While Mrs Cornelius had an emotional stake in Doctor Hugenberg’s career, the rest of us did not. It scarcely mattered to me who produced our films. They were not politically sensitive and echoed the fundamental idealism of those in power.
In interviews, following the guidelines laid down by the company, I explained how I had been born in Mississippi, attended the University of St Petersburg, Florida, and as a young flyer volunteered for the White cause, fighting Bolsheviks in the air and at the front line, helping significantly in the defence of Kiev until driven back to Odessa where I was forced to take ship in the general exodus. Ever since then I had spent my time fighting Bolshevism. Like so many I found it a relief to know that Germany now had a shield against the East. Like Winnetou’s Apache war-shield, the Nazis defended my homeland from invasion wherever it threatened, from within or without!
My truncated biography said that after some time in Paris working on an aviation project, I returned to America where I was involved in various political and engineering projects of national importance until being lured away by Hollywood, originally as a stunt flyer. Feeling that stardom was shallow, I had spent some time in the Middle East, exploring the wisdom of ancient peoples. For a while I had been forcibly inducted into Islam. For several years I had led the life of a modern hermit, roving the desert with nothing but my animals, my notebooks, a few necessary possessions and only God to talk to. Returning to civilisation, I served with Mussolini before answering the call of the new Germany, of Adolf Hitler, to come and work for them. I was, I admitted, a great admirer of the NSDAP and our leader-guide. I applauded the spirit of optimism I detected everywhere I went. I prayed that America’s descent into decadence would be halted by the rise of similarly strong leaders and by our public absorbing the ideals and aspirations exemplified by the UfA movies, themselves a continuation of the spirit of the great Karl May.
I was, I knew, a real asset to the studio. Children in particular loved me, and I still received many fan letters from the public. I was therefore astonished when, in March 1934, only a few days after we had completed the sound work on Apache Territory, I received a letter at my apartment telling me that my contract as Cochise, the Apache Prince, would not be renewed and that a German national had been picked to play the role in my place! There was no mention of the airship part. Telephone calls to Mrs Cornelius and Desmond Reid informed me that they had not been replaced by German nationals. Reid seemed cool, and I wondered if he had been involved in my replacement. But Mrs Cornelius was outraged. She would talk to Huggy Bear at the first opportunity. The only other member of the regular cast to receive a similar letter had been Myra Friedmann, who had played my romantic lead. And she, of course, was a German!
I was baffled.
When I contacted the studio I was met with embarrassment and obfuscation. It had something to do with the new Nazi laws, I was told. Doctor Hugenberg had been forced to comply. Everyone felt I had made a wonderful Cochise and nobody could ever really replace me. But the reason for my dismissal remained mysterious. Clearly Mrs Cornelius and Reid, being English, were acceptable. Comic darkies were still in fashion, but Spaniards, Americans, Italians and other riff-raff were no longer needed! Myra called me in tears. She had been dismissed, she told me, because she was Jewish. She wanted to come to my flat and commiserate. I said she was welcome as soon as it was convenient. But really, I did not need her weeping on my shoulder. We had never been close friends.
Happily, I had not spent all my money and was not destitute. On the afternoon of the day I received my letter, I was already leaving messages for Schirach. I needed to meet Göring at once and impress him with what I could do for the new Germany. I was afraid I might be deported. I had no wish to return to Italy or, indeed, to France. Neither could I easily go back to America. I realised that I had been leading a dream life. In some ways I had been lured by the temptations of Satan down the wrong path. I think I knew instinctively that this was God’s benign interference as He strove to put me back on my destined road.
I talked this over with Kitty. She was sure the public would soon demand my return. Meanwhile, Prince Freddy had expressed a longing to see me again. I arranged to visit him the following week.
Mrs Cornelius had dinner with me that evening. She was extremely upset. She had not yet discovered the real reason for my dismissal. It was not, she said, as if the part required a Henry Irving. None of the Nazis thought I was Jewish. Many Aryans looked a damned sight more Jewish than I did. The trouble was that she had very little access to Doctor Hugenberg at the moment. “E feels the Nazis ‘ave cheated ‘im, gorn back on their promises an’ that. Well, I coulda told ‘im abart politicians, Ivan. Eh?’ She chuckled reminiscently. I think she still carried a torch for Trotsky.
I now know she had a presentiment. She became serious for a moment. ‘Too much death, Ive. It’s beginnin’ ter get a bit niffy ‘rahnd ‘ere. Maybe this is ther writin’ on ther wall. Time ter be movin’ on . . .’
I trusted her instinct better than I trusted the voice of my own soul. I remembered how she had tried to warn me of the danger I was in when we got to Egypt, how I had ignored her, how she had stayed as long as she could, but eventually had been forced to get away quickly. Happily, Major Nye had made himself of use to her then. In Cairo I had been deceived into a life of total nightmare, the slave of a sadistic trickster who was on the point of killing me when I was miraculously delivered by fate. I still wondered if my friend Kolya had by now charmed his way into the leadership of some hard-riding tribe. Sometimes I regretted our enforced parting and imagined how we might have lived, heroes of a Karl May novel, princes of a vast Saharan nation, away from all the ills and dirty realities of European and American life. At these times my mind wandered romantically back to those wonderful desert nights.
I occupied my time with writing letters to Doctor Goebbels and Ministerpräsident Göring, outlining my plans for a new Germany in which clean white towers would spring up and curving motorways with graceful lines would merge into a gently undulating horizon below a sky in which my gigantic ships plied their peaceful trade. My great flying cities would rise into the sky, free at last from all earthly follies, free to explore the solar system and beyond. My city is called The New Dawn; she cries out like a woman in pleasure. She ascends into a golden sky. She expands in my womb. A star begins to pulse and grow. It is my city. I am free of pain. I am free of despair. I am free of sorrow. Out of Chaos springs Law. My ship is called The Mother, and she will bring joy and curiosity to the universe.
I was growing nervous. I tried Röhm at all his numbers without success. I left messages, but it was dangerous to say too much. I heard nothing from him. He was rushing about all over the country disciplining his SA units. There was some fuss with the Reichswehr, pledges made. Threats and rising tempers, spluttered statements, cold demands. Fundamentally an apolitical person, I was not, of course, able to follow much of this. I scarcely glanced at the news pages. Until now my attention had been entirely on the show-business reports. The public would not forget me. Still another of my films was yet to appear. I reassured myself. It would be at least five months before my substitute was seen for the fraud he was. I had more than enough money to wait them out and would use my time profitably by following my conscience and my dream.
Es gibt eitien Weg zur Freiheit, as they say. By remaining true to myself, I would survive any setback. This was the hour in which I would be tested.
Putzi Hanfstaengl remained a good friend. When he heard of my plight he laughed rather bitterly. ‘We are useful, and then we are no longer useful.’ He sometimes wondered if he should take his family to America. He had painted himself into a corner. If only Hitler would come to his senses.
I thought the man seemed buried underneath his followers, no longer able to act for himself. Hanfstaengl agreed sadly. ‘He flourishes in the public arena but needs his quiet times, his relaxing times, and is not getting them. He has too much to do. When he’s irritable and erratic he
turns on his friends, accusing them of every infamy. I am a fool to stay here and not defend myself. Himmler and Goebbels are the only people he listens to. Even Göring is no longer taken seriously.’
Hitler must be listening to Röhm. Hanfstaengl was not sure. He sighed. ‘When Hitler changes his mind it means history changes, you know. He claims any new idea is what he always thought. How he always planned it to happen. You know the type. One day you’re his right-hand man, the next you’re a traitor to the whole cause. I can’t take it as easily as I once could. I know they believe I’m too soft. They make all the tough decisions, and all I have to do is talk about them. It’s true in a way. But I didn’t expect . . .’ He had not expected power. He had based his life theories on disappointment, as had so many people at that time. When things went his way, he became uneasy, even suspicious, a peculiar syndrome I had witnessed many times in my life. I knew the symptoms well having seen them exhibited in a suddenly successful anarchist or a Bolshevik. It was interesting to see Hanfstaengl, a man so solidly opposed to such people, displaying the same psychology. He apologised, lifting his huge hands as if they were weights, then letting them slump to his sides.
Baldur von Schirach also seemed tired, as if the responsibilities of power were proving too much for him. His sister and mother were hardly speaking to him, he told me. He was being asked on all sides to intercede for friends and could not possibly help them all. He saw me for coffee at a hotel. I had hoped he would have a word with Göring, but after hearing the poor boy’s woes, I could not bring myself to add to his burdens.
The day after I saw von Schirach I had an appointment with Prince Freddy and Kitty. I drove to the Mongol’s apartment in my little tourer. I was almost relieved not to be working. I rang the bell and ascended into the strange atmosphere. As I stepped into the lobby, I congratulated myself that I could now enjoy my bohemian friend’s distractions entirely at my own leisure and not have to worry about my looks the next morning!
Wearing a flimsy affair in salmon pink, as always with matching shoes, Kitty greeted me. Her strange, flirtatious manner, as if she was trying to seduce me for the first time, made me uncomfortable, but when Freddy Badehoff-Krasnya came into the room, he beamed, embraced me and put me at my ease. He was smoking one of his marijuana cigarettes, which I refused. Instead, I accepted a phial of cocaine. Kitty poured cocktails. The strangely jagged door with its metallic glitter shone in even sharper definition than before. From somewhere Prince Freddy’s Japanese servant appeared. He drew down a brilliant-white screen, revealing, behind a curtain, a 16mm film projector of superb quality. I admired its ‘streamlined’ casing and smiled, having some inkling that I was about to watch myself as the Masked Buckaroo.
‘Oh, this is going to take you back a bit!’ he promised with a wide smile.
Chairs were drawn up, and we settled into them. Prince Freddy said very little but sat close to me and put his tiny hand on my arm. ‘This will be a particular pleasure for me,’ he said.
I realised at that moment my luck had completely deserted me. All my optimism faded as I watched the images on the screen. Neither the Masked Buckaroo nor the White Ace appeared half focused out of the grey darkness of the past. I had never seen the film before and had no idea where it had been shot. I remember thinking the photography rather poor. Then I recognised the ramshackle scenery. The setting was Egypt.
I rose to go. Prince Freddy’s pressure on my arm refused my desire. His gesture had an authority which made my heart sink. And sure enough, the scenes with Esmé flickered to life. I was originally masked, you will recall, with the animal-heads they had made me wear. But in the rape scene I was no longer masked. I watched my poor, tired, reluctant body. All the physical and emotional pain flooded back. Esmé’s wide, gasping mouth, the penis endlessly thrusting into her treacherous little orifices. She had drawn me into that trap. She had brought me first to infamy, and now she would ruin me! I was shaking with outrage when the film was eventually turned off. As the lights went on I stared directly into Kitty’s crazed and perverted eyes.
Prince Freddy was pealing with cold laughter. ‘My dear, dear chap. We aren’t prudes here, you should know that by now. We simply hadn’t realised you were so talented . . .’
The film was an abomination, I told him. Evidence of the horrible surgery which the Moslems had performed upon me.
‘Of course it is!’ Prince Freddy turned away as Kitty pressed her little, thin body against me and kissed my cheek. I moved to distance myself from her. She followed. I moved again, sure she had been framing this situation for some time, getting a perverse pleasure from it. The morphine had removed everything human from her. She was entirely Prince Mongol’s creature. She let her hand fall and stood there grinning into space like a mechanical doll which had suddenly wound down. Prince Freddy murmured something to her, and she left the room. He relished his complete control of the situation, my knowledge that he could, if he wished, ruin me, even have me put in prison under the new, strict morality laws being issued by the party.
‘What are you going to do with the film?’ I was furious. Had I been armed I would have killed him.
‘Nothing.’ He knew exactly what I was thinking. It enhanced his power. ‘We are friends, dear Max. Friends do not expose one another to needless publicity. I would not betray you to the authorities any more than you would betray me. You know my discretion already.’
I relaxed a little. True, he had little to gain and might well lose his own reputation if he handed the film over to the police. I began to explain how I had been blackmailed into making the film, how I had been a prisoner in Egypt, close to death. But for a fluke I would never have escaped. There were others in Munich, I said, who could vouch for all of this.
He seemed sympathetic, as usual. ‘We are all forced to compromise ourselves at some stage in our lives. We learn humility from such experiences.’
Kitty came back into the room. She was carrying a large, leather-bound scrapbook of the kind used for press cuttings. ‘My inheritance,’ she said. She handed it to Prince Freddy. She made no attempt to explain the book, nor did Prince Freddy. We all understood what it contained. ‘Humility’ Prince Freddy carried the book behind another curtain, leaving me with Kitty. She shrugged. She seemed almost as out of focus as the film we had been watching. I did not need to relearn that particular humiliation, but it appeared I was to have no choice.
At that moment I remember feeling an odd, inner chill, a profound suspicion that Kitty and Prince Freddy had conspired to kill her mother! It is simply not possible for a man of my kind to imagine the levels of infamy such people will go to and what delight they take in trapping others in their webs! For all my experience of the world I remain an innocent. Mrs Cornelius says as much.
I was to pay a price, however, for Prince Freddy’s discretion. The new government was blocking many of his old ways of making a living, therefore he must find new ways. He had had some experience with film-making in the past. He had regular customers, many in the party hierarchy here in Munich. He would let me wear a mask — a good one — and Kitty would be my only female partner. It was not much to pay, he said wide-eyed, for his silence. Another man might have asked far more.
I was in an appalling position. If I refused, he would release the film to the press who would be only too glad of the story. It would be big news across the Continent. If I accepted his offer, I compounded my situation and would be drawn in deeper and deeper. Yet I had no choice. How I wished Ernst Röhm were with me. I knew exactly how he would have responded. Prince Freddy would by now be on the carpet with a broken neck. But as it was, he had me in his power.
We filmed the thing at Prince Freddy’s place in a day and a night. The camera was locked away, the actors paid and Prince Freddy congratulated me on my performance. He was honoured to work with a pro, he said. With deep dread I knew this would not be the only time he would call on me to perform. My hubris had led me to this, just as it had led to my captivity and torment
in Egypt. I could not bear to go through all that again. I considered suicide.
Early in the morning after the filming I returned to my apartment. This time it was immediately obvious my rooms had been searched. The intrusion was less expert than before. Was more than one agency taking an interest in me? At least I had trusted my instincts and kept most of my valuable things in Corneliusstrasse. As soon as possible I would make sure they were safe. Who was following me? Had my association with Prince Freddy been noted by the powers that be? Was he also a spy? My stomach turned over at the thought. I went instantly to my store of cocaine and found it untampered with. I took a massive dose, and slowly my confidence returned. My most sensible plan was to register this break-in with the authorities. That way it would be clear I had no fear of them. Then I must get in touch with Göring and solicit his help. Surely Mrs Cornelius could be prevailed upon to help, considering my potential danger? Putzi still to some degree had the Air Marshal’s ear. He would certainly help me. I made myself some coffee, showered and dressed in my best, most conservative clothes, ready to report what I suspected.
The Vengeance of Rome Page 58
