“What’s more natural than two old friends having a spot of lunch? You can tell her I’m an old school chum. Pip, pip, smashing wot!”
Rowland sighed. He could tell Milton was, for some reason, eager to meet Unity Mitford. Having met her once, he couldn’t fathom why, but the poet had always had an acute sense of the perverse. “Very well, then…but for God’s sake, don’t speak like that!” He grimaced. “Bear in mind that you cannot tell her what a vapid lunatic she is.”
Milton looked affronted. “Why would I do that?”
“Believe me, mate, you’ll want to…but it might make things difficult.”
Milton smiled. “Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart thoughts all too deep for words.”
“Coleridge.” Rowland shook his head. “There are words…they’re just not very polite.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
MR. ERIC CAMPBELL
Denies Persecution of Jews
SAYS FASCISM IS
DEMOCRATIC
Mr. Eric Campbell expressed the opinion, however, that the New Guard movement could learn a number of things from the European movements. He said that he had found that his position as leader of the New Guard was a passport throughout Europe and Great Britain. In Rome, although he did not meet Signor Mussolini, he met other leaders of the Fascist movement. He found the Nazi and Fascist movements more democratic than any Labour Government ever was.
In Germany, he had made it his business to investigate the alleged persecution of Jews, and, from his personal observation, he would say that there was definitely no persecution. Jews had lost their position only where they were Communists.
—The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933
They reached the Osteria Bavaria just as Unity Mitford was leaving.
“Miss Mitford!” Rowland called out as they approached.
She recognised him. Her arm shot into the air and she shouted, “Heil Hitler!”
“Quite,” Rowland muttered, conscious of the curious eyes of passers-by. Even in Munich, women rarely used the Nazi greeting socially, and never so loudly. Unity Mitford had a way of drawing attention to herself. She maintained the fascist salute until it became painfully clear that neither Rowland nor Milton were inclined to return it. For his part, Rowland dealt with the discomfiture by introducing Albert Greenway, an old friend from his school days, as if this were a perfectly normal and casual meeting.
“I say, have you and your chum come for lunch?” Unity said, finally dropping her arm.
Rowland nodded. “I enjoyed such a pleasant meal here the other day that I thought I might come again,” he lied. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”
Unity looked back at the restaurant. “You know what, I do believe I might. It’ll be rather fun to speak English for a while. I’ve been here since eleven and I must say I’m famished.”
“You didn’t order?” Milton enquired.
“Oh, no…I don’t, generally. If Herr Hitler should invite me to his table, I don’t want to be full, you know.”
“Of course.”
And so they took a table in the Osteria.
“I’m returning to take lunch with my friends,” Unity announced to no one in particular, using her arms in wide, almost choreographed gestures. “You know what Australians are like…They simply would not allow me to leave without dining with them.” She laughed loudly.
Milton glanced at Rowland. His brow was slightly furrowed but otherwise his face revealed little.
“I assume the Chancellor did not come in today,” Rowland said, as he studied the menu.
“Not today,” Unity replied. “But, you know, he’s nodded to me on two previous occasions. He’s noticed me, you see. It’s only a matter of time before he invites me to sit with him.”
“It must be quite an imposition on your time having to lunch here every day, Miss Mitford,” Milton ventured.
“Oh, yes, and dreadfully expensive,” Unity said, nodding ferociously. “That’s why I didn’t order before. Farve is already positively explosive about my expenses…but I said to him that I did not wish to be finished in silly old France. I’ve made my debut and now it’s Germany for me! I only wish Cord might have come with me…I’m wretched without her.”
“Well said, old thing!” Milton declared, though Rowland was sure that he’d understood barely a word.
“Is Cord one of your sisters?” Rowland asked.
“Yes, Diana, with whom Oswald Mosley is hopelessly in love. I believe I spoke to you of Cord when we last dined, Mr. Negus.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Mitford. For some reason I thought you spoke of that particular sister as Nardy.”
“Oh, we do…and Cord and Bodley and Honks. We gels each have several names. It’s such fun!” She laughed to demonstrate that, indeed, it was. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you need a name, Mr. Negus. I simply will not call you Robbie—it’s so unbearably pedestrian!”
“I’m afraid Robbie is crushingly boring about such things,” Milton said, leaning back in his chair. “Won’t answer to anything but Robbie…believe me, the chaps and I have tried.”
“And what have you been doing with yourself, Miss Mitford?” Rowland attempted to change the subject. “Are you enjoying Munich?”
“Oh, I’ve been having an entirely splendid time. Those of us travelling under the banner of the British Union of Fascists have been taken on some quite extraordinary tours. Why, just yesterday we were shown around the camp to which they take those Commie vermin for their own protection.”
“And from what exactly are the Nazis protecting the Communists, Miss Mitford?” Milton asked.
“From the people, of course,” she replied. “They hate the beastly Communists over here—see them for the rotten wreckers that they are. I really wish the English were more like the Germans. Oh, if only Mr. Hitler were an Englishman!”
Rowland couldn’t help himself. “So you didn’t see anything disturbing at the Dachau camp?”
“Oh, the horror, yes. The Communists are quite unnerving to look at, even behind barbed wire. Of course, they’re treated perfectly well…The guards are not supposed to harm them physically, though I don’t know how they can resist the occasional swipe to keep the wicked creatures in order. Some of them are rather fat,” she added, puffing up her cheeks to demonstrate. “I’m sure the foreign press will criticise the government for overfeeding them!” She giggled. “We did see something rather fun.” Unity leaned towards them quite conspiratorially. “The inmates were all made to line up on parade for exercises. One of the Kommandants, a particularly handsome chap with very pale hair, ordered them each to raise his right leg, which they all did…and then…”—she paused, sniggering again—“they were ordered to raise the left leg…without putting the right down.” Unity threw her head back, her mirth unrestrained. “It was such sport to see them all come crashing down! Oh, how we laughed!”
“Indeed.” Rowland forced a smile.
Milton’s laugh seemed brittle. He glanced quickly at Rowland as they both checked their growing distaste. “Hitler certainly is a barrel of laughs.”
Unity was now laughing so hard she could only nod her agreement.
Rowland and Milton drank while they waited for her to calm herself. Experience had led Rowland to order spirits rather than beer.
“I say, you may have been right about that chap Campbell and his priggish wife.”
“How so?” Rowland asked cautiously.
“Well, I heard him say he means to meet Herr Hitler and ask him directly what he has against the Jews! Isn’t that preposterous?”
“Quite. Did he say why he would make such an enquiry?”
“He says it’s to address the concerns of the Australian people. Apparently, the foreign press has been publishing ridiculous stories about Jews being mistreated. Jewish reporters, no doubt. Stil
l, I think that perhaps there may be something to that secret you shared with me, Mr. Negus.” She winked at Rowland as if they had been party to some deep and valuable confidence.
“About Campbell’s mother?” Milton asked.
“You know?” Unity sat back, surprised.
“Of course. Everybody in Australia knows about Campbell’s mother…One doesn’t really like to talk about it. He can’t help who his mother is, after all.”
Rowland noticed the tiniest hint of challenge in Milton’s tone, but Unity Mitford was oblivious.
“I suppose he can’t, but it does say a great deal about his character. The Jew can only be what he is. Anyhow, your Mr. Campbell will not be meeting Mr. Hitler, if there’s anything I can do about it. I’m making it my personal mission to protect the Chancellor from Campbell’s kind. I’ll speak to Putzi Hanfstaengl—he’s a capital fellow, not quite an Oxford man, but he did go to Harvard. Putzi’ll make sure this fellow, Campbell, doesn’t worm his way into the Chancellor’s esteem.”
“Good for you!” Milton said, with an entirely convincing show of approval. “Someone’s got to look out for the poor chap.”
And so the meal continued. The Australians ate quickly because they had no wish to prolong the encounter. Unity dominated, for the most part, enlightening them with her views on world politics and trade and recounting childhood pranks played on victims ranging from servants to the Queen Mother. Milton occasionally amused himself by reflecting her manner, inventing terms with aplomb in a way that seemed to endear him to their guest.
Unity tried again to bestow Robert Negus with a nickname, and eventually Rowland gave in. He hoped never to see her again, anyway, so what she chose to call him was irrelevant. Delighted, she dubbed him “Kanga,” which, it seemed, was all she knew of Australia. Albert Greenway, she decided to call “Golf,” and he appeared to be well pleased with the title, launching into an improbable story about his familial connections to the great fairways of Scotland. She used the monikers repeatedly, stamping them clumsily into every possible sentence.
Rowland checked his watch. “Good Lord, Albert, we’d better get on, or we’ll be late.” He signalled for the bill.
“Making your acquaintance has been quite unforgettable, Bobo,” Milton said, shaking Unity Mitford’s hand as Rowland settled the account.
“Yes, my dear Golf, it’s been simply scrumptious. We must do this again. I’m here most days, though you must understand that I will abandon you if Mr. Hitler comes in.”
“I do understand, Bobo,” Milton assured her. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from Mr. Hitler.”
Rowland smiled now, as parting seemed imminent. “Good afternoon, Miss Mitford,” he said, still refusing to participate in the ludicrous exchange of nicknames.
And so it was with considerable relief that they left The Honourable Unity Mitford at the steps of the Osteria Bavaria.
They walked in a kind of stunned, uneasy silence and it was not until they were well away that they spoke of the encounter.
“I’ve gotta admit, mate, you weren’t exaggerating,” Milton said eventually. “That girl is a very unsavoury kind of mad.”
“I wonder if Hitler’s noticed she’s following him about. I should think he’d find that a little disconcerting.”
“Certainly ought to.”
Rowland removed his hat and rubbed his hair. For some reason he felt vaguely embarrassed by Unity Mitford. She was the epitome of the ruthless and puerile upper classes of which the Communists spoke, which he had always laughed off as a political caricature. But there she was, and spending any more time in her company could very well turn him into a Bolshevik.
“It’s all right, Rowly.” Milton elbowed his friend. “It’s not as if she’s related to you.”
Rowland sighed. “If she were, I could at least have her committed.”
Milton laughed. “The asylums might get a bit overcrowded if you were committing people for hating Jews,” he said quietly. “That’s not a new thing, Rowly.”
Rowland looked at him. Milton smiled, but his dark eyes flashed angrily…and there was something else. “Milt…”
“She makes me sick, Rowly. And what’s worse, she scares me. What’s happening here terrifies me in a way that you’ll never know.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t, mate.” Milton shook his head firmly. “How could you understand? You’re a member of the ruling class in every way…money and breeding. How could you possibly know what it’s like to be despised for the blood that runs in your veins? To be excluded before you say hello? To have neither the money nor the connections to change it? I’m not saying you don’t care, mate, or that you don’t want to understand, but you just can’t know!”
Rowland faltered. “I’m sorry, Milt…I didn’t mean…”
Milton groaned. His smile was abashed, apologetic. He placed his hand companionably on Rowland’s shoulder. “No, Rowly, don’t be sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.” The poet met his eye. “I’m pleased life’s given you a leg-up. You’re a good bloke…the best mate I’ve ever had. That woman’s just unnerved me a bit.”
Rowland chewed his lip, scowling. Unity Mitford troubled him beyond the irritation of their contact. Perhaps it was that she expressed her bigotry so blithely, as if she were talking about hats or the latest film. As if hating Jews was just the latest fashion.
Milton hooked his thumbs into the pockets of the luridly striped waistcoat he had borrowed from Alois Richter. He sighed, resigned. “If Lady Bobo manages to cause a rift between Campbell and the Nazis, it’ll be worth it.”
Rowland glanced at his watch. “Come on, then, we’d better hurry.”
“For what?” Milton asked. “I thought you’d simply made up an appointment to get us out of there.”
“I certainly would have if we didn’t actually have one. But as it is, we’re meeting Nancy at the Bismarck.”
Milton grinned, his anger now forgotten. “What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?” He nudged Rowland. “I could head back to Richter’s, if you like.”
“Browning,” Rowland said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be daft, we’re nearly there. Nancy was going to see what she could find out about this actress, Fräulein Niemann, the woman Bothwell called on before he died.”
“Oh.” Milton was clearly disappointed. “I had hoped you might finally have gotten over Ed.”
“Ed? Oh, I see,” Rowland said, now following Milton’s line of thought. He laughed. “I am afraid one doesn’t get over Ed—one simply learns to live with it.”
Nancy Wake was waiting at a table by the window, writing in a small journalist’s notebook. She looked up as they approached and smiled warmly. Indeed, Milton was sure there was something in her eyes as she looked at Rowland that he had not seen before.
“Hello, Nancy,” Rowland said, aware that Milton was watching him carefully. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No, not at all,” she said. “Do sit down…I have a great deal to tell you.”
Rowland and Milton took seats at the little table, and signalled the waiter. They made small talk until their drinks arrived, and once the waiter had left them, Nancy began excitedly.
“Anna Niemann is quite a big star…She had her heyday during the war, but she could still attract big crowds.” Nancy flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “She’s lived in Vienna since 1920, but before that she was working in Munich as a cabaret singer. Her father was some kind of professor and she attended boarding school in England. It was quite a scandal for her to take to the stage. Apparently her family disapproved of her acting.” Nancy glanced mischievously at Rowland. “I suppose you’d understand all about that.”
Rowland laughed, and waited for her to go on.
“That’s the official biography…and then I came across something really interes
ting.” She smiled, building the suspense. “I spoke to a colleague who’s been freelancing here for twenty years. He can’t be certain, but he’s pretty sure that Anna Niemann was accused of spying during the war.”
“Spying?”
“It seems she had a British passport, and travelled a great deal on her own…and so she fell under suspicion.”
“What happened?”
Nancy shook her head. “Not really sure. My friend recalls she was arrested, but this was after the war had been won. There wasn’t really a great will to prosecute, I expect.”
Rowland tapped the rim of his glass as he thought. Anna Niemann might have been a spy for the British. Perhaps that was the connection between the actress and Bothwell.
“So what about her disappearance?”
“It was investigated,” Nancy said. “Theatregoers complained, for one thing, and of course when the show was cancelled, investors lost money. The official line is that she returned to Vienna, but nobody has heard from or seen her since. She’s disappeared.”
“What about the SA or the SS? Could she have ended up in a camp?”
“They only hold men,” Nancy replied. “And there’s nothing on record to indicate she was a Communist, or Jewish, or even just critical of the Nazis.” She pulled a photograph from her bag. “I managed to find one of her most recent publicity shots.”
Rowland took the picture. Anna Niemann seemed to be between forty and fifty. She was a handsome woman, with heavy eyebrows and an aquiline nose. Her eyes were light and piercing and her mouth expressive. She had the kind of face he would have liked to paint. Her features were not perfect, but there was a vivacity and strength to them. “May I keep this?” he asked.
Nancy nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Rowland slipped the photograph into his pocket as he thanked her.
“My pleasure,” she replied. “In fact, I wrote a piece on her for The Tribune so the research was very useful.”
Paving the New Road Page 26