The Vengeance of Rome

TWENTY-TWO

Maddy Butter was still not home by the time I left for the Termini Station. No matter what time I phoned she was always out. Only when my luggage had been loaded and the squadristi had left could I sit back in my large comfortable seat and forget her. I had not planned to leave Rome. Considering the problems I would have to face if I stayed, however, this short ‘fact-finding’ vacation would do me good. Thanks to the sterling efforts of the young fascisti assigned to me, everything apart from my handbags needed for the trip was stowed securely in the luggage vans. I appeared to have an entire de luxe compartment to myself. Though for a couple of months I would be travelling undercover, I would still be travelling in style. Il Duce knew me better than I knew myself. My spirits were already improving. I became filled with that sense of joyful expectation which usually accompanied a new journey. Only when I was moving did I feel truly secure.

I looked forward to enjoying the company of my travelling companions. Mrs Cornelius and her Baron were on the train, though they planned to go on to St Crim. I sincerely hoped that Seryozha was not. I had no particular anxieties, save that Seryozha would get drunk and start babbling about our days in St Petersburg. I was surprised not to see any of the German delegation boarding.

Soon after the train departed there came a tap on the glass door. In the corridor stood an exceptionally tall, oddly coloured individual with a nose like a hammer set in irregular features, deep-set eyes beneath bushy brows, a thin upper lip drawn habitually over the lower which gave him a kind of perpetual smile, a jutting lantern jaw and an expression of polite apology. He wore a grey tweed English overcoat, a dark grey Homburg and carried a gold-chased ebony stick with which he signalled politely for me to open the door. When I frowned enquiry, he put the head of his stick to his lips and raised his eyebrows, perhaps a question?

When I slid the door back he entered, clicked his heels together, gave a rather idiosyncratic Fascist salute, lifted his hat, called me ‘Herr Doctor Peters’ and announced himself as Doctor Ernst Hanfstaengl. In perfect American English he asked if I would prefer to speak my own language. I knew he did not mean Russian. In my role as Max Peters, the American actor, I said English would be fine. Unbuttoning his overcoat, he asked if he might sit down for a moment. He was about ten years my senior, with that youthful air, that unlined, inexperienced sheen on the skin you see on so many modern businessmen. His light blue eyes held a kind of amiable amusement, as if his own existence was absurd to him. His pale, close-shaven face flickered with a dozen half-formed expressions. His mouth was sensitive beneath that Teutonic nose. In spite of his obvious eccentricities, he was evidently what we used to call ‘the better type of German’. At my assent, he lowered his assortment of large limbs into the seat and with careful concentration arranged them in a familiar order.

When he was sure everything was where he wanted it to be, he sighed and put his hand towards me. I shook it.

‘Hanfstaengl,’ he said again, as if to remind himself.

Sitting back in the seat he looked out of the window and addressed the scenery. ‘Well, it’s a shame. But here we are.’

I did not follow him. I made a small enquiring noise.

‘Herr Göring,’ he explained, smiling. ‘I do apologise. They didn’t get the message to you, I take it?’

‘Apparently.’

With a peculiar jerk of his shoulder, Doctor Hanfstaengl took out a cigarette case. Smiling like a schoolboy, he offered it to me. When I declined he put the case away. ‘I’m the messenger, then. Göring’s wife Carin?’

‘He has spoken of her with great affection.’

‘Oh, he couldn’t survive without her. But she has had something of a relapse. So he flew out early this morning for Berlin. I agreed to be his deputy and take care of you. My pleasure, of course. We have friends in common. I think, in Tom Morgan and some of the other press guys.’

‘You’re a journalist?’

‘I do a little writing. Luckily my family’s fairly well off, so I don’t have to struggle. We have a print business in Munich. I’m Hitler’s foreign press attaché. I saw you at the embassy a couple of times. You were with that English chap. Nice fellow. Major Pye. I was staying at the Ambasciatori. My family always does; we get on well with the staff. I find the Excelsior a little vulgar. What part of the United States are you from, Doctor Peters?’

I said that I had been born in the South but that I now called Hollywood my home.

He detected another accent under my English. I explained how my parents were first-generation immigrants. From Spain, I told him. Their original name was Gallibasta-Pujol, and they came from the Andalucia region. Hanfstaengl was on very good terms with the de Riberas. Did I know them? I told him that I had spent very little time in Spain. In recent years I had travelled chiefly in the Middle East and North Africa.

I answered an unasked question for him. ’That would explain why you haven’t made a talker yet. What were you doing out there? Researching a part?’

It had been a journey of personal discovery, and I was not yet ready to talk about it. He seemed to forget his question as soon as he asked it. Taking off his overcoat he drew from an inner pocket a silver flask which he offered to me. I refused. ‘You seem equipped for all occasions, Doctor Hanfstaengl.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s my job.’ His bones shifted in an eccentric shrug.

He had studied at Princeton and lived in America for years. Then as he put it, he had answered Hitler’s call to come home and fight for the cause. Did I know New England at all? I had only lectured there. Mostly I knew the South and the West. For a time I had been involved in politics and was associated with, among others, the famous aviator Major Simmonds. I knew Washington well. We talked about mutual acquaintances.

‘Putzi’ Hanfstaengl was excellent company. When he suggested we lunch together, I readily agreed and followed him down the corridor to the dining car. He moved with the massive, oddly coordinated grace of a young carthorse, head bent, arms flailing, his expression always cheerful as if he expected everyone to share in the comedy of his own disorganisation. Mrs Cornelius and her Baron were already installed at their table, and we asked if we might join them. The Baron smiled up at us vaguely, as if at an entertainment, while Mrs Cornelius agreed with alacrity. ‘Oh, do!’ she said.

She leaned towards me as I sat down. ‘Good for you, Ive,’ she said. ‘I ‘ad a feelin’s you’d make it!’ She winked. ‘Those Aye-taye buggers was usin’ you. An’ ‘oo knows ‘oo that Yank gel wos bonkin’. They ‘ad you set up nicely. You’re well out of it. Ya comin’ with us to San Cream?’

I ignored her jealous references to Madame Sarfatti. I was on my way to Munich and Berlin. I needed a break and had always wanted to see Germany. For one reason or another I had never managed to get there. This seemed a good time to be going. It would be a short holiday. A matter of a few weeks at most.

‘You must not judge Germany by what you see now,’ Doctor Hanfstaengl insisted, picking up a menu in one hand and a napkin in the other. ‘But wait a couple of years — then there’ll be a difference!’

Mrs Cornelius had had enough of all this talk. She was sick and tired of golden futures, she said. All she wanted at the moment was an ordinary present.

Doctor Hanfstaengl found this so amusing he almost spilled his mineral water. ‘I must admit I sometimes tire of the coming apocalypse.’

Would Mrs Cornelius be staying long in Vienna? She shook her head. They were going to some concerts and a couple of operas. She hoped they were jolly ones. They would be in town for a few days. Staying at the Bristol, she said. Where was that funny Russian friend of mine?

Looking about the dining car I was glad Seryozha was not there. I had not looked forward to fending him off all the way to Munich. Casually, I asked after him.

‘Oh, I don’t think Hermann wanted to lose sight of him,’ said Doctor Hanfstaengl with a grin. ‘You know how they all spy on one another. The Russian boy is a special friend of Röhm’s. Hermann hates Röhm.’ I wondered if this Röhm, whom I understood to be in command of the National Socialist squadristi, the Sturmabteilung, was Seryozha’s ‘patron’. If so, I gathered he had his hands full. From the radio I knew that a month earlier the whole of the Berlin SA, the so-called ’Storm Troopers’, had been in open revolt against Hitler. They demonstrated none of our Italian discipline.

Unable easily to ask for more illumination, I decided to bide my time and let Doctor Hanfstaengl talk. He was far less close-mouthed than most of his compatriots and was genuinely funny in some of his descriptions of the Nazi ‘old fighters’, as the core group called itself. Doctor Hanfstaengl had been in, he said, since the beginning, almost as soon as he had returned from the US. He had been looking around for some cause to which he could nail his colours. Something worth sticking with. He had seen the terrible results of miscegenation all over the States. People still didn’t seem to realise how important an issue it was. At least there were laws in place to stop it. In the US neither big business nor the federal government had any notion of popular feeling. I, of course, needed no convincing and agreed with him heartily. I told him of the poor degenerate whites and blacks I had encountered outside of Carthage, Mississippi. They were all but indistinguishable.

We had the same enthusiasm for films and passed much of the journey to Vienna talking about our favourites. Doctor Hanfstaengl loved Griffith as much as I did but thought the Jewish elements of De Mille’s work let it down.

I invited him to join me in my compartment. We spent the rest of the long journey in happy conversation. I must admit, I was glad to be away from the world of politics and armaments for a while. Doctor Hanfstaengl was a welcome change. Everything interested him. He loved music and the arts and travelled widely. He had seen G. B. Shaw perform on the London stage. Shaw was not to be missed. Hanfstaengl was also a great fan of the British playwright Ben Traven and had enjoyed all the Whitechapel farces.

After one change we spent an uneventful and pleasant journey, arriving in Vienna at about lunchtime. Doctor Hanfstaengl asked if I knew the city. When I said I did not he eagerly elected to show me the sights. We had a couple of days here, he said. He must perform a few minor chores but was otherwise entirely at my disposal. What did I feel like doing? We had rooms already booked at the Ritz on Kärntnerstrasse. Not, he added, that it was the Ritz any more. He hoped he could remember the new name.

Once my rather large assortment of trunks had been loaded, Hanfstaengl got us a taxi and asked for the Ritz. The driver knew it well. ‘It’s called the Hotel Krantz now.’ He drove with relaxed abandon. Happily, Viennese traffic did not move with the crazed disorder of Rome’s. The journey from the station was reasonably sedate. The grand buildings of this old imperial capital had been allowed to mellow gracefully among a wealth of shrubs and flowering trees. The city had an air of dignified, slightly shabby tranquillity. We drove along wide boulevards dreaming in the sunshine of late spring. The cafes were already full, with tables so close together on the pavements it sometimes seemed people sat at one long trestle. Everything was in blossom. I was reminded of my own Kreschchatik in Kiev, when clouds of petals drifted against the pale summer sky. But Vienna’s ambience was more like Odessa’s. The Viennese possessed a casual, easy quality, which hardly seemed to go with their rather formal and old-fashioned clothes. Doctor Hanfstaengl pointed out various municipal sights, including the Hotel Sacher where I had once dreamed of dancing with Mrs Cornelius. That pleasure would have to be put off for a while. While imposing, the Hotel Krantz, with its red and white decor, was rather comfortable. Doctor Hanfstaengl was enthusiastically welcomed by the manager. We each had a quiet suite overlooking the garden , and if any particular service was required, we had only to ask.

Hanfstaengl apologised to me. He had some urgent business in the Praterstrasse and would be back as soon as he could. Meanwhile, why didn’t I take a stroll and enjoy the city. ‘She hasn’t lost all her magic.’

After a piece of adequate veal and some strange-tasting coffee I bathed and changed into my new lavender suit. Perhaps a little modern for Vienna, it would give them a chance to see what the beau monde was wearing in Rome. I attracted a certain amount of admiring attention from ladies and jealous sneers from their escorts as I strolled along the Falfnerstrasse admiring window displays and marvelling at some of the confections on display. It felt wonderful to be alone for a while. For all the new Italy’s vigours and virtues, I had known little time for contemplation or tranquillity there.

Vienna proved a perfect location for a leisurely and solitary promenade. I might almost have been in Paris. The city had a pre-war ambience so endearing it sometimes brought tears to my eyes as I remembered more innocent days.

I reached an intersection and was searching for a reference point to be sure that I could find my way home, when a tram came jangling around a corner and almost knocked me over. I jumped back and suddenly, standing beside me, was Fiorello da Bazzanno in a wide-brimmed hat and a raincoat with an upturned collar. The worst of his bruising had gone, but he still looked as if he had suffered a serious accident. His pain did not stop his amusement at my surprise. He put his hand out. ‘It’s safe enough to shake it here, Max.’

I had no wish to snub the man, who had been a good friend in the past, so I suggested we sit down at a nearby cafe. I ordered some elaborate concoction, half-coffee, half-confectionery, for us both and told him I had believed him to be in Switzerland by now.

He smiled a little unhappily. ‘They turned me back at the border,’ he said. ‘I think they were told to. I’m only here on sufferance. If I can’t get into Switzerland then Laura will have to meet me somewhere else. Maybe Prague. My German friend Strasser lives there now. He’s Gregor’s brother, a real socialist. And then, I suppose, Argentina. Where all exiled Italians go. Or America. Though with my political record, I have a feeling they won’t be pleased to see me.’

Wasn’t it extraordinary, I said, how rapidly things changed! When he met me I was all but penniless. Now the boot was on the other foot. My resentment of him melted. I took some large-denomination notes from my wallet and inconspicuously folded the money into his hand. It was the least I could do for the man who had been instrumental in my new elevation.

‘It’s a turning world, Max.’ He thanked me for the money. ‘And I’m not sure I deserve anything less than this. It’s all very well to talk about the poetry of violence. It’s another thing to experience it. I still believe in Il Duce’s ideals, but not many of his people do any more. He’s out of touch with us. He’s become too involved in power for its own sake.’

I repeated Major Nye’s perception that all power corrupts. ‘Yet I cannot believe Il Duce himself is corruptible.’

‘Not in any ordinary sense, maybe.’ Fiorello sipped his coffee. His lips were almost down to their normal size. He still looked like a horse who had escaped a serious encounter with a slaughterhouse. ‘But this wasn’t done by Reds, Max, whatever you think. Fascists did it. Remember my mentioning Matteotti? A piece of accidental butchery. But now we are dealing with systematic terror. They’ve been doing a lot of it lately. They’ve crossed a line. I now believe every word Laura said. I just couldn’t lose my faith in Mussolini. He united the country. He has done so much for us. The Blackshirts were the inheritors of Garibaldi’s Redshirts — men and women of simple nobility who wanted only to see justice done. We called on that spirit, and the people responded. Today the industrialists are still in place, and the people are worse off. It will be the same with the Brownshirts. Money talks in the end. And there’s plenty of it about to defend capitalist interests by any ruthless means. The March on Rome was for common justice. Do we have it? Do we, Max?’ In Austria, he had clearly reverted to his old anti-capitalist illusions.

He was close to weeping when I left him outside the cafe and returned to my hotel. In spite of the great sympathy I felt for him, he had to be suffering from serious paranoia, doubtless brought on by his ordeal. Only many years later would I see that there had been an element of truth in his madness.

Doctor Hanfstaengl himself was in a rather grimmer mood. He had run up against some unexpected difficulties. It would all be sorted out soon. We would have to take the early train to Munich in the morning. He hoped I would not mind cutting the trip short. Things were changing all the time in Germany. The party needed him back. My purpose in leaving Rome was to visit Germany, I said. The sooner we arrived there the happier I would be. Unless you have an excessive liking for waltzes, cream cakes and caterwauling modern music, Vienna has little to offer the discerning traveller.

Unfortunately I did not have time to visit the famous blue Danube. I saw only the brown one.

I am not a natural early riser, so Putzi Hanfstaengl had to wake me up and virtually put me in the shower before I was able to dress myself and make sure all my bags were taken down. I had hoped to spend some time with Mrs Cornelius, but Hugenberg was not part of the Nazi movement. He had no need to cut his visit short. Through misty streets Hanfstaengl and I took a cab to the station and arrived just in time to gain our compartment before the train left. This time there was another passenger, a rather sallow cleric who did not like our looks and aimed his pointed nose into his little devotional even as we entered. We were to have breakfast on the train, but I excused myself and went to the toilet to take a soupçon of the excellent ‘snow’ Seryozha had given me. He seemed to possess the stuff in unlimited quantities. At one point I suspected he had smuggled in at least a kilogram. He was always secretive about his suppliers.

Putzi had made himself comfortable when I got back. He knew the priest resented our presence and cheerfully ignored him.

I flung myself into the luxury of the seats, stretched and yawned. We used English, which further irritated our fellow passenger.

Putzi and I were discussing the merits of French and Austrian operettas when I heard a woman exclaim from the corridor. I looked up. She was already passing but I noted something familiar about her broad, tall figure in its conservative black silk costume. She turned, as if to confirm something, and I recognised her at once. My old mistress, Baroness Leda von Ruckstühl, with whom I had escaped from Odessa. I had left her in Constantinople. I must admit, I had hoped never to see her again!

She came back, of course. She was smiling with a kind of bewildered malice. She drew open the door in a single powerful movement, standing over me like some avenging Valkyrie, an armoury of layered cosmetics and floral oils. I took control of myself. With puzzlement in my eyes, I rose. ‘Madame?’ Happily I still wore my imperial. I was experiencing one of those moments I have described before, when all elements of past, present and future seem to rush together.

‘I thought you were dead, Prince Pyatnitski,’ she said. ‘In America, I heard, after the Paris scandal.’

I felt physically sick but somehow I retained my self-possession. ‘Forgive me,’ I bowed, ‘but I do not believe I have had the pleasure . . .’

‘You are Prince Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski,’ she said in Russian. ‘The father of my son.’

‘My dear lady,’ I replied in English, ‘I am unfortunately a mere commoner, a humble American actor, no less. While I am flattered by this elevation, I fear you have me confused for another.’

She frowned. I could see I had not convinced her. It would be extremely embarrassing for me if she revealed our past. She knew far more about me than I liked and evidently still resented me. She was not above making the most fantastic claims. Her interest in me had been more intense than I supposed. She had gone to the trouble of tracking down misleading stories about me in the French press. She probably had a dossier as thorough as Brodmann’s!

I had no other choice. I had to continue with my bluff. Putzi Hanfstaengl was amused by the scene. He had not taken very much of it in. He could tell the lady was angry and that I was embarrassed.

She did not move.

‘You have mistaken me for Some other gentleman,’ I said again. I made to open the door for her, but she pushed past me and went up the corridor without a further word.

‘Phew!’ said Putzi with something which passed for a leer, ‘a mighty angry doll, what? You’re a bit of a devil on the quiet, eh? What did she call you?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s an odd thing. I played the part of a Russian nobleman more than once. I believe you mentioned enjoying Red Queen, White Queen. She seems to think that I am one of my screen characters. Poor creature. It’s a familiar delusion. As a public figure one becomes used to such encounters. I must have had a dozen in the past year alone.’

Putzi nodded. ‘Something very similar happens to Hitler. Women wet their knickers for him and have the most incredible daydreams about him. Some of them even think the dreams are real. And the ideas they get! It makes you shudder what some of those women want to have done to them! Do you get letters also?’

‘They are no longer forwarded to me,’ I said. ‘At my request.’

Hanfstaengl winked again. It was a grotesque twisting of the face which made him look for a moment as if he were suffering a difficult bowel movement. ’They say Il Duce answers all his letters personally.’

I smiled at this but would neither confirm nor deny the story. It suited Mussolini, I know, to have his masculinity vaunted in this way. Not a red-blooded Italian man or woman failed to wish him well in the fulfilment of his healthy animal appetites. Few leading National Socialists possessed this natural virility, one of many fundamental differences between the Italian fascisti and their imitators.

Putzi Hanfstaengl said no more about the Baroness. She did not bother me again. I saw her only once more during a minor delay on the line a mile or so from the border. The train stopped. We were told we could disembark and walk about, if we wished. I decided to smoke a cigarette in the open air. As I paced the narrow area of grass between track and fence I saw a stunning young woman look up from picking yellow daisies. She had that rich, pale hair, almost transparent skin and luscious blushing red lips of the typical South Russian beauty. Her slender figure might have belonged to a leading mannequin. Hatless, she wore a dress of grey linen with a matching jacket. Her only jewellery was a string of pearls. Her hair was waved in the latest fashion. From her clothes she was clearly a Berliner. Convinced we had met before, I approached her. Then she looked back at a woman who called to her as she descended from the train — the Baroness von Ruckstühl. I remembered then who the girl must be. She was Kitty, the child I had originally courted when seeking the attentions of her mother. She had grown even more beautiful. I stepped into the train’s shadow.

One experiences a particular frisson on seeing a woman one knew as a child, especially if she is as striking as Kitty von Ruckstühl. Running towards her was a dark little boy, perhaps the result of his mother’s union with a Turk. After I had gone the Baroness had obviously discovered another protector. A powerful Constantinople businessman no doubt found her title useful. The connection between Germany and Turkey was always strong. How had she turned up on the Munich train? I hoped she was making connections to some other city and that I was seeing the last of her. I was sorry we had parted on less than perfect terms. I would have appreciated an introduction to Kitty again.

We arrived in Munich on the following Friday. I found myself admiring the wonderful architecture with its variety of Baroque flourishes. I had never before experienced such peculiar charm in a city. Munich was all pink and gold. She reminded me not of my real childhood, but of my childhood storybooks, my happiest dreams. Even when there was a delay while they searched for my trunks at the station, the city continued to delight me. Some of my luggage had been sent on but other pieces were not with the train. I was only mildly put out. I had not expected to be so entranced by Munich’s ambience. In spite of all I had heard of political instability, near-civil war, military putsches and Bolshevik takeovers, in spite of its reputation as the heart-city of revolution, Munich possessed a wonderful air of unchanging security. The luggage remained absent. The fawning stationmaster was called and duly apologised. He would take my address and have my trunks delivered by the following morning. Could the trunks have been held up at customs, perhaps? The border people were so difficult these days. It was unlikely, I said. Although I feigned impatience, I was not particularly upset. The city was absorbing me already. Some cities feel immediately familiar. I told the stationmaster I would be obliged to him for any assistance he could give. Most of what I needed was in the luggage which accompanied me.

Doctor Hanfstaengl linked his huge arm in mine. He was pleased to have a new American friend. A German would have made a mighty and completely useless fuss about the matter. Americans took so much in their stride. He wished Germans were more like Americans and Americans a little less like Germans. He laughed heartily at this cryptic sally. I did my best to join in. While I liked the man enormously, half of what he said made no sense at all!

We had become so thoroughly involved with the lost luggage that I did not have to time to see if the Baroness and her party had left the station. They were probably getting the Berlin train. I was relieved. I would soon be back in Italy, and the woman would no longer be a danger to me. What a shame, I thought, that she should live while my poor Esmé was no doubt dead on some shtetl’s dungheap. But I had learned long since that life was neither fair nor very controllable and as often as not the good died in agony while the bad flourished in the lap of luxury. Increasingly, we were seeing the rule of the strong over the weak, the exploitation of the state’s liberal laws by a few rich and powerful businessmen with international links. It was no secret with what inefficiency Berlin’s federal government dealt with local issues.

No wonder the National Socialists were gathering strength. Anyone with a sense of common justice resented such social and economic inequalities and wished to see them overturned. But some of us knew the Bolshevik alternative was even worse. And that was why I have always believed that it was an act of treachery to our shared ideals and culture, our religion and our traditions, to vote for the Reds.

These children who accuse me of condoning every evil have no idea what they mean. A Red Germany would have meant a Red Europe, and a Red Europe would ultimately have engulfed us in the most appalling world war of all time. The Second World War would have seemed as nothing to that war. Armed men were divided between extremes of left and right, recklessly prepared to risk civil conflict. Parties like the National Socialists sought to find a middle ground between the two. The few rough elements who attached themselves to Hitler were no more typical of the average ‘Nazi’ than the brutes who pillaged Belgium in the name of the Kaiser.

Our cab soon swung away from a quaint tangle of medieval streets into the great tree-lined prospects of the outer city, where huge private villas and municipal offices sat back among well-kept lawns and trees. I do not think I had ever seen such a pleasantly ordered conurbation, with parks and squares and pleasure gardens all adding to its air of cultivated tranquillity. It had rightly been called ‘the most civilised city in Europe’. Only then, I think, did I truly realise I was in Germany. Munich, they said, was the heart of Germany just as Berlin was her brain. And what an unexpectedly beautiful heart it was!

At last the cab pulled up outside an imposing four-storeyed house built on classic eighteenth-century lines which would not have been out of place in Washington, save for its colour. It had been erected in a rich, buttery-brown local stone and the woodwork painted in cream with a chocolate trim. Over the huge ground-floor windows and wide mahogany doors the balcony of the floor above formed a kind of porch, set off with elegant wrought iron. On the roof of the building flew a huge ‘Hakenkreuz’ flag in the old imperial colours of red, white and black.

Our cab had trouble pulling in. Cars were coming and going from this building all the time. The glittering white steps vibrated to the polished boots of brown-shirted NSDAP members who possessed a slightly rougher, wilder look than the modern Italian squadristi. They resembled some of the earlier pictures of the fascisti who planned the March on Rome. Clearly our audacious Italian revolutionaries were the model for these men. All wore the same swastika armbands. Many had obviously been sewn on by amateurs. Their kepis strongly resembled ski caps. The NSDAP was still a party of the masses, a huge popular expression of a people’s deepest needs and dreams.

Putzi apologised for not inviting me in. He said he would be a few minutes. I watched him disappear through the door. The guards not only recognised him, they showed him considerable respect.

From the window of the cab I watched the Brownshirts busy as bees coming and going from their hive. They had expressions of grim optimism, and there was quick, energetic purpose in their step. I was privileged to witness a movement on the very brink of political success, when the theories and the rhetoric could become realities at last.

One unpleasant moment occurred, however, when a scowling SA armed with a club and a dog whip ordered the cab to move on. I made a gesture to show that I was waiting for someone inside. The SA man came towards me as if I had threatened him. I wound up and locked the window. He grabbed for the cabby who remonstrated with him trying to let him know we were waiting for Doctor Hanfstaengl. Eventually the driver had little choice but to obey. He was about to set his machine in motion when Putzi came bouncing back down the steps shouting at the trooper.

The Brownshirt slunk off grumbling, and Hanfstaengl opened the door. ‘I’m going to be longer than I thought,’ he told me. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s a nightmare at the moment.’