Chapter Twenty-four
NEW GUARD LEADER BACK,
WIFE ATTENDS ROYAL COURT
The Court ceremony, said Mrs. Campbell, was the most beautiful that she attended during her seven months’ trip abroad. She met the late Lady Cynthia Mosley several times in England. Lady Cynthia, who was the wife of the British ‘Blackshirt’ leader, was prominent in the Fascist movement. “She was a woman of great charm and simplicity,” said Mrs. Campbell. Commenting on the craze for blond hair in London, Mrs. Campbell said that every woman who wished to be smart appeared with fair hair, at all costs. Of course this extreme faddism was not indulged in by the people who really mattered.
—The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933
The Osteria Restaurant exuded a distinctly Bavarian charm. The walls were wood-panelled and painted with classical scenes. The dining room was dark and cosy. As Blanshard had predicted, Rowland recognised Unity Mitford quite easily.
Seated at a table at the front of the restaurant, she was broad-shouldered and long-limbed. Rowland wouldn’t have called her pretty but there was a defensive haughtiness, a certain iron resolve about her face that he found artistically interesting. She wore a black button-down shirt and she watched the entrance like a hungry hawk.
Rowland took the table next to hers and when the waiter arrived, he tried to order in English before reverting to German. When the waiter left to bring his coffee, the black-shirted woman leaned over from her table.
“I say, are you English?” Her accent was distinctly that of the British privileged classes.
“Australian, actually.”
“Oh, the colonies.”
“Robert Negus,” Rowland said. “How do you do?”
She turned her chair around and thrust out her hand. “Unity Mitford.” She shook his hand vigorously, pumping it up and down.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mitford.”
“I haven’t seen you here before,” she said. “I would have noticed another Brit, even if it was a Colonial.”
“This is my first visit to this establishment,” Rowland said, finally pulling his hand from her grasp.
“I’ve been here simply loads of times.”
“Is the food particularly good?”
“No, I’m waiting for someone.”
“I see. I shouldn’t ask you to join me, then?”
She glanced at her watch. It was by then nearly noon. “Perhaps he’s not coming today.”
Rowland stood as she rose to move to his table.
“I am a direct sort of gel, Mr. Negus, so I must tell you at the outset that I am not available.”
“For lunch?” Rowland asked, wondering why she was moving to his table if that was the case.
“No, I’d be rather delighted to join you for a spot of luncheon, but it must go no further. I am spoken for, as it were.”
Rowland pulled out her chair. “I see. It is impertinent of me to enquire as we are barely introduced, Miss Mitford, but who is the lucky gentleman?”
She sat and beckoned him to do so too before she whispered, “Chancellor Hitler.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Negus?”
“Destiny?”
“I do. And destiny has brought me here.”
“To the Osteria?”
“No, to Adolf Hitler. Where were you conceived, Mr. Negus?”
“I assure you, I have no idea.”
“Well, I was conceived in Canada. In a place called Swastika. Don’t you think that could be a sign, Mr. Negus?”
“Unless Swastika is the name of a nunnery, Miss Mitford, I am sure many people were conceived there. They can’t all be destined for Mr. Hitler. ”
“My middle name is Valkyrie…handmaiden to the Nordic god Odin. It’s quite simply meant to be. Once we meet, the Chancellor will know it too.”
“I see.”
“So you and I cannot possibly be anything more than acquaintances, friends at the most.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Rowland tried to steer the conversation in a less awkward direction. “Would you care to order?”
Unity gave the waiter her selection without needing to even glance at the menu. Her German was halting, but she had a healthy appetite and a fondness for Bavarian beer.
“What brings you to Munich, Miss Mitford?” Rowland asked, as the food arrived.
“I’m on an educational tour sponsored by the British Union of Fascists,” she said proudly. “I’m a member, you know.”
Rowland glanced at Unity’s black shirt. “I had guessed.”
“Of course the Germans are ahead of Britain on the path to proper government. England is still being choked by Jews and Communists.”
“Choked?”
“A Jewish Bolshevik invasion, Mr. Negus. Australia’s been saved from that, I suppose, being so far away. But Britain and Europe are in peril. It’s time to fight back. ‘Britain for the British,’ I say!”
Rowland kept his face unreadable. This was going to be harder than he’d first assumed. Blanshard hadn’t mentioned the woman was mad.
“I’m travelling with Australians, you know.” Unity sipped her beer. “Perhaps you know them? Colonel and Mrs. Eric Campbell.”
“I know of them,” Rowland said cautiously, pleased that it was she who had raised the subject of Campbell. “The Colonel is a friend of friends, so to speak.”
He watched as Unity cut vigorously into her food. There was something quite mannish about her manner. Her movements were expansive and somehow indiscreet. Everything about her was beginning to irritate him.
“He’s quite an impressive sort of chap,” Miss Mitford continued. “In fact, Sir Oswald Mosley, who’s a personal friend of mine, is quite taken with him. He thinks Australia may be in good hands with Campbell at the helm.”
“But Colonel Campbell is not at the helm, Miss Mitford.”
“Not yet, but Sir Oswald thinks that will change soon. The revolution that we have seen in Germany will happen in Australia and Britain, and then right through the Empire and America. Democracy has failed, Mr. Negus. We are on the brink of being crushed beneath the heels of Zionism and Communism. The Jewish problem is real and if we do not act now, we risk compromising our racial purity forever. Fascism shall be the world’s salvation.”
Rowland wished to God he’d ordered something stronger than beer. He suspected he would need hard spirits to get through this conversation.
“But…” he began. He shook his head and said nothing further.
“But what, Mr. Negus?”
“Nothing…perhaps I’m mistaken.”
“I must insist you tell me what you were going to say!” Unity demanded. “It’s too bad to begin and not finish.”
Rowland sighed, a cautious show of reluctance. “I would have thought Colonel Campbell’s personal connections would have been problematic.”
Unity Mitford stiffened. “Whatever do you mean?”
Rowland pushed the hair back from his face. He was conflicted. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain to Milton what he was about to say.
“Campbell’s movement has never been against Jews, Miss Mitford. Rumour has it that there’s a very good reason for that.”
Unity gasped and put down her knife and fork. “You don’t mean…?”
“It would be a hard thing to prove one way or another, I suppose,” Rowland said carefully, “but it is generally known that the ‘Campbell fortune’ actually came from Colonel Campbell’s mother’s side…if you know what I mean.”
Unity leaned forward, her eyes wide with horror, and whispered, “What? A Jewess? Are you suggesting she was a Jewess?”
“Of course, this could be just scurrilous gossip…and I assume if asked, he would deny it outright…but, then, I have never heard of Campbell speaki
ng out against the Jews, just the Communists.”
“Doesn’t he understand that Communism is simply a Jewish conspiracy? Doesn’t he see how they have plundered the civilised world?”
“Who knows what he understands? Who knows why he has never spoken of the link.” Rowland felt vaguely unwell. He was not happy with the words that were coming out of his mouth. They tasted bitter.
Unity sat back. “You know, I never did trust the Campbells. Mrs. Campbell made such a fuss over Lady Mosley…ignored poor Nardy quite awfully.”
“Nardy?”
“My sister, Diana. She’s mad for Oswald and he for her, but he won’t leave Cimmie…even though she’s one of those dreadful Americans. Of course, she’s terribly ill…and as soon as she’s dead, Nardy will be the new Lady Mosley.”
It took a second for Rowland to work out that “Cimmie” was Sir Oswald Mosley’s wife. Apparently “Nardy” was his mistress. Rowland was startled by the cold callousness of Unity Mitford’s declaration.
“Do you have many siblings, Miss Mitford?” he asked, hoping to direct the conversation away from the convenience of Lady Mosley’s illness.
“Five sisters: Nardy, of course, then there’s Steake, Soo, Hen, and Woomling, and our brother, Tudemy.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “We Mitfords are rather fond of nicknames…Christian names can be so boring! Why, not one of them calls me Unity…it’s Bobo or Birdie…sometimes Boud.”
“Rather tiresome for your parents, I expect, having gone to the trouble of giving you all names.”
“Muv and Farve? It’s hard to tell…they’re both stark, staring bonkers. I say, what do they call you?”
“Robert Negus,” Rowland said firmly.
“Well, that won’t do! I’ve virtually told you my life story. If we’re going to be friends, we must find something a great deal more jolly. I believe I shall call you Thumper…or, I know—Bobsy!”
Rowland stared at her. The woman was a lunatic, from what appeared to be a family of lunatics.
“I’ve got it,” she crowed. “What about Chains?…Your being Australian and all?”
Rowland looked into her enthusiastic face as she clapped her hands with joy at her own wit. He waited until she’d stopped squealing. “What about Robert?”
Rowland had been wandering the Baroque pleasure gardens around Schleissheim Palace for only a few minutes before he spotted his friends. Edna’s dark auburn tresses drew his eye. Almost every other woman in the park seemed to be blond. Apparently, fair hair was the fashion of the moment. Rowland had always preferred red.
Edna waved and came to meet him, leaving the gentlemen in the gazebo they had commandeered for their picnic.
“I was worried you wouldn’t see us.” She took his hand and led him to the others.
“Where’s Richter?” Rowland asked, seeing that it was only Milton and Clyde who were stretched out on deck chairs inside the small domed pavilion.
“He was called away at the last moment…something about a chap called Boss.” Clyde stretched lazily. “Insisted we go on without him.”
Edna sighed. “I’m afraid Mr. Richter is convinced that this other tailor is conspiring to ruin him. He ran off to counteract some sort of subterfuge. He’ll try to join us later once he’s dealt with this Boss character.”
“Richter should shoot him and be done with it,” Milton muttered, with his arms behind his head.
Edna laughed at the thought. It was just like Milton to let the role of spy go to his head.
Clyde leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Well, Rowly, how was your meeting with Lady What’s-Her-Name?”
Rowland sat down, placing his hat on the bench beside him. “Unity Mitford. Arduous.”
“Really?” Edna sat on the table at the centre of the gazebo, resting her feet on the bench by Rowland. “What was she like?”
Rowland groaned. “She’s appalling.”
Milton squinted at him. “You’re serious.” He sat up. “Better tell us all about it, Rowly.”
So Rowland recounted his meeting with the young Englishwoman at the Osteria, where she was lying in wait for Adolf Hitler. He began with the girl’s conviction that she was destined for the German Chancellor, and her obsession with ridiculous nicknames.
“She wanted to call you what?” Milton laughed hard.
“Chains. Some allusion to convicts, I believe. Poor fool seems to think she’s a real wit.”
Edna tousled his hair fondly. “Poor Rowly. Imagine what Wilfred would have said if you went about known as Chains.”
“It does sound a bit common for a Sinclair,” Milton agreed. “He mightn’t object if she called you ‘Blueblood’ or ‘Polo’ or something.”
“He mightn’t, but I’d be forced to respond rather impolitely,” Rowland said tersely.
Milton chuckled. “I think I should like to be introduced to this young lady.”
“Believe me, Milt, you don’t.”
“So did you manage to defame Campbell?” Milton said, still grinning.
Rowland shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, I’m afraid I did.”
“Whatever’s the matter, Rowly?” Edna asked softly, sensing something in his manner.
Rowland glanced guiltily at Milton. He had used Unity Mitford’s prejudice against Campbell…perhaps in doing so he had given it some kind of implicit support. He wouldn’t blame Milton if he was offended. “I implied Campbell was Jewish,” he blurted.
“You did what?” Milton said startled.
Rowland explained himself, apologising even as he did so. He felt complicit and embarrassed.
Milton looked down, shaking his head. He smiled. “That’s genius! Even if she was to ask him outright, he won’t be able to prove otherwise with all the records back home.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t worry about it, Rowly…I’d happily call Campbell a Protestant, if I thought it would help get rid of him.”
“Campbell is a Protestant, Milt.”
“Well, there you go…and I thought it was the Catholics who were the troublemakers.”
Clyde grunted. “No, it’s always been the Protestants.”
Rowland smiled, relieved but still uneasy.
“What’s bothering you, Rowly?” Edna asked gently.
Rowland winced. “It’s ridiculous, I suppose….The one good thing about our fascists is that they don’t seem to have anything against Jews…and I’ve used that fact against Campbell.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Rowly,” Clyde murmured.
“What do you mean?”
“Campbell’s here,” Clyde replied. “He’s been in Europe for months. He can’t be unaware of what’s been going on…and still he wants to be Hitler’s mate.”
Milton nodded. “Clyde’s right, Rowly, old mate. If Campbell wants to bring Nazism to Australia, let him try doing it as a Jew.”
Chapter Twenty-five
NAZI MOVEMENT APPROVED
The New Guard leader, sportily clad in tweed and a cap, pooh-poohed the idea of German ‘atrocities’ against Jews. “All I saw of Jews in Germany five weeks ago was a crowd of fat, well-dressed men eating well at expensive restaurants,” he said. “To talk of ‘persecution’ is laughable.”
—The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933
The afternoon was passed pleasantly, viewing the Schleissheim Palaces, of which there were actually three. They spent the most time in the eighteenth-century New Palace. A monumental structure, it was by far the largest and grandest of the complex. Its festival rooms were magnificently decorated with carved panelling and stucco work. It was, however, the large allegorical ceiling frescoes that intrigued them most, and much of their time was spent with their eyes cast upwards. Admittedly, they did occasionally find the subject matter of the overhead paintings a little odd.
“Good Lord,”
Rowland said his arms folded as he gazed up at what appeared to be St. Peter disciplining cherubs over his knee.
“That’s the Lutherans for you,” Clyde agreed quietly.
Milton shook his head. “What chance have we got if he’s laying into cherubs?”
They had returned to the car park, when Rowland first noticed the lone Stormtrooper. He was walking briskly between the cars. Obviously preoccupied, he all but ran into them.
“Entschuldigung,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“No problem,” Rowland replied in German.
The man walked on for a couple of paces and then returned. “Do you have a car, mein Herr?”
“Yes,” Rowland answered carefully.
“Would you mind giving me a ride into Munich?” The Brownshirt smiled nervously. “I seem to have been left behind by my regiment, and there will be hell to pay if I’m not at tonight’s parade.”
Rowland glanced at his companions. He was more surprised by the Brownshirt’s civility than the request. “I can take you back to Munich,” he said. Excusing himself, he turned and explained to his companions in English. “He seems harmless enough…I’ll take him in the 380S.”
“I’ll come with you,” Clyde volunteered, with a sideways glance at the hitchhiking Stormtrooper.
Rowland nodded. It was probably overcautious, but they were wary of the SA. “We’ll see you both back at Richter’s,” he said to Edna and Milton.
And so they parted for their separate cars.
“I’m Robert Negus,” Rowland said, as he indicated Richter’s Mercedes parked a short distance away. “This is Joe Ryan, who I am afraid does not speak German.”
“You are not German?”
“Australian,” Rowland confirmed.
The Brownshirt stuck out his hand. “Hans Beimler.”
They each shook his hand in turn, pleased he did not feel the need to click his heels and “Heil Hitler!” at them.
Rowland had just opened the door to the motor car when there was a shout from the far end of the parking area and suddenly the place seemed to flood with Stormtroopers.
Paving the New Road Page 22