Paving the New Road (27 page)

“Then what’s this?” Edna said, glancing back at the new portrait.

“I think I might have got rather carried away with the other one. I decided I’d better paint another piece for Eva.”

“Didn’t she like the first one?”

“She hasn’t actually seen it … I came to my senses before I showed her and just started this one.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“No, I did … I just think Eva is expecting something rather more traditional.”

Edna couldn’t resist any longer. She turned Clyde’s easel around and stood back to view the canvas. “Oh, Rowly.”

“What do you think?” Rowland asked tentatively. The painting was an experiment with a style quite outside his usual.

Edna didn’t say anything for a while, as she studied the finished work. Rowland had rendered Eva’s face in the same eggshell blue as he had painted her naked body. The lines were familiar. The almost reverential portrayal of her form, glorying in every curve, was distinctly Rowland Sinclair. He’d captured the cherubic roundness of her face but he’d washed out her features so they were mere hints of likeness. All but her eyes. In those he’d caught a kind of furtive, subjugated vibrancy and an overwhelming sense of desperation and hopelessness. To Edna, it was strange and beautiful and sad.

“You’ve never painted me this way, Rowly.”

“I don’t paint anybody the way I paint you,” he replied quietly. He glanced at the canvas and laughed. “Perhaps I’m just trying to keep up with von Eidelsohn.”

Edna smiled. “I wouldn’t think you’d need to do that. This looks just like Eva, but you wouldn’t guess it if you didn’t know. It’s so heartbreaking … more like her than any of my photographs.”

“Still,” Rowland said, absently wiping his hands on his waistcoat, “I think she may prefer the other one.”

“Perhaps.” Edna turned to observe him critically. The canvas, it seemed, had not received all the paint. “You’d better get cleaned up … It’s getting late.”

20

“German men and women! The age of arrogant Jewish intellectualism is now at an end! … You are doing the right thing at this midnight hour—to consign to the flames the unclean spirit of the past. This is a great, powerful, and symbolic act. … Out of these ashes the phoenix of a new age will arise. … Oh Century! Oh Science! It is a joy to be alive!”

Joseph Goebbels, Reich Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, speaking at the Berlin book burning.

May 10, 1933

T
he process of getting out of Richter’s house and to the Königsplatz had been carefully planned. They had told Richter that they were attending a party thrown by one of the smaller galleries which exhibited work of interest. Earlier, when Richter had taken an afternoon nap, Clyde and Milton had stashed the uniforms of the
Leibstandarte
in the back of the Mercedes. At nine o’clock they shared a late supper with their host and at ten they wished him good night.

Many streets were deserted. It appeared the patriotic citizens of Munich had gone to Königsplatz to burn the un-German. Amidst a great deal of grunting and swearing, three fully grown men struggled into uniforms in the car and in the dark.

Edna inspected under the beam of a torch, smoothing lapels and straightening ties. She sighed. “You all look disturbingly handsome,” she admitted. “Quite frightening, but very handsome.”

“Are you sure you lifted the right sizes, Milt?” Rowland grumbled. The high boots were uncomfortably tight.

Milton ignored him, trying to dry-shave in the rear vision mirror. The flamboyant waxed moustache he had cultivated was both distinctive and distinctly unmilitary.

“Here, give me that razor before you hurt somebody,” Clyde said, taking the blade and carefully finishing the shave in the light of Edna’s torch. He did not remove the moustache entirely, but left the hair immediately below Milton’s nose in the currently fashionable style favoured by both Germany’s Chancellor and Eric Campbell.

“How do I look?” Milton asked, trying to squint into the rear vision mirror.

Edna giggled. “A little silly to be honest … but very fascist.”

They managed to park the car quite close to the square. Fortunately, being a German automobile, it did not stand out the way Rowland’s Mercedes had in Sydney. Judging from the noise, the SA had succeeded in summoning a large crowd for their bonfire, despite a last-minute concern that it would rain. A radio address by the Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, was being broadcast over a loudspeaker system, and there were cheers and a chanting. “Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler …”

Rowland glanced at his watch. Campbell was programmed to speak at precisely midnight and to arrive five minutes before that. They would need to time this perfectly so that they did not give anyone the opportunity to find them out. Fortunately the National Socialists were fanatical about the punctuality of their events, programming everything to the minute.

That afternoon, Rowland had dispatched a telegram to Wilfred, informing him that he had used the account at Deutsche Bank. He hoped it would be enough to alert his brother that they could well need help quite soon. He didn’t know what Wilfred could possibly do from Australia, but at the very least he could help Edna get home.

“Are you chaps sure?” he asked Clyde and Milton quietly, as they donned the greatcoats which would hide the uniforms until they were ready.

“I am,” Milton replied without hesitation. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to take the Nazis a little personally.”

“We knew what we were doing when we came, Rowly,” Clyde said, dragging on a last cigarette before crushing the stub beneath the heel of his boot. “No point coming all the way over here just to watch Campbell bring this idiocy back home.”

Edna’s eyes shone in the scant light. She reached up and kissed each of them in turn. “Good luck,” she said. “We’ll meet back here by half past twelve, if all goes well.”

Rowland put his arm around her. “You know where the money is, Ed. If anything goes wrong, don’t do anything stupid—you just get out of here.”

She smiled at him and for a moment he thought about kissing her … for no real reason and entirely inappropriately. Of drawing her into him and holding her in his arms. Perhaps it would be his last chance.

“Come on, Rowly, we’d better get moving.” Milton pulled him away.

Rowland focussed again on the task at hand.

They had heard reports of the thousands who attended Nazi rallies, but the sheer number of people in the square surprised them nonetheless. It was as if the city had drained into Königsplatz. The
atmosphere was festive, heightened by an almost religious fervour. Entire families stood cheering with armfuls of books ready to burn. Kerchiefed members of the Hitler Youth joined the SA in leading the demonstration.

They were not the only men there in black uniform. The SS was also present in force. From a distance they were only distinguishable from the uniforms Rowland, Clyde and Milton wore by the presence of a red armband. Rowland could only hope that Germans were familiar enough with Nazi regalia to recognise the special authority that was signified by the lack of an armband.

The Australians fought their way through for several minutes before they could even see the flames of the massive bonfire at the square’s centre, into which books were being tossed to a chant of “Burn … burn …
brennan sie alles
…”

There was an avenue of sorts cordoned off near the stage to allow the dignitaries and speakers to drive in without having to plough through the crowds. According to Blanshard’s information, Campbell’s car would arrive there at precisely five minutes to midnight.

They positioned themselves as close to the avenue as possible, finding a place in the shadows where they would be unnoticed. Edna stayed nearby, though they lost sight of her quickly in the crowd.

Rowland checked his watch again. It was five minutes to midnight. He signalled to Clyde and Milton and they removed the greatcoats and became, for all the world, members of the
Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler
. They walked purposefully towards the avenue, striding confidently like the men of rank they were supposed to be. A black Mercedes came down the avenue. As the automobile stopped, Milton strode directly to the back door before the SA chauffeur could open it. They had agreed that their best chance lay with Campbell never getting out of the vehicle.

“Look haughty,” Rowland whispered to Clyde, as they prepared to do their part.

“Haughty?”

“Act as though everybody smells.”

Rowland and Clyde intercepted the driver as he jumped out to open Campbell’s door.

“Change of plans,” Rowland told the man, using High German—the
Leibstandarte
was based in Berlin. “The Chancellor wishes to meet with Herr Campbell … discreetly. You are to take him back to his hotel now.”

The Stormtrooper was flustered. “Who are you?”

Rowland pointed to the insignia on his lapel. “
Leibstandarte
,” he snapped. “There must be no fuss. We do not want to alert the enemies of Germany of the Chancellor’s movements.”

Again the Brownshirt wavered. In the periphery of his vision Rowland could see a bloated SA officer striding towards him, with half a dozen Stormtroopers in tow.

Someone among the gathering shouted “
Leibstandarte
… It’s the
Leibstandarte
… The Chancellor is coming … the Chancellor is here!” Women screamed and fainted. The crowd surged against the cordon in excitement. The SA moved to hold them back.

Rowland turned and barked at the SA officer who was approaching. “This was meant to be done quietly! This fool has alerted the people and compromised the Chancellor’s security!”

The man glared at him. His face was pugnacious, scarred. Rowland had seen him once before, at the railway station when they first arrived in Munich.

“Röhm!” Rowland said, as if he knew him. “Your man is obstructing the work of the
Leibstandarte
. Do you no longer have control of this confounded rabble?”

Clyde stood beside him, his face stony, his nose wrinkled slightly. Milton was bent at the back window of the Mercedes, talking to Campbell and preventing him from alighting.

“Herr Campbell is scheduled to speak,” Röhm said coldly.

“Am I to report back that Commander Röhm has overridden the express wishes of the Chancellor?” Rowland demanded, playing hard. Their only chance was to not allow Röhm the time to think. “There must be no delay.”

“Why does the Chancellor wish to see Herr Campbell now?”

“That is not for me to know,” Rowland sneered. “I do not question my orders. I carry them out!”

Röhm stared at the lapel of Rowland’s uniform. He inhaled to bellow.

“
Entschuldigung
, Commander Röhm.” Alastair Blanshard’s head appeared out of the rear window of the stationary Mercedes. He spoke to Röhm in German. “All is well,
mein Herr
. Herr Campbell has been expecting a visit from the Chancellor. It is unfortunate that it should be now, but we understand the Chancellor is a busy man. Herr Campbell is honoured, and delighted to accommodate his request, if you are willing to make his apologies to the good people of Munich.”

For a moment nothing was said. The screaming for the Chancellor grew louder, as people assumed Campbell’s car contained their beloved leader. Rowland and Clyde kept their faces turned from the automobile. Clyde kept his nose wrinkled.

“You can tell Herr Campbell that the people of Munich will not notice his absence,” Röhm spat at Blanshard. He motioned to the SA driver, who returned to his seat and put the car into reverse. The crowd cried out in protest and disappointment.

Rowland did not meet the eyes of either Clyde or Milton lest some tiny sign of mutual relief become recognisable.

Röhm was clearly unhappy. Vocally so. He cursed, shouting directly into Rowland’s face. “You go back and tell that mayflower, Dietrich, that the SA stood with Hitler before he was even a party member!”

Rowland held his ground, his right brow rising as he smiled contemptuously. He ducked reflexively when the SA Commander’s arm shot out in a fascist salute, swallowing a curse as Röhm clicked his heels and shouted “Heil Hitler!”

In the expectation that followed, Rowland decided that an enthusiastic return would be giving ground. The
Leibstandarte
held a privileged position as Hitler’s personal guard … he needed to maintain a believable level of arrogance. He flapped his hand carelessly beside his head and muttered, “Heil Hitler!” before turning away. Milton and Clyde fell into step behind him.

“What the hell do we do now?” Clyde whispered.

“Just watch the bonfire for a while … until they stop watching us.”

They stalked towards the blaze.

“You really pulled that fat bloke’s tail, Rowly.”

“It seems.” Rowland glanced back at Röhm. “Hopefully enough to convince him that we are indeed from the
Leibstandarte
.”

Milton laughed softly. “Almost feel sorry for Campbell … waiting for Hitler to come ask him to dance like some homely, forgotten debutante.”