She obeyed with poor grace. Lips pursed, eyes hard, she jerked her head for me to follow her and stamped off in the direction of their home. As we walked I talked to her. ‘I did not desert you, my dear, I promise you that. I had no chance to speak to you before I left.’
‘You could have written,’ she said. ‘We had been due to go to the cinema. We missed a Tom Mix film. And a Ken Maynard.’
‘But the police arrested me,’ I said.
Her eyes widened. ‘The real police? What had you done?’
‘Nothing, I promise. You know how confusing it is in Munich these days. Many innocent people are caught up in the troubles. A case of mistaken identity. Just like your family being mistaken for Jews. Do you know about this?’
‘You are a communist?’
‘I am innocent of everything. But they decided to arrest me, anyway.’
‘That’s impossible,’ she declared. ‘Nobody is arrested for doing nothing. Are you an enemy of the state?’
‘Of course not.’
She was unconvinced. As we walked, she fell silent, her brows drawn together. ‘A swindler?’
‘I am not a criminal. The authorities made a mistake.’
‘That’s what the burglars say in the films,’ she declared. ‘We used to laugh at them. I am innocent! I did nothing!’
‘But you have also seen the films where the man is innocent of murder and everyone declares him guilty,’ I said. ’Don’t you remember the Masked Buckaroo story where I helped young Jane Gatling’s fiancé prove his innocence? That’s what happened to me.’
‘But you are the Masked Buckaroo!’
‘They refused to believe me.’
‘And they found out you were innocent?’
‘I was released this morning. I have been in the Stadelheim fortress!’
With deep concentration, she studied my face. At length she seemed satisfied. Suddenly her little hand had slipped into mine. She asked if I wanted to go to the pictures that evening. I smiled. If possible I would be glad to go. She told me disapprovingly it was almost impossible to see American cowboy films now. The cinemas were showing nothing but historical subjects. I asked if she had seen any Gloria Cornish movies, but she had not. She had seen Fräulein Cornish on the posters outside the cinema, however. She was specialising in musicals. ‘All these English actresses are singing nowadays.’ What of my own films? I asked. She said there had been one or two ‘Winnetou’ talkies, but they had not appeared in the big picture houses. The public didn’t care for the new ones. She read the movie magazines. Musicals and historical films were all the rage. That’s what were being made now. I should learn to sing, she suggested. Even in America the cowboys were all breaking into song. Gene Autry had thrown Tom Mix and Tim Holt into the shade. She seemed aware how my acting career, at least in Germany, was over. She might even have guessed I was lucky to be alive at all.
I could not tell her the SS were busy with their lists, arresting anyone suspected of being sympathetic to Röhm or Strasser. If I was on a list, I consoled myself, I was probably noted as having been arrested already. I now realise I actually attracted less attention than before the putsch. But prison had made me timid.
At last we reached the mews, arousing the curiosity of the few little children playing there. My Zoyea opened the door of their house. I quickly slipped inside. She took my bag upstairs, came down again and politely offered me a cup of coffee. With some relief I sank into Signor Frau’s easy chair. Zoyea busied herself in the kitchen. When she returned with the coffee and a piece of cake, I told her as much as was wise about my wrongful arrest and imprisonment, my sudden release. There was still some danger of my being arrested again. I hoped it would be possible for me to sleep in their organ shed until the authorities stopped showing such a keen interest in the railway station. My plan was to get to Rome as soon as possible.
Zoyea agreed enthusiastically that Germany wasn’t the same as it used to be. She herself hoped to go to Italy soon. Her father had talked of leaving. He thought life might be better for them in Spain. His cousin worked there and was full of praise for the new government. Here in Munich, she said, there were far too many gangs wandering the streets, attacking anyone they did not like. She herself had been insulted more than once, as had her father. As I knew, people called them Jews or worse. What had Italians had to do with killing Jesus? Surely Hitler must do something about all this. I agreed. If he did not, he would soon lose the goodwill of the German people. At that moment, however, I did not know if Hitler were imprisoned, alive or dead.
‘But those SA were among the worst.’ Zoyea doubtless repeated what she had heard in the market. ‘With them gone things will be better. Were you an SA, Herr Peters?’
How could I reply, having seen the murder of so many of our most disciplined and responsible SA at the hands of the SS? Was it only last night? I replied that the SS were no better. They merely had smarter uniforms.
Privately, I suspected Himmler would prove a snake in the grass. Even if Hitler survived he would have more to fear from Goebbels and Himmler than he ever had from Röhm. Röhm had put loyalty above everything else. I was sure Himmler planned to replace Hitler as Führer. I recalled the story of Macbeth, reflecting how applicable it was to the present situation. When you spilled your own people’s blood in the name of your cause, you inevitably began the destruction of that cause. For every honest soul murdered in Stadelheim and Dachau, a high price would be paid.
Nowadays newspapers find it fashionable to emphasise the Jewish lives lost in the camps, but people seem to forget that thousands of Nazis died in them, too, not to mention millions of innocent Slavs. Once the camps were established, the path was determined; they had to be fed. In the end, as at the beginning, it scarcely mattered who went to feed the monster. The Jews, Gypsies and Slavs were the most easily available, but we should remember that many Americans also died in Dachau, together with Czechs, Austrians, Hungarians, French and Italians. Were these not equally innocent? The monster is not a gourmet. The monster does not care what blood type he drinks. The stronger the blood, the better. The more blood, the merrier. Blood is worth more by the pint than wine, yet he drinks it as his master’s machines drink oil. He is voracious. And just as his master creates more machines to drink more oil, so he creates more machines which will drink blood.
How easily the human monster becomes an addict for money, power, oil or blood or all of those things! When will the day come when neither blood nor oil will be needed to fuel the ambitions of men? My machines would be powered by light. My cities would fly through the cold, pure ether. They would leave all those addictions behind them. They would be inviolable, incorruptible and eternal.
I did not get to the bed. Even as I chatted with Zoyea and sipped her delicious coffee, I fell into a deep sleep and did not wake up until twilight with a smiling Signor Frau and his somewhat unsmiling son standing over me. Signor Frau had food waiting for me, a tender veal cutlet with new potatoes and green beans. He had cooked it for me himself. He was delighted by my praise. Once, he said, he had cooked in his uncle’s restaurant. He was curious to learn what had happened to me but remarked that I must always remember he required no explanation from me. I had saved his living, he insisted, and that meant that he was for ever indebted to me.
I disagreed. I had done so little. Yet still he was firm. I would sleep in his bed tonight and then tomorrow. If I still needed shelter, he would see what he could do. I did not resist him. The luxury of clean sheets and a soft bed, together with the prospect of a breakfast as good as my supper, made me weaken. No sooner had I managed to reach his room, strip off my clothes and lie down, than I was asleep again.
I awoke after a bad dream, but I felt well rested. I heard sounds from below, and when I went down I found Signor Frau seated at the table reading a newspaper while his daughter prepared a breakfast of eggs and cheese. The smell of the coffee was enough for me to accept their invitation and join them. The boy had gone off to buy bread, said
Signor Frau, and would be back soon.
I looked at the headlines. Hitler had clearly not been a victim. The newspaper was full of the plot against Hitler, foiled by Himmler and the SS. I had never seen so many lies published in such density. Röhm was described as a pervert and a glutton, who had plotted with exiled communists, Strasser and other traitors, both in and out of the Nazi Party, to assassinate Hitler and his closest allies and impose a reign of brute terror on the German people. This had been averted by some loyal SA men joining with the SS to nip the plot in the bud. The Fiihrer had been disbelieving that so many could be disloyal, yet even now was considering clemency for Röhm. This was an obvious lie, of course. I guessed well enough what had happened to Röhm in Stadelheim. I shuddered to think what would have become of me had I remained so close to him. I would realise later how much my friend had protected me. When the lion is abroad, as Röhm often pointed out, the best place to hide is in his cage.
Though I had to be guarded, I told Signor Frau I had reason to believe the SA were involved in no such plot. Any plot was almost certainly from the right of the party. In a whisper, Signor Frau begged me to tell him more, but I could not. I did make it clear that I was not at present a wanted man and was only avoiding the SS in case they associated me with Ernst Röhm. The Stabschef had been a good friend to me. He had been made a scapegoat by Himmler.
Frau had never himself trusted Himmler. ‘That little mouth of his looks like an arsehole,’ he said. ‘And we all know what comes out of an arsehole.’
I had become used to such coarseness in the prison and did not find his language as offensive I might have done.
‘With all the commies and Sozis rounded up,’ he continued, ’they’re now squabbling among themselves. And God help those of us who are caught between them.’
I said ‘Amen’ to that and together we drank a small cup of very strong coffee.
Frau had decided not to go out to work that day. He would keep me company. I think he felt protective towards me. I feared for him. I asked him if his action was wise. People noticed if you did not keep to routines. He saw the sense in this and reluctantly agreed. ‘But you will be careful, my dear friend?’ I assured him I would. These days I was nothing but cautious.
When the boy came back with the bread, his father suggested he have his breakfast before readying the barrel organ for the day’s work. He begged me to stay in for the day and rest. I should have his bed again. He would be out until the evening, and I would not be inconveniencing him. I could stay here as long as I needed.
I promised I would. Those months in Ettstrasse and Stadelheim had exhausted me. I fell asleep in the chair listening to the wireless. I had not even put on my boots.
The news on the radio was full of Hitler’s dismay at SA treachery, which could easily have led to civil war in Germany. It was miserable stuff. The German stations talked of communist perils and of the aliens among us who must be expunged. No wonder poor Signor Frau was worried. He was one of those aliens, as, of course, was I.
How strange, I thought, to consider yourself a loyal German citizen yet be regarded by everyone around you as some sort of interloper.
I was awakened around noon by the wireless, which I had not turned off: more news of Röhm’s so-called attempted putsch, reassurances that all the ‘criminal elements’ were being rounded up and that the threats of civil war or a socialist takeover had been averted. I knew I had best lie low. Signor Frau could continue to give me shelter for a few days, so I would eventually be able to make it back to the railway station and be on my way to Rome. I had been given a timetable with my ticket. If I did not go via Vienna, I would have to change in Innsbruck and Milan since no express ran from Munich, but I had no fears of Innsbruck, even though a nascent Nazi Party had been established there for some time. I wondered what had happened to Otto Strasser and the others who managed to be out of Germany. Had they escaped in large enough numbers to regroup in a friendly country and plan a return? Were they in Prague or Vienna? Possibly they had headed for Innsbruck. Or was there something I didn’t know? How big was the Black Front? How many ‘secret’ friends did Röhm and the others have among the Nazis? What chance did my old mentor have of escaping Stadelheim and getting to safety?
To be truthful I was more than grateful to Signor Frau for his insistence I remain in his house. The organ-grinder’s mews was a wonderful sanctuary after my terrible imprisonment. While I still felt the need to flee Germany, until it was safe Frau’s was the best I could hope for.
I was left alone in the mornings when the whole family set off for the market, and I ate well in the evenings when they returned. During the day I read whatever newspapers Signor Frau had brought in the previous evening or looked through Zoyea’s vast store of film magazines. A number of them had published pictures of myself and Mrs Cornelius. I was surprised how I had altered in those few months. When not playing Winnetou, I had been sleek, urbane, and conventionally handsome. Now I had a gaunt, wolfish look. I was much paler, probably from the poor nutrition. The terror and discomfort I had experienced had caused my cheeks and eyes to sink and even my mouth seemed thinner. Eventually, with a change of circumstances and improved diet, I could be restored to my old self, but it would take some time.
After about a week I agreed to go with Zoyea to a local cinema to watch two very miserable films, one of them American and the other Austrian. Letty Lynton featured the depressive Joan Crawford and Liebelei starred Magda Schneider, Wolfgang Liebeneiner and Gustaf Gründgens. Directed by Max Ophuls, it lacked much of his familiar gaiety. Zoyea seemed to enjoy both of them far more than I did, and at that moment, certainly, it seemed the magic had gone from our visits to the films. The best part of the programme was an episode of The Wolf Dog, starring Rin Tin Tin Jr. I could not help but be reminded of Hitler’s own ‘Wulf’, his Alsatian dog.
The trailers did not promise much better to come. The news-reel was mostly about how the New Germany was restoring herself and consisted chiefly of shots of noble workers with spades and handsome men in uniforms. A smiling Chancellor hosted a party for equally happy foreign diplomats. We watched dutifully before leaving.
As Zoyea had already told me, the cowboys had all but disappeared from the screen. Tom Mix and Buck Jones had been replaced by women’s melodramas. Letty Lynton was a great success in America when it first appeared there, but in Germany it never had much popularity. The public mood was for more upbeat musical comedies and costume dramas. Glamorous English actresses continued to feature, though Gloria Cornish was clearly not getting the work she deserved. I would have preferred a musical or historical film to the gloomy, suicidal miseries we were forced to endure that evening.
I longed to restore my relationship with my little girl. Her companionship and admiration meant a great deal to me. But I was no longer the glamorous figure she had known while she was becoming a teenager. I was starved for female company. If LeBrun had been right, Mrs Cornelius had returned to Berlin to work for UfA there. By now, with her instinct for trouble, she might have departed from Germany altogether, moving to London or New York.
I was still nervous about leaving the little house and always glad to return to the comparative security of the mews. The SS and Gestapo were everywhere on the streets. Munich had been a stronghold of the SA. I jumped every time I saw a uniform and, having already suffered from prejudice in the prison, I was depressed by the notices in the shops which emphatically said they were German-owned and did not serve Jews. Ironically, I learned to avoid these places, as did the Fraus. Anyone of Mediterranean appearance was in danger of being insulted. Twice I was shoved into the gutter by men who voiced their disgust of me, and once I came under close scrutiny from the police who assumed that the dark-eyed girl with me was my daughter. But after a couple of weeks there were fewer SS about. Their action against the SA was clearly running down.
At the end of a fortnight I told Signor Frau I had better try to leave again and continue on my way to Rome. He was sympatheti
c. He himself was thinking of going to Madrid where he had relatives. Everyone said how wonderful life was in Spain these days. Was I sure it was entirely sensible of me to try to return to Italy? You never knew when they would turn on you, he said. The Spanish were more easygoing. There was not the same prejudice. Why didn’t I wait and see what he and his family decided to do. Then perhaps we could travel as a group? All he was waiting for was a letter from his cousin.
But I was growing anxious. I asked if I could leave the bulk of my papers and so on with him. Was there some place which would be safe? He suggested the old ‘show organ’ was as good a place as any to stow them. So I left my things, including my pistols, plans and other papers, with him to hide as he thought best. I decided to use my Spanish passport and travel as Señor Gallibasta, a Spanish tradesman. When I had settled again in Rome, I would ask him to send my possessions on to me by registered post. I took only one set of important plans and a couple of notebooks. The bulk of my cocaine I hid among the books. I did not wish to give a potential enemy any suspicion on which to arrest me. I would be able to replenish my supply once I was in Rome.
Though she was affectionate, Zoyea was disappointingly unmoved to hear I was leaving. Clearly I was no longer her glamorous hero, the sharer of her fantasies. I felt a pang, of course, but was not surprised. I, too, felt a lessening of emotional involvement. I had begun to think more and more of my lost Esmé. Why had she betrayed me so? Even now, from that scored and stained celluloid, she threatened me. If I had not tried to protect her, I should never have been compromised by Prince Freddy. I knew such women are always dangerous. I would not miss Zoyea as much once my sex drive subsided. My attention remained focused on potential danger. A threatened animal has little time for romance. Fraus little house was too small for all of us, and the boy remained, if not my enemy, certainly no friend.
The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04] Page 65