The Vengeance of Rome

by Michael Moorcock

  Soon I took to arriving at the market towards the end of the afternoon, so that I could watch Zoyea/Heckie dance, pop a coin into the boy’s aggressive box and chat to Signor Frau as he drew the canvas cover over his barrel organ, rewarded his monkey and prepared to push the instrument back through the side streets to the mews where all the organs were stored in common.

  By the first week of November Röhm had been almost entirely in Berlin. I remained at a loose end. A few SA men came and went from the Corneliusstrasse premises. They were not sure what I was doing there, and were frankly unfriendly. It was becoming obvious I must discover a new patron or take some sort of job. Common sense said I should have left for Berlin by now, except I felt safer for the moment in Munich. I was definitely safer than I would have been in Rome, unless Il Duce’s mood had changed. My enemies probably still had his ear. If I returned I was sure to find myself under arrest, with another false list of crimes added to my name. Yet in Munich I was, to some degree, Röhm’s prisoner. He remained very kind and sentimental, but during most of his visits his mind was chiefly on the political struggle. He found it impossible to relax completely. He would ‘lend’ me whatever money he had in his pocket, yet if I was to become my own man again I must find employment. Naturally my first thought was of my patents. I needed to get the ear of a German industrialist, and the only way to do that was through Mrs Cornelius, who more than likely was not even in the country any longer!

  Meanwhile, I was in love and the world was coming alive for me again. Zoyea and I had discovered a common interest.

  * * * *

  THIRTY-SIX

  And so began what would in retrospect be my epiphany when one dream would begin to be realised and another dashed for ever. Here I again discovered the peaks of joy and an abyss of despair, my ‘Alpine’ period, a wonderful time of self-expression, personal peril and vocational satisfaction. Ultimately, as always, disappointment would bring not only emotional exhaustion but also physical danger.

  For thirty months I came at last to anticipate fulfilment of my original Life Plan. During 1932-34, I found love, artistic expression, serious interest in my political philosophy, respect as a scientist and as an artist. Was the misery that followed the years of my European wanderings worth the pleasures of that time when the world blossomed with glorious hope, before the final betrayals which, I fear, continue to characterise this century? I lay the blame squarely at the door of Herr Adolf Hitler. Once the lie was only common currency in diplomacy and politics. Now it is a familiar instrument of public discourse.

  I grew up in a world with firms whose names you could trust. Now those names are turned into manipulative illusions, false promises.

  ‘Alas!’ Hitler said at the end.’ My Germans have failed me!’ Hitler’s interests were neither national nor socialist; they were personal. He was prepared to kill an entire people to fulfil his dream.

  The Germans survived and rejoined the family of civilised nations, but now it is too late. Heinz and Nestle own all the food. These firms are secretly controlled by alien interests. At any time they can decide to kill vast numbers of people. All they have to do is pick up a telephone and give an order. Cyanide will be injected into enough tins of baked beans to kill every British schoolboy overnight.

  They already introduce narcotics into our food to make us more easily manipulated by their subliminal advertising, their aggressive attacks on all our old values. I do not totally dismiss the theory that Adolf Hitler, after the death of Angela Raubal, was secretly poisoned, causing all his subsequent decisions. So in the end he fell into the hands of his enemies. He had made enemies of the Jews, when he could have enlisted some at least as willing helpers in his dream to build a new Germany. I speak from experience. There are altruistic Jews. It is a fact. I met one in Odessa. In Germany Strasser had already sketched a perfectly workable plan, which would take no one’s dignity or livelihood from them. Typically, too much talk and not enough cash was given to the problem, and so it worsened rather than improved. Julius Streicher must accept much of the responsibility, but overall I do blame Hitler.

  The secret little Zoyea and I shared was a mutual enthusiasm which I discovered by chance after she came to accept me. Initially, there was scant intercourse between us. Indeed, she avoided me. The boy was more communicative, but I had no special liking for him. I would occasionally pass on to him an adventure paper and discuss the stories with him, but he had a dull mind, though more amiable than he seemed.

  The magazines, some pre-war, were from a huge collection I had found under my bed, together with a whole shelf of Edgar Wallace in French and German. They had belonged to Baldur von Schirach and were fascinating. Most were in English, containing graphic depictions of airships, of rocket-driven space liners, of gigantic vehicles capable of travelling across the American plains without use of rails or roads. My first thought was that the authors had stolen my ideas, but some were clearly unworkable. In the Aldine Library of Invention, Travel & Adventure, I found, for instance a tale called ‘Across the Frozen Sea’, published some time before the world conflict, which proposed a preposterous schooner for sailing on giant skis across the Arctic ice! The power—weight ratio alone would not permit such nonsense! And the presumption that the Arctic plain is as smooth as Streatham Ice Rink is equally unscientific!

  The English-speaking von Schirach possessed an interest in engineering and futuristic invention he had not revealed to me. Here were Frank Reade, Popular Mechanics, Mechanix Illustrated, Science and Invention, Amazing Science Stories, Air Wonder Stories, Scientific American, Dusty Ayres and his Battle Aces and a dozen others. There were German and French tales from Jules Verne and his followers. Stories featuring Fantomas, Die Fledermaus and Doctor Mabuse were less imaginative. A rather primitive version of my articulated submarine was anticipated in a tale called ‘Into the Maelstrom’. My flying cities drawn for the American pulp covers in lurid colours were at last part of the common idea of the future. Here were visionaries much like myself. Rather than suspect them of stealing my ideas, for indeed I had anticipated them in almost every sphere, I acknowledged these writers and artists as equals, confirmation that I was not alone! Here were men who thought like me, who had the same kind of practical and romantic imagination. Possibly, at some future date, we could all come together as one scientific family to bring reason and order to the world. Within a generation we could abolish disease and hold death itself at bay. We would grow food for the whole planet and ensure no one was ever hungry. Great aerial ships could carry goods cheaply and quickly from place to place delivering food and medicines where they were needed. All that was required was the political will and the vision of business to back it; then we should have had not the bleak, mechanistic future of Metropolis, but the clean, aesthetic nobility of Things to Come, with white motorways curving between green hills, twisting alongside glittering lakes and sparkling rivers beneath blue and sunny skies, on which electrical cars move silently, directed by robot guides with sensors buried in roads, cars and lamp-posts to ensure the impossibility of a crash. It was H. G. Wells’s great dream. Out of the ashes of war rises a virgin world, ruled by wise, well-educated men, eugenically perfect, who guide us through to the new path which takes us directly to a bright, wholesome future, without disease, deformity or risk. A well-regulated but humane future, emphasising education, health, stability and predictability, the great boons and the continuing goals of a rational scientific society. This was the vision of von Schirach as well as Röhm and Strasser, but the shoulders expected to carry the burden of our plan into the second half of the twentieth century were simply not strong enough for the task. Germany did not fail Hitler. Hitler, it must be said, in the end failed Germany.

  What a different world it would have been if the Strassers, Röhm and Hoch, for instance, had controlled the National Socialist Party. Röhm would have kept his ‘pact of steel’ with Stalin and become partners to create an economic miracle to revive Europe with Russia and Germany at its hea
d. German influence on Russia would have modified the Bolsheviks, forcing them eventually to restore the Tsar, while Germany would return some form of monarch to the throne. In Munich, of course, there was a powerful argument for replacing the Kaiser with one of the Wittelbachs. This might well have happened under Röhm, though he would have limited such a ruler’s powers.

  An admirer of Cromwell, Röhm was an egalitarian through and through but would have preferred a traditional beneficent monarch to a contemporary dictator. He never intended so much power to be concentrated in one man’s hands.

  Röhm continued to make rare visits to Corneliusstrasse, now a comfortable apartment for myself and my occasional visitors. I could also now offer them wine and coffee or a snack, though Röhm never ate and rarely drank when he came, usually after dark. I was always glad to see him, if only for a couple of hours to break the monotony of my life. I had little money and little freedom of movement. Röhm still advised me to lie low. Frequently I was at my wits’ end for something to do. I complained to him that I felt the loss of music, of ordinary boulevard acquaintances. He told me to be patient. He would take care of things. We both had to be careful. Hitler had not forgotten that evening at Tegernsee. I had best become used to a quiet, uneventful life. An eventful one would not be to my taste. Wasn’t that a little vague? I asked.

  Röhm apologised Soon he would be able to relax. At present Hitler was proving a handful. He was back in the running but going up and down emotionally like a whore’s drawers. Handling him was very tiring. They were getting new recruits into the SA every day. Quality as well as quantity, he said. First-rate officer material. There could be no objection any longer from the Reichswehr. The sooner his boys were incorporated into the regular army, the better for all. The SA numbers were certainly making Hitler’s Big Business friends look up, and the army was equally aware of the troops which could be very quickly fielded.

  I read the newspapers only occasionally, usually helping myself to a free copy of the VB from the boy on the corner. He knew me now, but never seemed comfortable with my dipping into his barrow. I did not care what he thought. I had tried and failed to make friends with him. The Völkischer Beobachter was inclined to go into paroxysms of extravagant praise for the man I had last seen in the flesh in Tegernsee, covered in blood and excrement and gasping for more. It is a tribute to his peculiar magnetism that when I saw him enlarged on the great cinema screen, I was fascinated and convinced!

  Many mocked Hitler as an imitator of Charlie Chaplin. They do not realise how much Hitler admired Chaplin, though the feeling was not mutual. Hitler was able to speak to us all because of his common touch, which meant that he enjoyed ordinary pleasures quite as much as the more esoteric escapes of the powerful. He understood the media because he understood what we wanted from it. And he gave us exactly what we wanted. I was not among them, but I have known grown men used to brutal authority moved to tears by their love of the Führer. I suppose I was too well informed and too wise ever to have that kind of response. My heart has always belonged to God rather than Man.

  I found von Schirach’s collection of scientific magazines far more interesting than speculation about whether the socialists or the nationalists or the communists or the Catholic centrists were going to win this election or that vote. Such things were confusing for the average German, let alone a foreigner like myself.

  For the first week or two that she and her family were back in the market Zoyea was quietly self-contained. Her smiles were artificial, entirely for the audience. In repose her face became rather serious and thoughtful.

  Platonically I longed for her. Indeed, I longed for any feminine company. I could not feel complete without some sort of woman friend. I do not speak of lust but of my humanity, my need to be a whole man. Moreover, I could not afford to pay a whore. I had just enough for my basic needs. Even if I was careful, my store of sneg would be gone by the middle of January. Röhm could not be relied upon. He was still in Berlin more than he was in Munich. If he wasn’t in Berlin he was at a rally in Hamburg or a political meeting in Cologne.

  Not only was I growing starved of intellectual company, I was sure someone had followed me to Munich, perhaps one of my enemies. Röhm constantly reassured me that Hitler was not on to me. Yet it seemed he would soon see Röhm as the link between himself and the creature who had brought him to catharsis that night. Could Röhm be followed without his knowledge? My only consolation was that Hitler’s men would be looking for a girl. Yet might they consider me the link between the girl and Röhm? Twice von Schirach passed on information. Someone had been enquiring for me in the beer cellars and cabarets. I begged him to remain discreet.

  Forced to avoid all public places, I longed for music as much as I longed for conversation and eventually found an old radio down in the offices, which I requisitioned. But the set only received a local station, which was provincial and dull and rather too full of Hitler and Co. It would sometimes broadcast operettas. Jazz was forbidden. The music I heard coming from Munich’s few basement cabarets was largely made by accordions and can be imagined. I complained to Röhm, but he was too busy to listen with any great attention. Or so I thought.

  One morning I was woken up by a loud banging on the door. Alarmed, I dragged on a dressing gown and, keeping my door on its chain, looked to see who it was. A hard-faced brown-uniformed monster wearing a swastika armband stood there. It was Karl Weber, one of Hitler’s ‘old fighters’, an SA lieutenant who sometimes called at Corneliusstrasse on party business, and who had been friendly enough in the past. He stooped, picking up in both hands a large wooden cabinet on top of which was a cardboard box. ‘The Stabschef told me to bring this round to you, Prof. Where do you want it?’ He put it on my table, an expensive portable phonograph with a box full of black, brittle discs. I had music!

  ‘That’s so kind! Where on earth did you find it?’

  Weber laughed. ‘Not that far from here. One of our lads liberated it from some Bolshy Jewboy they were evicting on behalf of his landlord. They’d been told to keep a lookout for something like this. So here you are. Everyone benefits!’ He raised his arm in the familiar Ben-Hur salute and was on his way.

  As my coffee was brewing I greedily inspected the records, which were mostly familiar German labels like Parlophon, Ultraphon and Homocord. Some were American, Electrola and Victrola. A few of the records had familiar songs and performers. Most seemed to be songs from current Berlin shows. I wound up the machine, took an Al Jolson record from its cardboard sleeve, placed it on the turntable, started the phonograph and carefully lowered the amplifier arm on to the spinning disc.

  Not only was the machine excellent, the records had been well kept. Soon my mornings were spent to the tune of ’Sonny Boy’ and ‘Mammy’ or the harsh, catchy cabaret songs of Berlin. ‘Die Muschel von Margate’ was a biting attack on the oil business. I also enjoyed the haunting ‘Surabaya Johnny’ or the catchy ‘Tango Angele’. Germany was full of such clever, sardonic music in those Weimar years. Most of it disappeared, of course, under the floods of jazz, which Hitler and his Nazis did their absolute best to curb. Not for nothing were the worst juvenile delinquents of the Nazi period called ‘jazz-kiddies’.

  So powerful an influence was this Negro music that juvenile delinquency actually rose to near epidemic proportions under the Third Reich. No matter how much authority was exerted, the music continued to be played. Eventually, the Nazis gave up and allowed their own jazz bands to broadcast. These wartime songs could often be picked up in England and were often witty, such as Onward Conscript Army / Marching off to war / To fight for Jewish bosses / And die for Jewish whores / Dressed by Monty Burton / Fed on Lyons’ Pies / Fight for Marks and Spencer’s / Die for Jewish lies! All sung to the tune of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s rousing ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’! and done as an upbeat jazz number.

  Signor Frau’s barrel organ, meanwhile, was not as healthy as my new phonograph. While it had earlier shown signs of problems, playing wrong note
s, dropping others, wheezing somewhat in certain chords, the machine was what Signor Frau called ‘missing’. He would turn the handle but the machinery would not do what it was supposed to do. The notes the organ did play were often wrong, and it was developing a positively ugly sound, as likely to drive away customers as attract them. Some regular passers-by were beginning to laugh or even jeer.

  There was nothing that a little intelligence and mechanical skill could not fix. Surely the instrument would not be expensive to repair? I had myself tinkered with a couple of mechanical fairground organs when I worked for the Armenian in Kiev. I mentioned this to Signor Frau. He said any repairs would absorb most of his profit, but with Christmas coming up, he would have to get a specialist to restore it. He was depressed. The thing had already been overhauled once at the beginning of the year.

  Familiar with the Strassenorgel’s mechanics, I asked if I might have a look. He let down the back on hinges and showed me the interior. The straightforward device consisted of a large bellows, a number of pipes of various gauges, a spiked cylinder rather like a player-piano’s, over which passed a series of punched cards, triggering or stopping the appropriate pipes. A bellows supplied the air for the simple system. A borrowed screwdriver, a bicycle repair kit, a can of fine oil, a pair of jeweller’s pliers and some wire, and I soon had the Leierkasten working at full capacity, its voice issuing strong and melodic from the diaphragm at the front. Signor Frau could not thank me enough. He was genuinely delighted. I had made the difference between good times and bad for his little family.