestra was playing in the theatre and the voices of the performers filled the air like a choir of angels. Slowly I was drawn into the wonderfully complex plot, featuring Metternich’s various machinations with wonderful romantic performances from Lilian Harvey, Conrad Veidt and Willy Fritsch. We even saw our great Russian Emperor Tsar Alexander represented. Waltzes were danced and balls were given, peasants sang and the world was merry, full of promise, for together we had defeated the threat from Napoleon. A high moment for Europe.
Both Röhm and I were enraptured by the film. I fell in love with Lilian Harvey. I could almost smell her. She was gorgeous and naturally graceful, a girl of the people very much of the Mrs Cornelius type, with the same helmet of white-blonde hair. The vital young Englishwoman, singing beautifully in German, was a great star here. The scene where she sings on her way to visit Willy Fritsch (as Tsar Alexander) and all the peasants join in with her has been copied a million times since. The background of the charming romance was the founding of the Holy Alliance between Prussia, Austria and Russia after Napoleon had been exiled to Elba. A serious political theme, telling us something of current political attitudes, which also engaged Röhm’s attention.
The Germans, of course, had always led the field in kinematography, and there was no faulting this extraordinary operetta, the form in which they were also the unrivalled masters. The extravaganza was produced with so much more flair and taste than those more famous American musicals which came to imitate Der Kongress tanzt and its successors.
No wonder the Hollywood studios were all over Berlin, especially at UfA’s great Neubabelsberg headquarters where American scouts were courting all the top directors and stars. Germany, as the German papers never stopped telling us, was second only to America in film production and exports. UfA owned film, distributor and the cinema we sat in.
We left just before the lights went up. Röhm said he hadn’t seen a more delightful film in years. We were both humming the melodies as he led me into the street and hailed a cab, shoving me through the door and giving an address in the respectable southern suburb. Once in the cab he pulled down the blinds and relaxed. ‘Nobody on our tail,’ he said.
I began to think he was disturbed. Or did he know more than I did?
I asked him where we were going, and he smiled tenderly, kissing me briefly on the cheek. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘You’ll love it. They’ll love you. You’ll behave yourself. You always do.’
Sure enough, to my enormous astonishment, Röhm was taking me to meet his family!
Röhm’s mother and sister lived in a very pleasant house in a tree-lined avenue. The main parlour, where I sat while Röhm had a private word with his sister, was dominated by a mirror-polished ebony grand piano. Otherwise the room was rather sparsely furnished and seemed hardly used. It looked out through long French windows to a balcony and the wide street beyond the trees. Prints of Ney and Wellington hung on the walls, pictures of Cromwell’s victories, military engravings of Prussian cavalry on parade. A bust of Beethoven in black marble looked over the piano. Pale green wallpaper. A pretty Meissen urn on the piano’s dark reflection. Clearly Röhm, rather than his mother and sister, had furnished this parlour. It had an austere, masculine air to it, was not ‘lived in’, but
more likely ‘mused’ in. Röhm played the piano less and less because his long, sensitive fingers had begun to feel, he said, as if they were full of shrapnel. I knew the sensation. Sometimes I have it in my stomach.
I could not help being mystified. First Röhm warned that our intimacy must no longer be public. Then he took me to visit his mother! I think, looking back, that he was in emotional turmoil and I must say I cannot blame him. Perhaps he wanted me to see this other side of him because some instinct warned him that he would be ferociously libelled by his enemies within the party and, through them, by the world. Did he understand that somehow I would survive the coming deluge? Is that why he wanted me to know what I already knew, that he was a sophisticated and sensitive human being? Behind that military swagger, that Bavarian bonhomie, that fixed conservatism of his class and calling, there was, I believe, an artist, an intellectual. He could be cruel. At times he could certainly advocate and order brutality, even if he did not take part in it. But these were brutal times. Like the soldier-priests of old, a man had to cultivate the sword as well as the pen to survive in post-war Germany. I was not nervous of him. He loved me. In a way I also loved him. Germany might fear him, but I did not.
The Vengeance of Rome Page 42
