Paving the New Road (29 page)

The place was full of journalists. The crowded room rang with a babble of competing Continental languages. The proprietor had obviously catered to his professional clientele. There was a telephone mounted on the back wall where patrons lined up to phone editors and relay news back to their home papers.

A swarthy gentleman played a Spanish guitar in a corner, as the woman beside him swayed and drank. The air was more congested here than it had been at the book burning, as journalists discussed the state of Germany and smoked. In the background, the tap of a typewriter as someone met a deadline in the bar. Rowland ordered drinks and a platter of cheese and bread which they consumed as they toasted and talked.

Using their aliases, Nancy introduced them to a number of journalists she knew. Many were, like Nancy, foreign correspondents, freelancing in Germany. They all had ambitions of interviewing Germany’s high-profile Chancellor. The world was watching the Third Reich, and Adolf Hitler sold papers.

Being mostly men, the journalists jostled to join them, to buy Edna and Nancy drinks and generally leave an impression. A Frenchman succeeded in persuading Edna to dance with him in the roughly four square feet of floor space available for the purpose. When she was asked, Nancy declared that a second couple would simply not fit and so the eligible men lined up to dance with Edna in succession, leaving Nancy free to talk to Rowland.

He asked her again about Peter Bothwell. “There were rumours that he was involved with a woman here.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“I had thought it a possibility.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Peter was old enough to be my father.”

“Then …”

“Peter and I met at the Bismarck. He was writing a book about the Reich … not just Hitler but all his dubious lieutenants as well. He overheard me arguing with my editor on the phone one day.” Nancy allowed Rowland to pour her another glass of wine. “I had written a piece about Commander Röhm and the perversion of the SA hierarchy. They source boys from one of the high schools in Munich … it’s reprehensible.” She sipped her wine before she went on. “Of course, the paper didn’t want to publish it … they couldn’t print the word ‘homosexual’ apparently. Peter was interested in what I had on Röhm for his book. We became friends then … I’d let him know whenever I heard rumours or gossip and he did the same. He was charming and Australian and, with me, a thorough gentleman.” She sighed sadly.

“I see.” Rowland frowned. If Bothwell was gathering dirt on prominent Nazis, there could be any number of people who wished him dead. “I don’t suppose you know if there was some other …”

“Woman?” She nodded. “There may have been. On occasion, Peter would smell of perfume. I ran into him once when he was buying flowers. Naturally, I teased him about it, but he said I was just being silly … as he would, I suppose.”

“You know he was married?”

“Yes … that was the odd thing. He seemed so devoted to his family … showed me pictures of his boys. Peter was dearly looking forward to getting home to them.”

“And you have no idea who this other woman might have been?”

Nancy’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Perhaps she was an actress.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, the day that Peter bought the flowers, he had tickets for the theatre: two. I thought he must be taking his mystery woman to a show, but he said the other ticket was for the friend he was staying with.”

“But one would presume he wasn’t bringing flowers to a man.” Rowland nodded thoughtfully.

“Exactly.” Nancy was emphatic. “That’s when I wondered if he was besotted by some actress.”

“You could be right. Do you remember the name of the show at all?”

“I’m afraid not … I do remember it was at the Kammerspiele in Maximilianstrasse. About six weeks ago now, I suppose.”

Rowland smiled. “Thank you, Miss Wake … and for your assistance in the Königsplatz, however coerced. I do hope the experience was not too distressing.”

She grimaced, though her eyes smiled. “It may take a few drinks but I’m certain I’ll recover, Mr. Sinclair.”

22

WHISKERS

THEIR SIGNIFICANCE IN RELATION TO HUMAN PSYCHOLOGY

BY C. J. DENNIS

… And this brings us to Germany, the natural home of hirsute grotesquery.

GERMAN EXAMPLES

FROM the “monkey frill” of Wagner to the “mutton chop” embellishments of Bismarck and his alleged master, Frederick, we come to those three outstanding wartime figures, ex-Kaiser Wilhelm, Von Tirpitz, and Hindenburg. With that elaborately-trained representation of the German eagle that reared arrogantly from his upper lip, the ex-Kaiser was a hoarding, advertising all the bombast, vanity, and childish fustian that his tragic acts later revealed. Behind his forked beard Von Tirpitz lurked, threatening but ineffective, even as his fleet lurked in the Kiel Canal. But those pendulous pothooks that drooped aggressively upon the Hindenburg cheeks were eloquent of savage obstinacy, of ruthless and ponderous persistence. They resembled nothing so much as a pair of strange, barbaric weapons designed for torture and brutal tenacity.

And so I am brought naturally to the comical moustache of Herr Adolph Hitler and to an abrupt end. For should I try to set down all the concentrated egotism and erratic mentality that even the printed effigy of that comic moustache suggests to me I should be here writing for a week.

The Courier Mail, 1933

W
hen Milton came down to a late breakfast, he was clean-shaven. The small brush-like moustache he’d worn for a few hours the night before had been removed and the uniforms returned to Richter’s storeroom.

They had returned just before dawn. Their host and his household had been asleep, of course, and so they had entered quietly, and crept up to their beds and welcome sleep.

“Oh, I’m so glad you got rid of that thing, Bertie darling,” Edna said, looking up from her tea.

“Did you not like my manly moustache, sister dear?”

Edna smiled sweetly. “It looked ridiculous.”

Milton feigned dismay. “I thought you ladies would admire it.”

“We don’t.”

Richter, who had last seen the poet sporting the waxed and twirled moustache favoured by the surrealists, agreed. “Once, men knew how to wear a moustache. It would arch over the entire mouth and join the sideburns, but alas … now it is the fashion to look as though the hair in your nose has grown too long … Pah!”

Milton sighed. He had, to be honest, become rather fond of the pliable highlight of his upper lip, in its original form. The unwaxed brush, on the other hand, had no style whatsoever. He was glad it was gone.

“So, young people,” Richter said, taking a healthy slice of the cream-layered cake which it seemed was his customary breakfast. “What are your plans for this fine day?”

“I thought we might go to the theatre this evening,” Rowland said, pouring his third cup of coffee in an attempt to eradicate the fatigue of too little sleep. “One of the chaps last night was extolling the virtues of some show at the Kammerspiele. Do you know it, Mr. Richter?”

Richter shrugged. “Yes, it is a perfectly adequate theatre, I suppose, but it does not compare to the Nationaltheatre München. I believe the Bavarian Symphony is playing Wagner there tonight. I know the conductor … perhaps you would prefer …”

Clyde, who was standing at the sideboard behind Richter, turned with such a look of abject horror that Rowland was in no doubt that his friend did not wish to attend several hours of Wagner. Even so, Clyde felt the need to make his preference clear by signalling madly. Rowland resisted the urge to torture him by feigning interest.

“I did rather promise the chap that I would try to see this show—I wish I could remember what it was called. He’s involved with the production somehow and it hasn’t been selling well.”

“Ah, my poor Mr. Negus.” Richter lamented, patting Stasi feverishly as if the dog too may have been upset by the thought. “Condemned to attend a second-rate performance because you have befriended some incompetent producer. Surely there is some excuse you can give?”

“I’m hoping it won’t be too bad,” Rowland said, with still no idea of what play he had supposedly undertaken to patronise. He’d just have to find the theatre and ask what was showing. Richter didn’t mention that he had seen a show there with Bothwell, but considering his opinion of the venue, it was probably not surprising. Rowland toyed with the idea of telling Richter everything and enlisting his aid in finding out how Peter Bothwell had died, but he dismissed it quickly. While Richter didn’t seem as enamoured of Adolf Hitler as many Germans, he was still German, and knowingly harbouring spies would probably not be good for business. They would find a way to resolve this without involving their generous host.

The newspapers of the day all proclaimed the success of the book burning the night before. Accounts varied in the strength of the doctrinal dogma they expounded, but it was not just
Der Stürmer
which reported that citizens had declared their Germanic pride by burning books that were against the national interest. Significantly, no mention was made of the last-minute cancellation of Eric Campbell’s address. Perhaps, as Röhm had declared, Munich had not even noticed his absence.

Richter, for his part, did not seem particularly concerned one way or another. “It is mere puffery,” he said. “A way of insulting Jews and Americans in the guise of patriotism. Germany will be great again but not because we burn books!”

It was nearly noon when Alois Richter took his leave to attend his offices in the city centre. It appeared Hugo Boss had undercut him once again, and the tailor was not willing to let the situation stand. And so he left his guests to their own devices.

Rowland intended to use the absence as an opportunity to seek out the Kammerspiele, which he had ascertained was located on Maximilianstrasse. He waited until he was sure Mrs. Engels was out of earshot before he told the others of his plans.

Edna grabbed her coat. “I’ll come with you, Rowly.”

“Me too,” said Clyde, standing hastily.

Milton laughed. “He’s afraid Richter will come back and take him to Wagner … Clyde prefers his music with lyrics.”

Rowland tossed Clyde his hat. He wasn’t a huge fan of symphonies himself. “It could be worse,” he said sympathetically. “At least nobody expects you to dance.”

“There is that.” Clyde sighed. “They just take so flaming long, Rowly. Those bloody orchestras … Once they have the stage they won’t stop … Every time you think it’s finally over, they get going yet again.”

Rowland smiled. Richter had taken them to one symphony already. It had been Mozart, and, if he was honest, it had indeed dragged on. The experience had obviously traumatised Clyde.

“I suppose I’d better come too,” Milton said, yawning. “There’s a little gallery just off Maximilianstrasse which holds a collage that I think my dear friends in the Graziers’ Association simply must have.”

The boulevard was busy. There seemed to be a new injection of patriotism in the population. Even children screamed “Heil Hitler!” and saluted to all and sundry.

Rowland frowned as he saw a girl of no more than five mock an elderly Rabbi. The hatred displayed by children disturbed him more than anything else.

“Someone needs to give that brat a good clip around the ear,” Clyde murmured.

Edna stopped suddenly, staring into the crowd on the opposite side of the street. “Look! It’s Schlampen … the boy from the station.” She stepped after him, waving and calling, “Schlampen! Schlampen!”

Rowland grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back, blanching as the oncoming traffic screeched rubber and blasted horns.

“Good Lord, Ed …”

Edna was still focussed across the road. “He’s run off. Did you see him?”

“Afraid not.” Rowland removed his hat and pushed the hair back off his forehead. “Ed, I would be very surprised if the boy’s name is Schlampen … and you really can’t shout that out in the main street of Munich.”

Milton nodded towards a group of well-dressed young women who were standing at a shop window near where Edna thought she’d seen the young Romany boy. They were as a group glaring at the sculptress. “I fear you may have offended them.”

“He said his name was Schlampen,” Edna started.

“No—I believe that’s just how he responded when you asked his name.” Rowland smiled. “You truly don’t want to call that out, Ed.”

Edna inhaled. “The little …”

“Are you sure you saw him?” Rowland asked.

“Yes … but what would a little boy be doing here on his own?” she said, frowning. “Someone should be looking after him.”

“He might not be on his own. Romanies are rather nomadic.”

“I wonder if the little blighter’s still got my watch,” Milton growled. “If you see him again, Ed, don’t shout insults … Let one of us know to catch the thieving vagabond.”