“I want to know what really happened today. I presume it’s something you don’t want Alois to know.”
Rowland nodded. Richter had been home that evening and they had been unable to talk alone.
“You’re cold,” he said, noticing that she was shivering. He got out of bed and, slipping on his robe, pulled up a chair for himself, so that she could climb under the bedcovers. In whispers he told her of Beimler, of what they had done to ensure his escape, and of Frank Heinrich, Egon Kisch, and the Communists hiding in the factory attic.
She listened, hugging the quilted bedclothes around her. “They wanted to shoot you?” she breathed, aghast.
“I think that Eisen fellow is just a bit of a hothead,” he said on reflection. “Though I can’t say I’d blame them for doing whatever necessary to stay out of Dachau.”
“What will they do? How long can they possibly hide?”
“I suppose they’ll get out of the country…They didn’t really tell us. Understandably, they’re a mite paranoid.”
“Alois was dreadfully upset when he heard you went with the SA. He was so worried, it made me scared.”
He smiled. “There were two of us, Ed, and Beimler was alone…initially, at least. Richter’s probably right to be worried about the SA…but Beimler wasn’t SA, as it turns out.”
“It was more than that. Alois was really distressed.”
Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. He trusted Edna’s instincts. “You suspect there’s more to it?”
“I’m worried about him, Rowly. He seems scared.” She had stopped shivering now and she let her hands emerge from under the covers. “If we come to the attention of the authorities, he might be in a lot of trouble for harbouring us. He could lose his business….What if they send him to Dachau?”
Rowland stared at the sculptress. She was right. They had entered into this knowingly and willingly. Richter was just a bystander, but if their plans went wrong, he could be more than ruined. “We should leave.”
“Germany?”
“No—we can’t leave Munich until Eric Campbell does. But we could go back to the Vier Jahreszeiten.”
“That would hurt him terribly, Rowly. He’s become so fond of us.”
“He’ll have to face it someday. You’re not his daughter, Ed.”
Edna laughed softly. “He does remind me of Papa, though Papa never made such a ridiculous fuss of me.” She lowered her pitch to mimic her father’s, which was not easy while speaking in a half-whisper. ‘“Pretty is as pretty does, my girl. Empires were not built by silly young things in fashionable frocks.’”
“Selwyn wanted you to build an empire?” Rowland asked, bemused. He’d always found Edna’s father eccentric, but the expectation seemed unreasonable, even for him.
“I believe he must have been teaching ancient Rome at the time,” Edna giggled. Selwyn Higgins lectured in Classics at the University of Sydney. “Poor Papa’s always wanted me to fulfil my mother’s potential, to be the artist Mama might have been if she hadn’t married him.”
“But your mother was happy with Selwyn, wasn’t she, Ed?” Rowland asked wistfully.
Edna stopped. She bit her lip and shook her head. “Oh, Rowly, I thought Milt had told you.”
“Told me…”
“How my mother died. She took her life when I was thirteen.”
Rowland stopped breathing for a moment. Milton hadn’t told him. Of course, Rowland had known Edna’s mother had passed away, but the sculptress had never before spoken of the manner of her death.
“My God, Ed, I’m sorry.” He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to hold her, but aware that she was in his bed, he refrained. Instead, he took her hand in both of his, and kissed it.
“I thought you knew, Rowly—I wasn’t keeping it from you.” Somehow her laugh was sadder than tears. “Who would have thought Milt was so discreet?”
Rowland said nothing, not sure what he could say. He had always admired Edna’s independence, as much as he wished she would forsake it for him. It was a part of her vibrancy, the indomitable spirit which had bewitched him from the first. Her commitment to freedom had always appeared joyous. She laughed off the devotion she inspired, danced away from proposals of marriage like some merry, seductive nymph, and yet now it seemed there was tragedy at the core of the liberty she cherished.
It was Edna who broke the silence. “Don’t feel badly for me, Rowly. It was a long time ago. I don’t want to think about Mama right now. Can we not talk about it for a while?”
“Of course.”
“We have to do something to protect Alois,” Edna continued, turning her mind determinedly from her mother. “Something other than going back to the Vier Jahreszeiten. It would hurt him too deeply.”
“I don’t see what else we can do.”
“Can’t we make Campbell leave? Then we can go home before the authorities notice us and without upsetting Alois.”
Rowland dragged a hand through his hair and regarded her dubiously. “How exactly are we supposed to make Campbell leave, Ed?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t you talk to Mr. Blanshard? You’ve done everything he’s asked…He probably wants to go home too.”
“I can’t imagine Blanshard having a home, to tell you the truth. He’s not really a family dinner sort of chap.”
“Rowly…please.”
He looked at her. Rowland could see that she was really frightened for Richter; conflicted by the possible consequences of what they were doing. He felt ashamed that it had not even occurred to him. Edna was right. They had had no business dragging Richter into this, and now that they had, they would have to ensure that he was not going to suffer for it. “Do you think Richter has any idea we are not who we say we are?”
“I do wonder sometimes,” she said. “Rowly, I know what we’re doing is important, but let’s face it, we don’t really know what we’re doing. I’m just afraid we’re going to leave Alois in a terrible mess.” She took Rowland’s hand. “Speak to Mr. Blanshard…please, Rowly.”
Rowland smiled. He wondered if she was aware that he was unable to refuse her anything. If she’d asked him for the moon, he would try to pull it from the sky. “I shall speak to Blanshard,” he promised. “Don’t worry about Richter…we’ll make sure he’s all right, even if we have to take him and that bloody dog back to Sydney with us.”
Edna laughed quietly. “I wonder what Lenin would make of poor Stasi.”
Rowland’s brow rose as he considered it. “I fear Len may try to eat him.”
They talked long into that night, and though neither mentioned Edna’s mother again, there was a new closeness to their conversation, an understanding where there had only been acceptance before. When she eventually returned to her own room, Rowland lay awake, conscious of the faint, lingering smell of rose perfume on the sheets.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“The function of the so-called liberal Press was to dig the grave for the German people and the Reich. No mention need be made of the lying Marxist Press. To them the spreading of falsehood is as much a vital necessity as the mouse is to a cat. Their sole task is to break the national backbone of the people, thus preparing the nation to become the slaves of international finance and its masters, the Jews...
Certainly in days to come the Jews will raise a tremendous cry throughout their newspapers once a hand is laid on their favourite nest, once a move is made to put an end to this scandalous Press and once this instrument which shapes public opinion is brought under State control and no longer left in the hands of aliens and enemies of the people. I am certain that this will be easier for us than it was for our fathers. The scream of the twelve-inch shrapnel is more penetrating than the hiss from a thousand Jewish newspaper vipers. Therefore let them go on with their hissing...”
—Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf
Rowland’s next conversation with Alas
tair Blanshard was tenser than usual. For one thing, Blanshard was irritated by the fact that Rowland had demanded the meeting as a matter of urgency. The agent was at pains to clarify the nature of their relationship.
“Understand this, Mr. Negus,” he growled, as they stood under umbrellas, staring into the lion cage at the Munich Zoo. “You do not summon me. I am not here to solve your problems. You are here on the off-chance you can be of use to me.” Of course, this was all said while he was smiling and nodding as if recounting some hilarious anecdote.
Having become accustomed to the agent’s contrary gestures as well as his ill-humour, Rowland ignored him and repeated his question. “How long is Campbell planning to stay?”
“He’s determined to remain until he meets the Chancellor, until he has some tangible proof of Hitler’s esteem and endorsement to take back to the New Guard…and since the entire purpose of your presence and mine is to prevent such an eventuality, you’d better buckle down, Negus.” He fumbled in his jacket for a cigarette case. “I knew you wouldn’t stay the distance…I told those fools—”
“I assure you, Mr. Blanshard, we will not leave till Campbell does,” Rowland said tightly. “I would just like to explore the possibility of encouraging him to leave.”
“Well, unless you believe you can impersonate Hitler, Mr. Negus, I don’t expect there is anything you can do.”
Rowland gazed sullenly at the caged felines.
Blanshard pulled a cigarette from the case and lit it, drawing on it a couple of times before speaking again. “Unity Mitford asked me if I knew anything about Campbell’s family.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Mitford.” Rowland muttered resentfully. “You might have mentioned that she was crackers.”
Blanshard grunted. “Why is she asking about Colonel Campbell’s family?”
“I may have implied that he was Jewish.”
“I see. That explains it, I suppose.”
“It’s worked, then?”
“She’s certainly curious about Campbell’s connections, though I don’t know that she’s entirely convinced. Perhaps after your next rendezvous…”
Rowland stiffened. “Next…? Surely that’s unnecessary?”
“You want Campbell to go home, Mr. Negus? Well, how about you do what you were sent here to do?”
“Very well.” Rowland tried to keep from flaring. Blanshard was insufferable. “I will try to run into Miss Mitford again in the next day or two.” He turned to face Blanshard. “But there must be a way to give Campbell a nudge home.”
Blanshard’s teeth were clenched into an alarming smile. “There isn’t! If Campbell gets the slightest whiff that anyone is trying to sabotage his tour, he will use it to his advantage both over here and back home. You, Mr. Negus, need to pull your head in or you may just find that someone knocks it off!”
The beer garden was small and, but for three Australian men who drank together, deserted. Perhaps it was the steady drizzle, or the fact that the bar was in a less salubrious part of Munich.
Still, the paved courtyard was clean, even if the chairs were rickety and the table linen patched repeatedly. The proprietor had attempted to compensate for the general shabbiness with a small vase of dandelions placed at the centre of each table.
Clyde sighed. “Ed’s got a point. We’ve had a couple of close shaves already. If things go wrong, it could get very ugly for Richter.”
“Won’t be particularly pretty for us, either, mate,” Milton observed.
Rowland sipped his beer. “Maybe Campbell will give up soon.”
Milton studied the froth which floated atop the amber fluid in his own glass. “Perhaps impersonating Hitler’s not such a bad idea.”
Clyde grunted. “It’s a very bad idea…Don’t even think about it.”
“We’ve managed it once,” Milton rubbed his lip. “We could…”
Rowland smiled. “You’ll need more than a bad German accent to pass as the Chancellor, Milt.” He stared out at nothing in particular.
“What are you thinking, Rowly?” Clyde asked cautiously.
Rowland leaned back, glancing casually around the beer garden to ensure it was still empty. “We’ve managed somehow to keep Campbell from meeting anyone of consequence to date. Ironically, it’s that which is keeping him here. Our best chance is to figure out what would make Campbell abandon his plan to meet Hitler.”
Clyde frowned. “I suppose it’s too much to hope he’ll come to his senses?”
“Yes, probably.”
“Perhaps we’re looking at this all wrong,” Milton said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be trying to push Campbell out of Germany. Perhaps we simply need to lure him back to Sydney.”
“How do you mean?” Clyde asked.
“Give him a reason to go home that’s more important than hobnobbing with the fascists over here.”
Rowland looked sharply at the poet. “You’re right.”
Milton smiled. “I tend to be. What about a family illness?”
Rowland shook his head. “Too easy to verify, I should think.” His eyes glinted. “But what if Campbell were to receive word that there was trouble in the New Guard…in-fighting, that sort of thing?”
“Yes!” Milton slapped the table enthusiastically. “A coup d’ état within his beloved militia! Even before he left, there were rumours of dissension in the ranks—guardsmen who thought Campbell was becoming too fascist.”
Rowland smiled. “That might just work.”
“Of course it’ll work,” Milton replied. “We’re brilliant!”
“Steady on,” Clyde cautioned. “Before you jokers get carried away with your own genius, how on Earth do you propose to convince Campbell of this supposed coup?”
“Easy.” Milton would not be dissuaded. “We’ll get Blanshard to tell him.”
Rowland frowned. “I don’t know that Blanshard will be in it. In fact, I don’t think we can rely on any help from the Old Guard. I doubt very much that they’re going to let us take the lead.”
“We could telegram Campbell,” Milton persisted.
Rowland groaned. “No, it wouldn’t work. He’d be able to see that the telegram was sent from within Germany…He’s not a stupid man.”
Milton topped up his beer glass from the jug on the table. “There’s got to be some way to—”
“What if we enlist Miss Wake?” Rowland interrupted.
“Nancy? Enlist her to do what, exactly?”
Rowland spoke quickly now. His eyes narrowed as the plan unfolded in his mind’s eye. “She could interview Campbell, ask him questions about the reported in-fighting within the New Guard—the rumours that the man he left in charge is preparing to stage a coup rather soon. It’s perfectly feasible that she would hear things through her contacts in the press.”
Milton grinned, nodding slowly. “Do you think she’d be willing, Rowly?”
Rowland shrugged. “She seems rather a good sport. It can’t hurt to ask.”
Clyde agreed cautiously. “Are you going to give Blanshard a heads-up?”
“I’m inclined not. I seriously doubt it would be a good idea,” Rowland said, his face darkening. “Apparently, we are here to do his bidding and nothing else.” He laughed softly. “The Old Guard is displeased as it is. I’m afraid Mr. Blanshard’s received another telegram about our appalling lack of frugality, from that chap Munroe.”
“Sounds like a Scot,” Milton said in disgust. “Scots are always unreasonably thrifty…We’re dealing in art, not parsnips—you can’t buy it by the pound.”
Clyde shook his head. “Just wait till Milton’s purchases start arriving in Sydney. We’ll be lucky if Hardy doesn’t have our passports revoked.”
“Hopefully, we’ll be on a liner home by the time Backwards Mona Lisa or the deformed duck painting reach the good Senator
.”
Clyde laughed.
Milton studied them sadly. “I’ve always known Clyde was a traditionalist…but you, Rowly? I had hope for you.”
“Get off!” Clyde retorted. “You only bought those pieces because you thought they’d offend Hardy.”
Milton sighed. “I admit that may have been the basis of my initial purchase, but there’s something about handing over a rather large sum of money that makes you recognise a certain merit you might initially have missed.”
Rowland raised his glass. “I’m sure the Graziers’ Association will be immensely grateful for your astute investments on their behalf, old mate.”
They returned to Richter’s mansion in Schellingstrasse that afternoon in good spirits. The plan to have Nancy Wake panic Campbell into leaving had introduced a sense of purpose to their sojourn in Germany, which had otherwise threatened to extend into endless months of simply interfering with the dealings of the New Guard leader.
Munich had its charm, but the idea of staying for an indefinite period was beginning to exasperate them more than they realised.
Two artists from whom Milton had purchased paintings the previous week had fled to London. Even Hans von Eidelsöhn was contemplating a strategic retreat to Austria, if only Millicent Greenway would consent to go with him. For her part, Edna seemed fond of the melancholy artist, but no more so than any of the other men who had caught her interest for a time.
Richter and Edna were both out that afternoon. They may have been together. Richter’s fondness for the sculptress bothered Rowland a little. He did not think there was anything untoward about it, but he did wonder whether the doting tailor would be too cruelly grieved when they left. Clearly Richter’s regard was tied up with memories of his own daughter, although Edna was being nothing but herself. That alone was enough to enslave most men.
Rowland left a message at the telephone number Nancy Wake had given him, and then returned to his easel. Clyde was already in the makeshift studio, working on a still life. Milton was ensconced in an armchair with a volume of Ashenden by William Somerset Maugham, which he apparently had found among the books in Richter’s library. Rowland had not yet set out his palette when Mrs. Schuler beckoned to him from the door. When he’d come close enough she whispered that there was a very distraught young woman on the porch who, she supposed, had come to see him.
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