The Vengeance of Rome (79 page)

‘If Bach returns, then his goods are here for him. If he does not, then we keep the overcoat and the food. Decent food costs a fortune here and sometimes the guards are forbidden to bring it in. I take it none of us has the money to spend on such delicacies?'

‘You think Bach is being released?' I asked.

Pottendorf sighed. ‘I have a feeling he will not return to our little home,' he said. ‘I have noticed that the new authorities have a tendency to place German Jews together in the same group of cells. Maybe they suspect all Jews of being socialists and communists, I don't know. Maybe they plan some sort of mass interrogation. Or a special camp, even. The guards are likely to let us know where he has gone. They're good-natured, if uneducated, fellows, most of them. They know we are gentlemen and not criminals. Helander here served in the trenches with one of them. He was here when war broke out and volunteered on our side. That sort of thing isn't forgotten. They're old soldiers, mostly, and have a common feeling for those who fought in the War.'

‘Unfortunately,' I said with a sudden attack of irony, ‘I fought in the War on the other side!'

Pottendorf said he had no experience of the Eastern Front. He had heard it was pretty hellish.

‘Not so bad from the air,' I said.

The revelation that I was a pilot increased my standing immediately. I could feel their respect. I had forgotten how flyers were regarded as ‘knights of the air', chivalrous and courageous no matter which side they were fighting on. Pottendorf, understanding this very well, said he, too, had served in the air force until being shot down and injured. He had been unfortunate enough to be blinded with shrapnel. He removed his darkened glasses to show me his rather bloodshot eyes. ‘Happily, my sight was restored. Since then I have devoted myself to peace.' He believed that it was his pacifism which had brought him to this pass since Nazi militarism had first turned him against them.

In spite of having been on opposite sides, our flying days gave us something in common. I told him how my own career had ended when my
captured Oertz had crashed into the sea off Odessa. We discussed the difficulties of flying the Oertz. He had never piloted the plane himself, he said, but had heard a great deal about it. Wasn't it difficult to get up and land but performed well once in the air? A somewhat unreliable plane, but a beauty. He was not surprised my machine had let me down. The Oertz was notorious. He asked which squadron I had flown with. I told him that I belonged to the 11th Don Cossacks and had been seconded to the air force.

‘So you were cavalry originally!' He was delighted by this coincidence. He, too, had been in the cavalry before joining von Bek's famous ‘
Staffel
'. He enthused about the Saxon air ace, who had died aged twenty-two, engaged in a dogfight with a squadron of Canadian and American Camels led by the famous US flyer, Billy Batson.

Helander was not particularly interested in our reminiscences, though he expressed every admiration for the men of the flying corps. He had once envied us, in fact. For all our short lives we stood a better chance of a decent death than the poor bastards who filled up no man's land with their wounded bodies, sometimes taking days to die. We admitted that as airmen we had a better war than many. Who wished to face the prospect of lying in mud and filth, holding one's own guts in, perhaps for days, and crying out for help which never came?

Lunchtime arrived and still no sign of Doctor Bach. We asked Link, the guard, who only shook his head, repeating the usual mantra about not being in on the decisions of the prison's commanding officer. About an hour later, however, our cell was unlocked, and two policemen came in, casting a cold eye over our quarters. They wanted to know if Doctor Bach had left any property behind. Pottendorf, holding one of his Turkish cigarettes between his fingers, coolly indicated the overcoat. One of the policemen shouted at him, telling him to stand to attention and to put his cigarette out. In his beautifully modulated Austrian accent, Pottendorf asked which he should do first.

Not sure of his ground, the policeman told him to put the cigarette out and stand to attention. With his fingers, Pottendorf extinguished the burning tip and brought his arms to his sides. The policeman then turned his attention on me, roaring a string of insults, not least of which was that I was a stinking Jewish swine who had published libels against the German people. I would soon get my reward, as ‘that scamp' Bach was going to get his. It seemed impolitic to enlighten him.

Meanwhile, Pottendorf learned from the man's companion that Bach had been transferred to Dachau where he would be ‘allowed to do an honest
day's work' and so earn his freedom. At least it seemed the poor Jew was on the road to liberty. The
Völkischer Beobachter
had been full of praise for the institution, which was to be the model for many other facilities where antisocial elements were sentenced to hard labour until ready to rejoin the ranks of decent Germans. I supposed it would not do the overweight Bach a great deal of harm to get fit and work off some of his extra pounds. I could imagine his tears mingling with his sweat as he lifted his pickaxe, helping to build the bright new nation dreamed of by our Nazi visionaries.

As Pottendorf remarked, at least that night we would not be kept awake by Doctor Bach's symphonic snoring! He looked forward to meeting him on the outside when he would be slender and trim. But we never heard of him again.

Next morning the guard knocked at the door. Six o'clock and dawn had only just broken. I woke from a pleasant dream in which I had returned to my uncle's place in Odessa to enjoy the plump embraces of Wanda, my old love.

‘Get up, you lazy sons of bitches. Fold your blankets. Time to wash your filthy selves!'

Half an hour later the square hatch in the door was swung back. Coffee and bread were pushed through. We drank the coffee, bad as it was, but ignored the bread. Again we feasted on the unfortunate Doctor Bach's leftovers.

I fully expected to be notified of a hearing and to be released by that afternoon, but the hours dragged on and no such notification was received. We took turns in pacing the tiny cell. Pottendorf and Helander did their physical jerks. After a while I lost patience and rang the electric bell to attract the warder's attention.

‘What is it?' came his voice from the other side.

‘I need my case to be heard. Important matters await my decision. I need to know the reasons for being placed in protective custody.'

The warder promised to report my request.

Surreptitiously sustaining myself with a little of my coca, I waited for the rest of the day. Pottendorf and Helander said nothing. They seemed strangely non-committal when I asked them what they thought was happening. Of course, they had been in Ettstrasse rather longer than I.

At last, when the afternoon was fading to twilight, the door opened. I arose hopefully only to stare into the face of one of the SA who had earlier come to claim Doctor Bach. His companion stood just behind him. Next to him stood a short, slender creature whose face had the pallor of one living by
night rather than by day. He wore a well-cut grey silk suit of a rather exaggerated line, a pale blue shirt and a tie of light turquoise. In his buttonhole was a fading pink carnation. His hair was oiled and parted sharply and was as black as the patent-leather shoes on his feet. His eyes stared peevishly into the cell.

‘Do you really expect me to spend the night with this rabble?' he asked the policeman. He turned to say more but was shoved roughly forward.

‘He can have Bach's blankets,' said the warder, laughing behind the policemen. ‘They're not too dirty. If you don't mind Jew-sweat.'

‘My hearing!' I managed to shout before the cell door was closed on us again. ‘You told me you would find out about my hearing.'

‘No notice, so far,' he said through the bars. We heard him and the police stump off up the corridor. Coarse laughter. We heard the far door slam.

I slumped down on my bunk, oblivious of the newcomer.

Pottendorf, ever-polite, offered the man his hand. ‘Greetings, sir. Welcome to our club. I am Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, this is Herr Helander and the gentleman over there is Professor Peters. I take it you are not a German.'

The little man bridled. ‘Why should you think that?'

‘Because I'm gaining some understanding of the minds of our captors. Our previous cellmate has been removed to be with the other Jews, and we are all foreigners. I am Austrian, Herr Peters is American and Herr Helander is Swedish. You are … ?'

Some of the defiance left the newcomer's manner. ‘I'm French, but I've lived in Berlin and Munich since the end of the War. You probably know my name. Bernhardt LeBrun?'

The others did not recognise him, but I did. ‘You're the cabaret comedian! We have colleagues in common. I saw you last at the Simplicissimus here in Munich.'

He turned in some surprise. ‘Colleagues in common?' He appeared to find the notion disagreeable.

‘I myself have acted in a number of films here,' I told him, ‘and I have friends in show business. You no doubt know Miss Gloria Cornish?'

LeBrun snorted with disgust and turned away from me. ‘Know that slag! I suppose I do. She got out while the going was good. Went back to Berlin. I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't the bitch who libelled me and had me arrested by the Gestapo!'

With a shout of rage, I flung myself at him, only to be restrained by my companions. LeBrun seemed taken aback. He preened in front of me, his hands before his face in mock fear.

‘What are you,' he asked, his voice squeaking with aggression, ‘her pimp?'

I stared fiercely into his nasty little brown eyes, my words forced through clenched teeth.

‘Count Pottendorf, Herr Helander,' I said with as much dignity as I could muster, ‘I would be obliged if you would release me. This man has just insulted my wife.'

That disgusting little Frenchman believed my beloved had betrayed him to Hermann Göring. Months ago he and she had been on the same bill at the Flashlite—he was the resident comedian—and they had not got on well. LeBrun did not know why he was arrested but was certain it was because ‘Gloria Cornish' had said something to Göring. ‘I was too outspoken,' he said. But he had always been careful not to attack the Nazis. No doubt ‘La Cornish' had convinced her lover otherwise.

I told him that this was complete nonsense. Mrs Cornelius was simply Göring's friend; she was not his mistress. Whatever else they said about him, nobody ever accused Göring of infidelity. But LeBrun claimed Gloria Cornish was an adventuress, ruthless in her jealousy, whom he had first encountered in France, where she had been involved in a famous scandal. ‘She slept her way into the movies.' He recognised me, too, he said. He had seen me in Paris. Perhaps with her. He had worked as a waiter at Lipp's, a restaurant I had favoured. I, of course, denied this. I thought it best to say I had never been there at all. I was still worried about Kitty's inherited collection of press cuttings and Röhm's ‘dossier'.

LeBrun knew he had alarmed me and pressed his advantage. After some thought he swore he had seen me at Lipp's with Gloria Cornish. This was a complete nonsense. We were never together in Paris. Mrs Cornelius was in the United Kingdom at that time. LeBrun was doubtless terrified, flailing about for any advantage. Anything that might ingratiate him with the authorities. It was disgusting. I refused to be intimidated. I told him he was a madman and a slanderer. He was lucky I did not tear him limb from limb.

LeBrun was in his own nightmare. In his babbling panic he accused all and everyone. He could not understand the reasons for his arrest. His accusations became wilder and wilder. They were so clearly his own transference,
as Helander suggested, that my anger eventually dissipated. I came to treat him with disgusted contempt. He was not, it emerged, a French citizen, but was from the Alsatian border. My cellmates disliked him as much as I did. He was a poisonous little homosexual, a natural gossip and troublemaker. We could easily imagine how he had come to be arrested. I could not bear to be in the same cell with him.

In spite of his attempts to engage them in conversation, Pottendorf and Helander did their best to ignore him. At my first opportunity I complained bitterly to the guard. We found LeBrun repellent, I said. When not moaning and groaning about his situation, he was accusing each and every one of us of some imagined crime. None of us wanted to risk going to bed. It was not fair that we should be forced to share quarters with an obvious pervert. The guard was sympathetic. As soon as a single cell was available, LeBrun would go there.

Two days passed and LeBrun was still with us. Worse, I still did not get a hearing for my own case. Obviously I had no need of ‘protective custody'. I was an honest American citizen, a taxpayer, a friend of the new Germany. I demanded the Chief of Police be notified. Others might be there for political reasons, but I should not be. I, not LeBrun, was in Ettstrasse as a result of false accusation. It was in Prince Freddy's interest to get rid of me now that he had what he wanted. If Göring were made aware of my presence in the jail he would immediately have me released. I asked for pen, ink and paper and eventually received a few rough sheets, torn from a schoolbook, and a pencil. Doing my best with these materials, I wrote to Mrs Cornelius and to Aviation Minister Göring, but I despaired. Unless they recognised my handwriting, my notes would look like a thousand others they received every day.

Along with writing materials, tobacco and food, the only newspaper we were allowed to buy via the guards was the
Völkischer Beobachter
. Those guards made a handsome profit from us. Even the paper was a few more pfennigs than the published price. On the fourth day of my captivity, I was scanning its pages when I noticed a small news item which referred to foreign Bolshevist elements being rounded up for questioning. Many of these Reds were associated with the arts. Writers and actors were particularly under suspicion. They were responsible for corrupting the minds of Germans through their films and books. I asked Pottendorf if this could refer to us and he said he thought it could. I began to feel less than optimistic.