The Vengeance of Rome (25 page)

Only when Mussolini, pressured by other powers, brought his plans forward did things begin to go wrong. Where once whole towns had swarmed to cheer him, soon he was lucky to find the stationmaster still on duty when his train came in. The same happened to Hitler. Their people put them in power because they wanted the secure stability of peace, not the uncertainties and privations of war. If Hitler and Mussolini had not set their feet on that inescapable course—admittedly because they were terrified of Stalin—the world would be a very different place today. There would have been no abolition of National Service, for instance, and therefore no hippies. My cities would rise into the skies. My city would be called
Roma
and she would bring Law, Justice, Order and Probity to the world. My ship is called
Byzantium
, the spiritual heart of our faith and our idealism. My ship is called
Leviathan
. She crushes the cities of the enemy. She swallows them. She shits them. They are called
Carthage
. They are called
Jerusalem. Meyn Schiff ist
The Sword. She flies in defence of all that is holy, all that is noble, all our history.
Meyn Schiff ist
Der Heym.
Meyn Schiff ist
Der Heym.

Sometimes when overtired I felt I was involved in a vast Hollywood epic in which the star really was Mussolini and in which the people of Italy played the extras. Much of his work was designed to create the illusion. He believed the reality would follow.

Cynics have said there were resources only for the illusion, none for the reality. I know better. If Mussolini had stuck to his true course and been a little stricter with some of his antagonists, such as the Jews and the Catholics, he or his son would be in power today. He was foolish to be so accommodating to Hitler. I speak as a neutral, judging Hitler neither way, but there was an element of instability in the Führer's make-up I never detected in Il Duce. Hitler was misadvised from the outset. If he had known what was going on in his own higher echelons he would have made a cleansing of the stables much sooner. As it was, he cleansed the wrong stables of the wrong elements. Röhm was a rough diamond, but he was heart and soul for the Nazi cause.

Margherita Sarfatti believed sincerely that if she had been beside him, Il Duce would not have made the mistakes he did. Yet others believe
she
was his worst mistake!

The Albanians have a saying: There are three things you should never trust. A dead viper, a wounded boar and a Jew turned Catholic.

Margherita argued that the worst mistake her lover made was to achieve reconciliation with the Vatican. Once he let the Jesuits back into the corridors of power, Italy was lost. In spite of her opinion, Margherita,
of course, took the expedient of converting while the ink was still wet on the agreement. Signora Mussolini, it was said, never accepted the Church. Her Romagnan relatives must have wept when they learned about the pact. They felt betrayed. The worst crime Mussolini ever committed—again at the instigation of the Roman bishops—was the attempted Catholicisation of conquered territories which had been Orthodox for centuries! That is no way to win friends. Mussolini lost many friends in the Balkans. Those who say he was responsible for the murder of King Alexander of Yugoslavia cannot know history! That territory was a battleground for centuries. Christians fought Moslems, Serbs fought Croats, fascists fought communists. They know nothing else but contention.

Many claim nationalism to be an essential element of fascism and so it is. That is why there are so few international fascist organisations in comparison to the communists. But Italy's form of nationalism and Spain's form of nationalism are very different, say, to the kind of small-minded nationalism one hears so often in the UK. I cannot tell you the number of times I have been insulted. ‘Jew' is their favourite, of course, but there are many others. I tell them my blood is pure. It is Slavic blood, Russian blood, the finest blood in the world. The only blood, I point out, which Hitler feared. Save for his own, of course.

To be honest, I was not over-employed as Il Duce's Minister for Overseas Development. I arrived at eleven, knowing the Duce to be a late riser, and lunched nearby from two until four. In case Mussolini should require me, I was never very far away from the office. Similar routines were followed by all the other ministers and officials. The rest of my time was spent occasionally servicing La Sarfatti, taking tea with Maddy, chatting on the telephone with acquaintances and so on. Occasionally I would give an interview to the foreign or domestic press.

Some of Italy's most prestigious magazines ran long articles on me and my exploits. I still have a few of the cuttings. They tended to be vague about my present position, saying that I was in charge of a number of top-secret projects. I knew, of course, that Brodmann and his friends in Moscow were noting all this. I considered asking the Chief for a bodyguard. However, I would have had to make too many explanations, since he believed me to be a Russian-born American. All the leading Fascists were no doubt targets for Bolshevik assassins. I had to hope that our own OVRA were doing their job behind the scenes. Sometimes I thought that I had noted a car following me and hoped it was only a discreet bodyguard.

What if it were Brodmann, armed with a silent gas-gun, stalking me?
I am a man of sanguine patience and sanity. I rarely let such fantasies gain the upper hand, but sometimes the effort to sustain common sense can be considerable.

Official functions actually came to be some of the least boring duties. The whole world came to Italy to see how Mussolini's Fascism was performing. Once again I was introduced to Marion Davies when she came to Rome with William Randolph Hearst. She did not recognise me in my uniform or my beard. She was a pretty, agreeable woman, a little inclined to gush. ‘When you come to America, Professor,' she said, ‘you must give me or Mr Hearst a call. If there's anything you need, just ask. I hope you'll have time to stay with us at San Simeon.'

I had no particular dislike for the woman, but this was the second time she had issued such empty invitations. I think it was a habit with her. She had no real power of her own, of course. She either forgot to relay these invitations to Hearst or demurred when he objected. I don't know. That said, Miss Davies was a far better actress than Anita Loos gave her credit for, but much of that talent was probably reserved for private life. She hid behind her blonde curls and long eyelashes like a panther behind a curtain of foliage.

Hearst himself, almost as elephantine as my old backer, the turncoat Hever, simply breathed and grunted at me and uttered some platitudes about America needing a taste of Fascist discipline and so on. Their goodwill was flattering, of course, but they had no real idea of the weight of responsibility we bore. I met Corinne Sweet again and several stars whom I had known as bit players. All were familiar with my films and rather extravagant in their praise. I think some of them were simply astonished that a professor and member of the Italian Academy, a minister of the state, could also have been a successful film actor.

Much of their response was of what I called the ‘talking dog' variety. That is, they didn't actually listen to my words. They were merely amazed that an actor could talk at all. My experience made me invaluable at receptions where these actors and actresses were entertained. Maddy and I went to them all. And because we went everywhere, we were invited everywhere else. It became second nature to get home from the office at about six, relax a little with Maddy, change into a fresh uniform, or civilian evening clothes if appropriate, and be off out again to a reception. At one of these I met the poet Pound, a fierce, sickly, unkempt little man with no sense of humour and a tendency to create causes from the most casual material. I also met Marshal Pétain, Zaharoff, the armaments king and Sir Anthony Eden, the
dapper dandy and famous lover of Princess Margaret. For all that Hitler was an enormous admirer of Mussolini, there were relatively few German visitors in those first months, though this was to change.

I met Karl Nertz and Isolde von Köln, the dancing team, who were part of a visiting troupe. They knew Seryozha, though not well. He was now in Berlin, but they were not sure what he was doing. They had seen him at the fashionable bohemian Café Schmetterling about two days before they left Germany. Full of admiration for what Mussolini was doing, they feared Germany still faced some form of civil war. ‘It is almost inevitable,' he said. ‘The fighting between the Nazis and the Sozies has become epidemic.'

Mussolini, although he gave a little help to them and the occasional encouraging nod, did not really take the Nazis seriously. He thought they aped the crudest of his ideas. He had not yet been alerted to the dangers of International Zionism. He believed Hitler and all his people were homosexual and always referred to the future Führer as ‘that garrulous little German rouge boy'.

Mussolini was sometimes as susceptible to believing antagonistic propaganda as anyone. The only Nazi he had any time for at all was Göring, whom he described as an officer and a flying hero. They had met briefly, once or twice, I think. Hitler habitually used his friend Göring for diplomatic missions. Göring also knew Margherita. She had helped him buy modern paintings through her various friends in the gallery world. He had also bought a few old masters. She had no great respect for his taste.

Margherita was furious at not being invited to the first big reception attended by Göring and his Nazi entourage. My Chief insisted, with uncharacteristic vehemence, that I come but that Margherita (or Maddy, for that matter) did not. He allowed no excuse. ‘It is a man-to-man affair,' he explained soberly.

I had planned to go on to a special ‘powder' party with Maddy that night. Now she would have to go without me. I would try to meet her there later. She, too, was unhappy at being excluded. The function was being very carefully orchestrated, I explained. The Nazis were doing well at the polls. They might be a force to be reckoned with. She was unreconciled. It sounded to her as if Mussolini was muzzling the press. The idea was ludicrous. I pointed out that Tom Morgan would be going, as well as other top reporters, including Billy Grisham.

The reception was in fact a rather large affair. I doubt if many more people could have been crammed into the vast halls of the Villa Trajanos, with its countless galleries and staircases. With the significant exception of
Margherita, everyone who was anyone in Rome was there. No wonder she understood herself to be out of favour with Il Duce!

I spent the first hour or two being introduced to one ambassador and his wife after another. Eventually I met Captain Göring himself. He seemed a little detached, chuckling a great deal but in response to nothing in particular. Possibly he could not understand me. His Italian was minimal—kitchen Italian, as we used to call it—good enough for instructing the cook. He was even then rather fat and wearing a suit cut in such a way as to hide the worst of his bulk. His vanity was second only to his self-indulgence, though he was an amiable fellow of the old South German type which is nowadays dying out.

Like so many of those early Nazis, Göring worshipped Hitler. Mussolini found his enthusiasm irritating. The German, true to form, did not notice. Ethel Grisham, drifting up in an incongruous ocean of green tulle, eventually saved us and bore Göring off to meet ‘this delicious English woman'. ‘She's just your type and she's dying to meet you.'

Mussolini muttered something to me about the crassness of the ‘German bumboys' and was then forced to do his diplomatic best with the ambassador and his dumpy wife while I talked to Tom Morgan, Billy Grisham and one or two other pals from the press corps. Everyone but Tom was rather mocking about my uniform. I told them that they were lucky to earn such good salaries. They could afford suits. We servants of the state had nothing to wear but black serge.

‘And nothing to eat but black bread, I suppose,' said Billy, amiably popping half a gram of caviar into his mouth. They were pleased with my elevation but like good friends saw no harm in ribbing me about it. That and their knowing winks around La Sarfatti, they reserved for me alone. When I was with Maddy they were more respectful. I regretted she was not there. Tom Morgan, a little drunker than the rest of us, told us some leering story and then nodded across the hall. ‘That Hun looks like Fatty Arbuckle playing the lead in
The Merry Widow
.'

He spoke of Captain Göring. Like some favoured bull at a cattle show, the German preened himself before a woman he evidently found attractive. ‘What a stunner, eh?' said Morgan, nudging me. ‘I bet she's an actress.'

I turned to look. As I did so an intense and complex emotion suffused my entire body. The ‘stunner' was the woman I knew better than any other still alive. My wife! My eternal! My soulmate!

‘She is indeed an actress, Tom,' I confirmed quietly, putting down my drink and adjusting my uniform. ‘She is an exceptionally fine one. She is my greatest leading lady. Miss Gloria Cornish.'

Everything else forgotten, I hurried across the room to greet my guardian angel. She was, of course, the wonderfully beautiful and voluptuous Mrs Cornelius.

She sensed my presence. A platinum radiance in pink and silver, a cloud of beaming Guerlain, she turned.

I began to approach. For a heartbeat she paused, then she recognised me. ‘‘Ello, Ivan!' Her genial voice was more lusciously sensual than ever. ‘Wot's wiv ther face fungus?' Her enormous blue eyes took in my uniform, my orders. ‘Turned out nice again, I see.' The tip of her pink tongue wet her ruby lips. She winked, one old survivor to another.

Mio angelo! Mia amante! Mia sposa!
My life!

Of course she had not changed. She was still my angel. Only Mussolini gave off that same almost supernatural wave of animal magnetism. My eyes as full as my heart, I kissed her hand. ‘My dear Mrs Cornelius.'