Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  “I’m sure.”

  Eva chewed her fingernail. “Fräulein Greenway,” she said, as she gazed at his latest study of the sculptress. “She is very beautiful.”

  “I think so.”

  “Is she your sweetheart, Herr Negus?”

  Rowland laughed. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  She handed him back his notebook. “Do you not wish it?”

  Rowland stopped for a moment. He slipped the notebook back into his jacket. “It’s not really up to me.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him intently. “You and I are alike, I think. We are not seen by those we love most.”

  Rowland smiled. He liked Eva, but she was a trifle histrionic. “I think everyone should be up by now. Shall we go in to breakfast?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  NUDE CULT

  Banned In Germany

  BERLIN, Tuesday

  Captain Göring has prohibited the nude cult, which has hundreds of thousands of adherents, as the greatest danger to culture and morality.

  He declared it was killing women’s natural modesty and men’s respect for women. Public displays of the no clothes movement would not be tolerated.

  —The Canberra Times, 1933

  They stayed close to the house. Campbell was to meet with Hermann Göring at one o’clock. Until then they would not know if their plea to his brother had been successful.

  The day was warm and Eva became quite impatient to go swimming. She begged like a child, but they could not risk missing the telephone call. When at one o’clock Blanshard still hadn’t called, Eva decided that she would go on ahead alone, promising to stay on the shore just down from the house. Unable to explain why they all needed to stay, Rowland agreed. As much as Eva seemed childlike at times, she was an adult and it was broad daylight. As it was, Blanshard telephoned only minutes after she left.

  The Old Guard agent apologised for not calling earlier. “I couldn’t get away from Eric. He’s a little despondent. It seems his meeting with Mr. Göring was cancelled at the very last moment.”

  Rowland breathed, relieved. “Well, that’s capital. We can return to the Munich, then?”

  “You could, but I won’t need you for a few days at least. The Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are taking a tour with the BUF people.”

  “BUF?” Rowland smiled at Edna to let her know everything had gone well.

  “British Union of Fascists…Mosley’s mob. They’re running this tour of Europe’s fascist states. Anyway, Negus, you and your young lady have earned a couple of days’ leave. Campbell won’t be doing anything but meeting a few minor Nazis for a few days. You’re at the Starnberger See, aren’t you?…Enjoy yourself.”

  “Thank you, Blanshard, we might just do that. Before you go, could you tell me something?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I don’t suppose you know if Bothwell was involved with a woman over here?”

  “He’s married.”

  “Even so.”

  For a moment there was silence and then, “Perhaps…One of the Brits mentioned some woman called Nancy…a journalist from one of the American papers.”

  “The Brits?”

  “We’re not the only people with agents here, Negus. It was just gossip. I dismissed it. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering what he was doing in that lake.”

  Rowland heard Blanshard sigh, and then swear. “This is Hardy’s doing, isn’t it? He’s already wired me with his ridiculous theories…Got some bee in his bonnet about avenging Bothwell, or some such thing!”

  “You must admit the circumstances of Bothwell’s death are a little odd.”

  Again there was a pause. “That may well be, Mr. Negus, but you should remember that Munich is not Sydney. Even if you do find something—some sort of foul play—what the hell are you going to do with that information?”

  “I’m sure the police…”

  “The police have already determined that it was an accident. They may have reasons for doing so. Bothwell was not here playing tiddlywinks, boy! Digging into this won’t bring the man back—but it will compromise your position here…Or have you forgotten why you’re in Munich?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then don’t worry about Bothwell, and stay low. I’ll be in touch.” The telephone was slammed down.

  Rowland replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  “It worked, didn’t it, Rowly?” Edna said excitedly the moment the line was cut.

  “Göring cancelled his meeting with Campbell.”

  Edna squeezed his arm, delighted and triumphant.

  “We’re spies!” she proclaimed, curtseying as Clyde and Milton applauded their congratulations.

  Rowland laughed. “It’s probably not entirely spy-like to shout that out, Ed.”

  She waved him away. “It’s just us.”

  Reminded of that fact, Rowland took the opportunity to tell them of what Blanshard had revealed and his demand that they not investigate any further.

  “So we’re going to let it go?” Clyde prompted.

  Rowland shrugged. “I’m curious now.”

  Clyde sighed.

  “I’ll be careful,” Rowland offered. “But while we’re here anyway…”

  “Someone should look into it,” Edna said quietly. “Mr. Bothwell was an Australian. Even if it will achieve nothing, someone should find out what happened.”

  “Bravo, Miss Higgins!” Milton put his arm around Edna and kissed her forehead. “If we discreetly apply our intellects to the riddle of Bothwell’s untimely passing, the solution will show itself and justice will prevail.”

  Clyde groaned. Milton was an avid reader of Conan Doyle. So much so that he occasionally appropriated the persona of Sherlock Holmes…without acknowledgement, of course.

  “It can’t hurt to keep our eyes open,” Rowland said, nudging Clyde. He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go find Eva. I feel a bit bad about letting her go on her own.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Clyde said, resigned. “I’ve been wanting to paint the lake anyway.”

  “Milt and I will organise a picnic basket and meet you in a little while,” Edna volunteered. “It’s such a glorious day, it will be lovely by the water.”

  That settled, Rowland and Clyde gathered easels and canvas and set out for the lake’s edge.

  They found Eva suddenly, catching sight of her stretching out on a towel as they came over a rise.

  Clyde stopped. “Good Lord!”

  Eva turned immediately, having heard his exclamation. She sat up and waved.

  “Is she—?” Clyde started.

  “Naked?” Rowland said, taking a deep breath. “Yes. I believe so.” Of course they’d seen naked women before. Aside from anything else, they had both painted nudes. But this was a public place and a little unexpected.

  Eva beckoned them over.

  “You go,” Clyde said, prodding Rowland. “Find out what happened to her clothes.”

  Rowland glanced back at Eva, who was waiting for them with her hands on her hips. “I suppose I’d better.”

  He walked down to where she stood. “Fräulein Eva,” he said tipping his hat. “I hope we’re not intruding.”

  Eva stretched out again. “Don’t be silly, Herr Negus. I am just sunbathing. Do people not sunbathe where you come from?”

  “They do…”

  She laughed and wagged her finger at him. “Do not pretend to be shy. I saw your book of pictures…”

  He smiled. “I’m an artist, Fräulein Eva. I often use models.”

  She glanced over at Clyde, who was focussing on setting up the easels. “Perhaps I could be your model. Herr Wolf has drawn me once or twice.”

  Rowland’s brow rose. “Like this?”

  Eva giggled.

  He s
tood back and looked at her. She was completely natural and comfortable without a stitch of clothing. Her figure was athletic, surprisingly muscular, and she held herself with the confidence of a woman who was pleased with her body. His eyes moved to the lake which reflected the surrounding violet mountains in the polished glass of its surface, capturing the world and the sky in a mirror image. It was breathtaking in its way, but still just a landscape. Having Eva model for him might not be such a bad idea. Let Clyde paint the trees.

  “Would you be comfortable over there?” He pointed out a protrusion of smooth rock.

  “But it’s much prettier over here with the lake behind me,” she protested.

  “I’m painting you,” he said, fetching one of the easels. “The light is rather more important than the lake.”

  Eva spread out her towel and settled on the rock. Rowland allowed her to pose naturally. She reclined on her side, her head in the crook of her arm.

  Clyde set up his easel beside Rowland’s, but facing the other way, towards the lake. He had relaxed now. Somehow Eva seemed less naked as a model. Rowland had a talent and preference for nudes, so unclothed women had always been a feature of his studio. Often it had been Edna who sat for him, but occasionally he would use another subject. Indeed, Clyde had first met his own sweetheart, Rosalina, when she’d posed for Rowland.

  They hadn’t been working long when Edna and Milton joined them, lugging a massive basket filled from the contents of the well-stocked larder in Richter’s lakehouse. Edna wore a green spotted sundress, fitted at the waist and sleeveless.

  Rowland looked up and waved as she appeared at the small rise which fortuitously afforded some minor privacy.

  “Over here, Millie.” He used the alias without hesitation now. Edna stopped, startled, as she realised what Rowland was painting, but the pause was very brief. She left the basket and came down to peer over his shoulder at the beginnings of the work.

  Milton seemed more amused than anything else. “I’m not sure Blanshard would consider this discreet, old boy.”

  Rowland laughed without lifting his eyes from the canvas. Clyde had procured a basic palette of colours, and so Rowland began with a tonal sketch in sepia, painting in the long lines of Eva’s body and the shadows. Edna stood by him, intrigued. Rowland painted often, but as she was usually his model, she rarely saw how he worked at this stage. This early rendering was almost sculptural. He worked with shapes, pushing and moulding the paint about the linen surface until an impression of Eva seemed to jump from the canvas.

  “May I see?” Eva begged, sitting up.

  Rowland shrugged. She had moved now, anyway, and he was hungry. They might as well stop for a spot of lunch.

  Eva came around the easel, still comfortably naked among them. Her face dropped as she studied what he had done.

  “She says it doesn’t look a thing like her,” Rowland translated smiling, as he rummaged through the picnic hamper.

  Edna laughed. “Don’t worry, Eva darling.” She patted the picnic blanket beside her, as Eva slipped on a robe. “It will. Robbie’s very talented.”

  Rowland translated, expanding so much on Edna’s affirmation of his talent that it was obvious and she took back the original compliment.

  They ate lazily in the sunshine, enjoying the languid company—the normalcy, of sorts.

  “Shall we go swimming?” Edna suggested gazing at the expansive stillness of the water.

  Rowland shook his head. “The Starnberger See is a glacial lake, Millie. I expect the water will be rather cold.”

  Edna lay back on the blanket, smiling. “I didn’t mean you, Robbie. It’s impossible to drag you away from a painting. I thought Clyde might—”

  “No,” Clyde said, slapping his hat back on his head as he stood to return to his easel. “And you’re not going in, either…I don’t want you messing up my view with splashing and whatnot.”

  Thus forbidden from swimming for the sake of art, Edna remained on the blanket, reading and chatting with Milton, who could not swim, and in any case, had no wish to do so.

  It was only when he observed the silence that Rowland noticed that the poet and the sculptress had drifted off. Possibly it was the sight of his friends asleep that made him realise that Eva had been posing for rather a long time.

  “Entschuldigung sie, Fräulein,” he said regretfully. “I’m so sorry…You must need to stretch.”

  Eva winced as she sat up and moved her arms gingerly. Rowland poured her a glass of wine, and offered her his hand. “You must tell me when you’re getting uncomfortable.” He helped her to stand and handed her the glass. “I get a little forgetful of other things when I’m painting.”

  “Can I see my painting?”

  “It won’t be finished for a while yet,” Rowland stood back to allow her access to his easel. “I’ll have to wait for the paint to dry a bit before I can continue. In fact, I may have to ask you to sit for me when we get back to Munich.”

  Eva wasn’t listening. She stood before the canvas, squealing in delight and clapping her hands.

  “You like it, then?” Rowland asked, laughing.

  “Herr Negus, this is wonderful. You have made me blue!”

  Rowland had indeed painted her figure in the palest grey-blue. Like an eggshell. Though her body was fit and strong, she had seemed to him from the first, fragile. There was a sadness and a desperation in her eyes. He had not captured that yet. At the moment she was just a vulnerable, almost translucent figure clinging to the rock.

  “Blue is my favourite colour, but how could you have known that, Herr Negus?”

  Rowland toyed with the idea of explaining why he had painted her so, but decided it was unnecessary. Eva liked blue. That was good enough.

  Clyde turned to look at the painting. He whistled low.

  “What do you think?” Rowland asked. This was somewhat of a departure from his usual style, and he respected Clyde’s opinion.

  Clyde stared for a moment, his brawny arms folded. “You used up all the blue.”

  Rowland grimaced. It had been a little inconsiderate. Clyde was trying to paint a lake, after all.

  Clyde sighed. “It was worth it, mate.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ANOTHER HITLER BAN

  Handshaking Forbidden

  BERLIN, Saturday

  Herr Hitler has banned handshaking and has issued an order that in future all officials in Germany must greet one another by raising the right arm, a system hitherto only used by Nazis.

  —Sunday Times, 1933

  Frau Engels looked at them suspiciously as she tethered her horse. “You have risen early, gentlemen,” she said, her reproving gaze fixed unrelentingly upon them.

  “Herr Greenway and I thought we might go for an early morning drive.” Rowland was a little relieved the housekeeper had arrived before they left. At least Eva would have someone to talk to in his absence. “Our companions are still asleep. They will be glad to awaken to your fine cooking, Frau Engels.”

  The compliment seemed to soothe her a little. She shook her head. “I will not ask what you two young men are up to. I can only guess. My sons are about your age and they have turned me graveyard blond with their antics.” She pointed at her white hair in its tight, efficient bun. “And here I am, cooking potato pancakes and cherry cake for breakfast…”

  Rowland glanced at Milton. They knew by now that they would have to interrupt or the woman would never stop talking.

  “If we depart straight away we might be able to get back for your excellent breakfast, Frau Engels, so we might just say good-bye right now.…”

  Milton started the engine and though Frau Engels had not stopped talking, Rowland could at least now pretend not to hear her. He climbed into the Mercedes and waved as they drove out.

  They set out for the place where, according to the police report Ric
hter had given them, Peter Bothwell had drowned. Rowland was not sure why he wanted to see it. Surely, there would be nothing there now. Still, they were here. If nothing else, they could pay their respects.

  He’d intended to go alone, but Milton, keen to sleuth, had insisted on accompanying him.

  “Hello…what’s this about?” Milton muttered, as they passed through the town of Berg. Though it was still early, the streets were lively.

  Rowland craned his head out of the window as Milton slowed. “It’s the SA,” he said, identifying the brown-and-black uniform. Members were pasting posters on shop windows and distributing pamphlets. “Give me a second.”

  Swinging open his door, Rowland jogged over to the nearest poster. He was back in moments.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A book-burning in Munich.”

  “A what?”

  “A book-burning…like a witch-burning, except with books, I suppose. The SA is inviting the masses.”

  Milton shook his head. “So what books are they planning to burn?”

  “The poster refers to books that are corrupting the nation.”

  “Sounds racy.”

  The road was now blocked by a gathering of Brownshirts, chanting against Jewish intellectualism. Rowland didn’t bother to translate.

  Milton gunned the engine, sounded the horn and moved the car forward, forcing the men to make way. The Stormtroopers shouted and cursed. Milton ignored them. As soon as the way was sufficiently clear, Milton accelerated.

  The site of Peter Bothwell’s death was on a more secluded part of the lake, away from the road and the villages. Milton parked Richter’s Mercedes and they walked down to the water’s edge. Rowland pointed out the pine tree described in the police report, under which Richter’s clothes were found, neatly folded.

  “What do you think, Rowly?”

  Rowland looked out at the lake. There was barely a ripple in its surface. The spot was protected by trees but, unless there had been a full moon that night, it would have been very dark…and cold. He had noticed some Germans swimming in the Starnberger See, but they were locals. Bothwell had been Australian and it had been a month ago. “It seems an odd place and time to go bathing, Milt, even if it were a romantic tryst. I can think of things I’d much rather do with a woman.”