Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  They searched the posters and bills for what was showing. They would need to find a play to patronise in order to give truth to the story Rowland had told Richter.

  Rowland spoke to the girl in the ticketing booth. He used Bavarian, telling her of a show he’d been recommended which had been performed at the Kammerspiele in March.

  “I am embarrassed to say, Fräulein, I have forgotten the name of the play entirely.”

  The young woman was blond and quite plump. She looked up at Rowland with bored brown eyes. “A play, you say? There was a production of Macbeth in March, mein Herr, but it closed early.” She lowered her voice. “The reviews were very bad after Lady Macbeth disappeared.”

  “She disappeared?”

  The girl smiled, pleased to have his interest. She whispered, “The producers were very upset…The understudy was not so good, you see. Fräulein Niemann, who played Lady Macbeth, just didn’t come back one night and no one could find her. It is a mystery.”

  “Indeed. And what happened to the rest of the cast?”

  She shrugged. “They returned to obscurity…The understudy sells cigarettes here during the evening shows.”

  “She hasn’t found another part, then?” Rowland glanced at the current playbill.

  The ticketing girl laughed unkindly. “Fräulein Kramer plays a cigarette girl very convincingly—it is her best work.”

  Rowland purchased tickets to Romeo and Juliet for that evening, before rejoining his friends.

  “What are we coming back to see?” Clyde asked, taking the tickets.

  “The cigarette girl,” Rowland replied. “And Romeo and Juliet.” He looked at them sheepishly. “Just occurred to me it will be in German.”

  Clyde laughed. “Don’t worry, mate—I’ve never understood Shakespeare in English. It might make more sense in German.”

  Alastair Blanshard was waiting at the Haus der Deutsche Kunst, a private gallery which boasted a dedication to the government-approved conservatism in its exhibits. He had left a message summoning Rowland to the gallery. To the servant who took the message, it seemed that Alois Richter’s Australian houseguest was merely meeting another dealer to negotiate the purchase of yet another work.

  When Rowland found him in the gallery, Blanshard was studying a classical work by someone with whom Rowland was entirely unfamiliar. The painting depicted a group of men standing in a heroic pose, fresh from victory in some medieval battle. The artist was technically proficient with figures, but the faces were expressionless and flat.

  Rowland stood beside Blanshard.

  “Not bad. Quite daring and well executed.”

  Rowland tilted his head to one side, squinting at the painting. “Do you think so? I find it rather dull.”

  “I was referring to last evening.”

  “Oh, yes. That. How is Colonel Campbell this morning?”

  “Disappointed and exceedingly irritated, if you must know. In fact, he’s considering writing to the Chancellor to complain.”

  Rowland smiled. “He’s given up on becoming Hitler’s best mate, then?”

  “Not quite yet, I’m afraid. But he certainly has had the wind taken out of his sails.”

  Rowland laughed.

  “Don’t get cocky, Mr. Negus,” Blanshard said curtly. “You were lucky I was able to intervene with Röhm, or things might not have gone so well.”

  “You’re very welcome, Mr. Blanshard.”

  “Don’t be smart, Mr. Negus. You and your friends seem to think this is some lark…a schoolboy prank.”

  Rowland walked on to the next painting. “Is there some reason you wanted to meet with me, Mr. Blanshard?”

  After a short time, Blanshard followed. “I have another job for you.”

  “Capital…it’ll be a lark.” Rowland smiled as Blanshard glowered at the painting before him. They stood there for a couple of minutes. Finally Rowland sighed. “What is it you would like me to do?”

  Blanshard exhaled, and waited for the young couple looking at a painting beside them to move on. “I need you to befriend a young lady.”

  “That sounds a little less onerous than your last request.” Rowland moved on to another painting. “Why?”

  “We need to undermine Campbell’s standing among the international fascists. The Honourable Unity Mitford is a way to do that.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The young lady is a committed fascist, and an English aristocrat with the highest connections. I’m afraid Oswald Mosley has been somewhat indiscreet with her sister, Diana.”

  “I see.”

  “If you convince her that Campbell’s shirt is not quite black, then she will spread a distrust of him.”

  “Why would she believe me?”

  “No idea. Flatter her. Woo her. Do whatever you have to.”

  Rowland stared at Blanshard for a moment before he remembered that they were not supposed to know one another and averted his gaze. It was a rather extraordinary request, vaguely unseemly. He rubbed the back of his neck. “And how do you propose I gain an introduction to Miss Mitford?”

  They stepped over to the next painting, but not together, so it was a few moments before Blanshard could answer.

  “You will find her at the Osteria Bavaria on Schellingstrasse every morning at around eleven.”

  Rowland knew the restaurant. “She’s fond of their sticky buns, then?” He recalled the café’s advertised specialty.

  Blanshard almost smiled. “The Chancellor calls in there regularly. I am reliably informed that Miss Mitford goes there in the hope of catching his eye, should he appear.”

  “Good Lord.” Rowland shook his head. “How will I know this woman?”

  “Don’t worry, you will.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  SWASTIKA EMBLEM

  ENRAGES LONDON CROWD

  WOMAN WEARER ATTACKED

  London, April 10

  Enraged by the wearing of the swastika emblem, a crowd in Hyde Park attacked the Hon. Unity Freeman Mitford, daughter of Lord Redesdale, who was hit and kicked before she was rescued by the police. Thousands of people took up the cry of “Kill the Fascists.”

  —Geraldton Guardian and Express, 1938

  Edna hitched up the skirt of her gown as she ran down the sweeping staircase to where the men were waiting.

  “Do not hurry, dandschig Deandl,” Richter cautioned. “Allow us to savour the splendour of your entrance.”

  Edna laughed and indulged him, slowing to an elegant descent with her hand poised gracefully on the polished banister. Milton tapped his chin to remind her to lift her own. Clyde tapped his watch to remind her to not to waste time being too splendid. Rowland looked at her as though he was planning a painting.

  She did feel elegant. The gown, which had been packed neatly in Millicent Greenway’s trunk, had been a little big when she’d first tried it on, but Alois Richter had adjusted it with a dart here and a tuck there. She’d explained the fact that her clothes did not fit by telling him she had lost weight since it was purchased. He had tsked and tutted about the seams and the quality of the stitching, but Edna was delighted with the deep purple evening dress. She was quite enjoying Millicent’s wardrobe.

  She took the hand Richter offered her at the base of the stairs.

  “I am certain that even if this play at the Kammerspiele proves a good one, no man will be looking at the stage with Miss Greenway in the audience,” Richter said, clasping her hand in both of his.

  “That would make the actors a bit cross, I imagine,” Edna replied, smiling at the tailor. “Are you sure you will not come with us, Mr. Richter?”

  “Alas, my dear, I have business affairs which demand my attention. Stasi and I will have a quiet evening, with brandy and paperwork. You go and enjoy yourself…Make these gentlemen the envy of every man in Munich.�
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  “You are a flatterer, Mr. Richter,” Edna said, kissing the tailor on the cheek. “Do not wait up for us…we might be quite late.”

  It was not until they were alone in the car that Rowland was finally able to recount his conversation with Blanshard and the latest task that he had been set.

  Milton laughed. “She’s loitering in bun shops hoping Hitler will walk in? She sounds crackers!”

  “The English aristocracy tends to be,” Rowland sighed. “Apparently she’s quite well connected, albeit scandalously, with Oswald Mosley and his crowd.”

  “So you’re to become chummy with this Miss Mitford and then defame Colonel Campbell?” Edna asked. It seemed absurdly simple.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “It’s only really defamation if you’re a fascist,” Milton pointed out. “In reality, Rowly will be complimenting the Nazi-loving lunatic.”

  “Lying outright is probably closer to the truth,” Rowland replied. “I’ve got to make it seem as though he’s not really made of the right stuff.”

  “What are you going to say?” Clyde asked. “You can’t really claim he’s a Communist plant.”

  Rowland’s brow rose. “That might be hard to sustain. I’ll just have to fabricate some sort of skeleton.”

  They parked Richter’s Mercedes and walked into the Kammerspiele with a stream of theatregoers. Rowland searched the foyer for cigarette girls. There were two. A petite brunette—barely twenty—who smiled at and chatted with every customer, and an older blonde, perhaps thirty. She barely looked up from her tray as she dispensed cigarettes and took money.

  Rowland nodded towards the blonde. “I expect that’s her.”

  “We can only ask, I suppose,” Clyde said.

  Rowland glanced at Edna. “Milt, why don’t you and Ed go in and find our seats? Clyde and I will hang back and buy cigarettes.”

  Milton bowed extravagantly to Edna and offered her his arm. “Shall we, old girl?”

  “Good luck,” Edna whispered over her shoulder, as she took Milton’s arm.

  Rowland and Clyde waited until almost everybody else had entered the theatre before they approached the cigarette girl.

  Rowland bought a box of cigarettes, although he didn’t smoke and Clyde always rolled his own. “Entschuldigung, Fräulein,” he said, looking directly into her face as he handed her the money. “Didn’t I see you on stage a couple of months ago?…What was it?”

  “Macbeth,” she said smiling slightly. “I played Lady Macbeth. You saw it, mein Herr?”

  “Yes. I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Fräulein…?”

  “Werner, Helga Werner.” She said, smiling broadly now.

  Rowland introduced himself. “Robert Negus, Fräulein Werner.”

  Clyde lit a cigarette and wandered off to smoke leaving them alone.

  “I came to see the show a second time but it had closed,” Rowland said, hoping he sounded regretful.

  “I was only Lady Macbeth for two days,” she replied quietly. “I was the understudy…too young for the part, really.”

  “Of course,” Rowland said, smiling. “It is only your talent that made you so believable.”

  Helga Werner blushed. “The critics did not think so, I fear. Perhaps the show would not have closed if Fräulein Niemann had not left.”

  “Fräulein Niemann?”

  “I was her understudy. She was a big star in Vienna. This was her first role in Munich.”

  “I see. It was fortunate that she chose to leave the show so that at least a few audiences had the happy opportunity to see you as Lady Macbeth.”

  “But she didn’t choose to leave,” Helga said. “At least, I don’t think she did.”

  “Did she fall ill, then?” Rowland asked.

  “No, she simply disappeared one day. All her things were still in the dressing room…her makeup, her brush, even her jewellery. It was very upsetting for the theatre.”

  “Her family must be very worried.”

  “I don’t think she had any. There were two men who brought her flowers once, but they didn’t come back or ask after her.”

  “Robbie!” Clyde signalled to the theatre door, which was being closed.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fräulein Werner.” Rowland smiled warmly at the struggling actress. “I do hope we will be seeing you on the stage again soon.”

  The production of Romeo and Juliet at the Kammerspiele was unexpectedly good. The story was so familiar, and the performances so visually moving, that Rowland’s companions did not require German to follow the play. A modern interpretation, it was set to the background of a live jazz band and the cast wore spats and flapper beads.

  Rowland noticed a number of people leave as the music started, but his attention was soon wholly on the stage.

  They had come primarily to speak with the cigarette girl, but they left talking about the show and, for a while, politics, conspiracies, and spies were forgotten.

  “It was inspired!” Edna said, as they found a table in a smoky bar. “The way the players connected to the audience…it’s something you don’t get in film. It’s exhilarating! Perhaps I’ll audition for the stage when we get home.”

  They all laughed at her, without restraint, accustomed to the sculptress’ ability to find glory in the merest whim. She ignored them. Rowland told them then what he had learned from Helga Werner.

  “That’s odd.” Milton frowned. “I wonder what happened to Miss Niemann.”

  “Well, considering she left her possessions behind, it seems to me that either she did not leave of her own accord or that she fled in fear.”

  “Rowly’s right,” Edna agreed. “If she was simply quitting the show, why wouldn’t she just tell them?”

  “I wonder what exactly was her connection to Bothwell,” Clyde mused.

  “Richter would know,” Milton said, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

  Rowland shook his head. “We can’t ask him without giving away why we’re really here.”

  “Perhaps we should just tell him,” Edna suggested.

  “No!” Milton slapped the table. “We cannot take everybody we meet into our confidence.” He leaned between Edna and Rowland and whispered, “Do you two remember that we are spies?”

  Rowland laughed. He, too, was loath to involve the generous tailor, though unlike Milton, he was not concerned with being clandestine for its own sake. What they were doing could be seen as an act against the German government. It would not be a good idea to involve a German citizen in their plans.

  The club’s singer began to croon a gentle swing.

  “I’ll work out how to ask Richter tomorrow,” he said, standing. He grabbed Edna’s hand. “I’d better dance with you before you become too big a star, I suppose.”

  The next morning Rowland excused himself from a picnic organised by their host, on the pretence that he was meeting with another art dealer.

  Richter murmured disapprovingly. “You work too hard, Mr. Negus. Young men like you shouldn’t be passing up good food, let alone fine Bavarian beer and excellent company, to talk business with some withered old businessman.”

  “I’m afraid I must see him, Mr. Richter,” Rowland replied. “Perhaps I can catch up with you afterwards? Where will you be?”

  “We are going to visit the Schleissheim Palace in Oberschleissheim. Your friends will find the gardens pleasing, I think, and the paintings in the palace galleries will be of interest also.”

  “I’ll join you there as soon as I’m finished,” Rowland promised. He looked at his host a little uncomfortably. “There was something I wished to speak to you about, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, my boy. Is there something the matter?”

  “No…well, perhaps. There is something I have omitted to tell you, Mr. Richter.�
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  Richter sat down, hauling Stasi onto his lap. “Please go on.”

  “As you know, Peter Bothwell’s widow is my cousin.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Apparently, Peter wrote home on a number of occasions about an actress he’d seen in a play…an Anna Niemann. Mrs. Bothwell became convinced that there was something between them.”

  “But Peter is dead now…surely—”

  Rowland shrugged. “My dear cousin can be quite fixated about these things. She refuses to let it go. She made me promise to find Miss Niemann and speak with her.”

  “Oh dear, my poor Mr. Negus. To be caught between a jealous woman and her dead husband!”

  “I’ll say—it’s rather awkward. I was hoping you might know Anna Niemann. Then I could speak with her and be done with it.”

  Richter shook his head. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Negus, but I am afraid I don’t know her.”

  “Did Peter Bothwell never mention her?”

  “Not that I recall…Perhaps he admired her performances.” He wagged a finger at Rowland. “You tell Mrs. Bothwell that she has no reason to concern herself. Revenge converts a little right into a great wrong. It is best we remember Peter as the noble man that he was.”

  Rowland looked searchingly at the tailor, wondering if he was lying just to protect his friend’s reputation. Richter returned his gaze with equal scrutiny.

  Rowland sighed. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Richter.”

  “I am, my boy. We have all made mistakes. They should be allowed to be forgotten. A clear conscience is a soft pillow, but few men sleep so.”

  Rowland nodded. “I’d better be off, I suppose. I’ll see you all at Schleissheim Palace.”