The Vengeance of Rome

FORTY-FIVE

‘I gather there have been many burglaries in the area?’

I asked them to sit down, to have some coffee. But they were on duty. They refused. I found my American passport. Most of my other papers were still hidden in Corneliusstrasse. ‘And after we have been promised improved law and order!’

‘The crimes are mainly directed at individuals,’ I was told politely. ‘Certain kinds of people are singled out. It’s the current climate. Munich will settle down soon.’

‘So there is no pattern?’

‘Certainly there’s a pattern. That’s the sad thing. We don’t condone it either.’ A sigh. ‘We believe in protecting all law-abiding citizens of every race and religion. But a formal report must be made. It’s the rules.’ A small shrug. ‘Better wear your overcoat, sir. Chilly this morning.’

I locked my door carefully behind me. The pleasant ruddy-faced policeman tested it to make sure. Satisfied, he gestured for me to precede him.

‘We’ll have you back here well in time for lunch,’ said the lean one.

‘I would hope so,’ I said. ‘I have a meeting with a director. You probably know that I’m a film actor. The “Winnetou” pictures?’

‘I was a great Karl May fan as a kid,’ said the pleasant policeman.

‘Very good of you, sir, to do this.’ In spite of his manner, the wolfish policeman seemed a reasonable man. ‘These ruffians spoil things for everybody.’

We went downstairs and got into their car. The morning was beautifully cool. The air was unseasonably sharp. A civilian driver sat in the driving seat. He did not greet me. They opened the back door. I climbed in. I sat between them.

‘We are going where? To which station did you say?’

‘To headquarters. To the old “lions’ pit”.’ The ruddy policeman laughed. Because of its other street entrance, the Ettstrasse Polizeipräsidium was popularly known in Munich as the Löwengrube, or lions’ pit. I was still not alarmed. I was confident the famous German love of formal law would keep me safe, as I had committed no crime.

‘I have only the greatest admiration for Munich’s police corps, both civil and political,’ I said conversationally as we rode along. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon have the burglars behind bars.’ The policemen made no response. The atmosphere became less congenial, and I began to feel a little nervous. They, in turn, seemed embarrassed. I simply could not read their mood. I thought I had best remind them of my connections as subtly as possible. The shadow was rising in me again, the sense of panic so hard to control and almost impossible to recollect. We who have been in its power are despised by those who have never experienced it.

‘I’m a good friend of your Chief, Ernst Röhm. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you’re looking after me so well.’ Perhaps I should not have mentioned my association with the Stabschef. It would have been better to have invoked Baldur von Schirach. I had to take control of myself. I would be home in an hour or so, and all this would be over.

‘Not our Chief, as it happens.’ The first policeman appeared anxious to make that clear. ‘But we all like praise, sir . . .’

‘Ten at the most,’ said the wolfish one. I think he had misheard me. ’A tick of the clock.’ He did not meet my eye but stared gloomily out of the window at a tram we were passing. On the pale blue side of the big, streamlined vehicle was an advertisement for my new Western. I wondered if this visit had anything to do with my recent filming. Could Freddy and Kitty have deliberately given me over to the police? I felt queasy. Other enemies must be considered. Had Kitty’s mother’s ‘dossier’ fallen into official hands? Röhm might have been careless. He might even have said something to Hitler. Had the Gestapo themselves searched my apartment?

I was sleepless and shaky. This was how the police always arrested you. Not with shouts and blows and threats, but with polite requests for your cooperation. My emotions were in turmoil. I reminded myself that if I was in serious trouble, they would not have sent two ordinary uniformed chaps. It would have been SA or Gestapo, without doubt. The Geheime Staatspolizei dealt with political issues. They would not be worried about minor burglaries or even pornographic movies. I pulled myself together as best I could and returned to my earlier, more formal manner.

The car stopped outside the tall, classical stonework of the Ettstrasse headquarters. The policemen politely helped me from the car. The entrance, imposing and solid, reassured me, and again I was reminded of the well-known German respect for law and order, convinced they would play by the rules. I had done nothing wrong. I was a victim, not a criminal. These chaps were decent upholders of traditional justice.

We went straight past the reception sergeant, who nodded to us and raised his hand in an enthusiastic ‘Heil Hitler’ salute, so I knew I could not be under arrest. The policemen returned the salute rather less energetically. We walked down Corridor B, heading no doubt for the criminal investigation offices.

But we did not stop at Corridor B. At the end of this passage was a set of doors which the red-faced policeman stooped to unlock with a special key. ‘Short cut,’ he murmured. Descending a flight of steps we found ourselves in a poorly lit passage with a low roof. The doors on either side had peepholes and little grilled windows. I recognised them as police cells. My heart began to sink. But again we did not stop. We quickly walked the length of the corridor and came to door number 107, on which the vulpine policeman knocked. It was opened, and we went in.

From somewhere behind me I heard a thin, womanish scream, a kind of sob, and then silence. I felt a moment of fatalistic alarm, yet continued to force myself to believe the best. I was a complainant, not a criminal. Because some prisoner had become hysterical did not mean they were being harmed!

The doors were quickly shut behind me and relocked. Suddenly the policemen were at attention on either side of me. The room was full of young men in shirtsleeves, rushing about, picking up telephones, slamming them down, inspecting files, yelling information at one another. Clearly none of them had been in their jobs long. They seemed to have no idea what they were supposed to be doing.

Removing my hat I extended my hand to the man who greeted us. He seemed one of the few to carry any real authority. He wore an ill-fitting civilian suit. He had a thin, pale face, small, bright blue eyes, prominent ears and thinning hair.

‘Good morning, officer,’ I said. ‘It’s kind of you to show such an interest in my case. With so much crime and chaos taking place on our streets, it’s reassuring to know the police still care.’

He lifted his arm in a rather languid Nazi salute, offering us a muttered ‘Grüss Gott’ and dismissing my escorts. He signalled for me to enter a smaller, much darker room, with barred windows. This, no doubt, was where I would dictate my statement to the stenographer. Yet, instinctively, I hesitated.

‘I am of course here to give you details of the suspected violation of my flat,’ I said.

He looked at me blankly for a moment then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

‘But surely? Your uniformed men . . . ?’

‘They were sent to pick you up about some citizenship enquiries. You’re not a German national, I understand.’

‘No, I’m American.’

He shook his head. He was silent, unhelpful.

‘Now look here, officer . . .’ I began.

He sighed and indicated the room again. I had no choice.

One chair sat on the other side of a narrow desk. Behind the chair was a filing cabinet on which stood a cup of coffee. The coffee looked as if it had not been touched for days. On the wall was a picture of Hitler riding a white horse and posing as St George setting off to slay the dragon. A rather exaggerated portrait. I had seen it before and remember thinking it was the beginning of the end for Hitler as a serious social force. He had left the world of realpolitik and joined a world of myth and drama. Slowly but surely, and then with ever increasing speed, he would lose his soul’s connection to its native planet; it would drift like an asteroid erratically circling the Earth not knowing how or where to land. I did not blame Hitler. He had allowed himself to become weak. His sycophants and advisers deserved the blame, those Byzantine adventurers who specialised in whispering evil: Goebbels, Rosenberg and Himmler. They corrupted everything Hitler’s old friends stood for. They had encouraged him to turn his back on the Strasser brothers. I had seen him — can I even now afford to tell? — bewildered eyes glaring from wounded body, as unstrong and as vulnerable in those days as he believed himself to be. That is why he fought so mightily against his inherited Catholicism. His arguments were with his own past, not our common future.

The man in the badly made suit came in, closing the door behind him. Now that we were in private, he shook my hand, rather limply, and glanced around the minuscule room, apologising for the one chair.

‘I hope this won’t take too long,’ I said, reassured by his handshake. ‘I understand that as well as the inquiry concerning a possible burglary, you wish to check my documents. I was told it would be a matter of minutes. I have a luncheon appointment.’

‘Aha,’ he said. ’Then let’s confirm a few particulars. You have been working in Germany?’

‘And paying my taxes,’ I said, thinking I understood where this was going.

He nodded. ‘You are Mr Max Peters, until recently employed by the UfA company as a film actor? You are an American citizen but until recently were in the service of the Italian Air Ministry?’

‘That’s correct. I then became an unofficial emissary at large. My main career, however, is as an engineer. I have some important blueprints, inventions of my own which I had hoped to show to Herr Hitler’s people. At present they are with Captain Göring’s department. It was for their safety that I most feared.’

‘Indeed. So you have something worth stealing, eh, Herr Peters?’

‘Very important documents. But they are still safe. Have you any idea who the burglars might have been?’

‘Yes.’ His pale eyes closed, and with a small, narrow hand he pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘You are an admirer of Signor Mussolini.’

‘Rather more than a simple admirer, sir.’

The hand came down and went into a trouser pocket, re-emerging with a brown handkerchief. He folded it back to make a clean square and blew his nose, folding it again before replacing it. ‘So, Herr Peters, you are an unofficial emissary of the Italian government, but prefer to work as an actor?’ He turned his back on me and opened the file drawer in the middle of the cabinet from which he took out a slender, dark blue folder.

Surely this was not a file on me! Why should anyone wish to make one? I could read upside down, however, and my name was printed carefully at the top. I became alarmed. I did not know I had been subjected to any official attention. I wished that Röhm was with me to vouch for me, but he was still in Berlin dealing with recalcitrant SA.

‘I am proud to have known and to have served Il Duce, but I am a private citizen, an engineer. An inventor. I was fortunate enough to earn my living in the Hollywood cinema for some years, which was how I came to be working here in Munich with the UfA company. Agriculture Minister Hugenberg is a friend of mine. My real qualifications are in science. I originally came to Germany because I saw there was a new, young element here which embraced the future.’

I continued to feel anxious. All this talk of Mussolini seemed irrelevant. Had Il Duce passed on something to the German authorities? Very unlikely. Or had someone revealed my identity to Hitler? Again I thought of Prince Freddy and those films. They formed a link I had not considered before. Could I be recognised from them? I knew Hitler would not tolerate my freedom if I were identified as the person used in his ‘therapy’. I could easily suffer the fate of the Man in the Iron Mask and never see the outside world again. I might even die here.

I realised my left knee was beginning to shake a little, so I straightened to attention as the door opened. A police officer wearing the armband of the Bavarian Political Police stepped into the room, removed his cap, put it on the desk, murmured a word to the plainclothes man and took up the file, a reassuringly slim collection. At least that villain Brodmann was not behind this particular inconvenience. Any file Brodmann supplied would be bulging with his Bolshevik lies. The same was true of the ‘dossier’ the late Baroness had compiled. My equilibrium returned, and I became determined to answer in my most cultured German so the officer would know he was dealing with an educated man of substance. I should not have allowed the policemen to bring me here. Yet I had done nothing wrong. Perhaps the burglaries had been of a political nature. Perhaps they already knew who committed them.

Dismissing the civilian, my new interrogator smiled pleasantly. He was a round-faced Southerner with pale, pink skin and sharp grey eyes. His manner was regretful. ‘My dear Mr Peters. My men no doubt have explained this whole thing. Your life, sir, is in some danger, I fear. There are rogues abroad who are anxious to spill any alien blood they smell. We are, of course, doing everything to crack down on them. A secure homeland is what our Führer has sworn to give the German people, and it is our job to maintain that oath. But this does not mean we tolerate attacks on the property or persons of foreigners. Especially those who have shown us such generous support.’

‘I am anxious to offer the Reich every cooperation,’ I told him. ‘Do you mean that the man who burgled my apartment somehow had plans to take my life? Naturally, in those circumstances, I will answer any question you wish to put!’

He was grateful. ‘It’s so much easier for us, Herr Peters, when a gentleman is as cooperative as yourself. It saves everyone time and trouble and allows us to process matters more efficiently. Have you applied for residency papers?’

‘I am planning to return to Italy in a short while. And I have business in England. My acting jobs were merely a kind of holiday. I was helping out Reichsminister Hugenberg. I was unaware that I required special papers. I came here in order to make a statement to a stenographer.’

‘Of course. So much to absorb. Another good reason for keeping you with us in Schutzhaft, protective custody. I will set wheels in motion, and when you have the necessary papers, it will be easier for you to move about freely’

‘Custody? My dear Inspector, I have a luncheon meeting. I was told I was only going to be here for a few minutes. To answer a couple of questions. And now you plan to keep me here? For how long? I made no preparations to be here for hours, merely minutes.’

‘I do apologise. We are rather overworked these days. Our chaps aren’t always properly informed. They do their best, but it’s difficult . . .’An apologetic shrug. ’It might be possible for someone to telephone the person you are meeting and let them know you will not be able to make it.’

‘Are you telling me I have been arrested?’ I had to express my panic somehow. Every instinct told me that I had entered a trap.

‘Herr Peters!’ He raised his hands to show shock. ‘Certainly not. But you have seen what is happening on our streets, at least in the rougher quarters. Roving gangs of young men, many of them probably communists, pretending to support the new Germany by picking on any foreigner they come across. Breaking into their premises. Stealing their papers and property. Attacking them as Jews when they are frequently innocent . . .’

‘I am, sir, an American citizen. I served in the War. I fought the Bolsheviks. My family is as old as history. Surely you are not suggesting . . . ?’

‘I would not insult you.’

I relaxed to a degree, but my peace of mind was destroyed. Surely Röhm had not betrayed me? What motive would he have? To keep me quiet? Impossible. If he had wished to be rid of me, he would have killed me himself or had one of his SA people do it. We shared too many secrets. More likely one of Röhm’s enemies was behind this. Streicher? No. Doubtless one of the new ‘Berliners’, like Goebbels. Johnny-come-latelys who had jumped on the Nazi bandwagon as soon as it showed signs of success. Well, they would not crack me! I resolved to keep Röhm’s secrets, and my own at all costs. I, who had endured the Cossack whip and the exquisite tortures of al-Habashiya, would not easily reveal anything to these people. I have not eaten that which is unclean. Anubis is my friend. I played with the blind children. I became reconciled to my own murder. I who was dead am resurrected. I who have remained pure have endured the torments of death and the land of death and am whole again. I know there is a life to come. I have been promised that life.

I had to give up my documents, my wallet and whatever small change I had in my pockets, but I was not searched. I still had enough sneg to last several days, by which time I was sure I would be out. The officer asked, almost as an afterthought, if I was armed. A pistol, perhaps, for self-defence? I was furious. ‘My dear sir!’

I was back in the nightmare. I had thought never to be in it again.

Still in my overcoat I was handed over to two brown-shirted SA men, who escorted me up several flights of stairs. They addressed me with gruff lack of respect. The first was a young man with a pale, thin mouth and uncertain green eyes; the second was an older man, who had the manner of a regular army NCO. They were cheerful enough, though they called me a ‘rascal’ as if I were some sort of criminal, and told me it would do ‘my kind’ good to see the inside of a jail for a few days. Even then, said the older man, I would never know what it was like to serve in the trenches. It was on the tip of my tongue to reveal to them how I had served with the Don Cossacks, but this would have required further explanation, and besides, I had been fighting against Germans.

Collecting myself, I asked what they meant by ‘a few days’, and they refused to reply. I said that I fully expected to be free by that afternoon. I was an honest, hard-working professional man. I had paid the German government large amounts of tax. I folded my arms in an attitude of contempt as, at last, we arrived at a dank guardhouse. Here I was handed over to two regular prison warders, who showed none of the uncertainty of the others. They were older men, rough and ready, but not without an air of humanity. Admittedly there was a military atmosphere to the place, but also a sense that if you behaved yourself, ‘kept a clean nose’, as they say, you would not suffer any particular indignity. The Munich police had a reputation for fairness. I was sure I would be released within hours when they discovered my papers to be all in order. The worst that could happen was that I would be held overnight until Röhm or Göring were contacted.

Their paperwork done, I was escorted along another passage until we reached a door with the enamelled number 47 screwed to it. The guard unlocked this and flung it open. ‘Grüss Gott, gentlemen! You have a new roommate.’ His voice was charged with aggressive sarcasm. ‘Out you come. At attention, if you please!’

Three men came blinking into the bright, electric light of the corridor.

My first impression was that I was to be thrown in with the worst kind of desperadoes. They were unshaven, pale-looking creatures who wore a motley collection of clothing and had dirty, dishevelled hair. What were they? Thieves? Forgers? Kidnappers?

‘Very well. Back in you go!’

I followed them into the dimness, natural light falling through the single, high, barred window of the cell. I regarded them uneasily in case they attacked me. Four bunks were stacked in pairs on either side of us. A WC stood between the bunks. Graffiti on the walls. A stink of urine and sweat.

‘You’ve missed lunch,’ said the youngest man with some satisfaction, as the door was swung shut behind me. I heard bolts being rammed home and knew a moment’s panic.

‘You haven’t missed much. Lunch is best avoided.’ The tallest of the prisoners came forward, extending his hand. ‘Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to purgatory. Are you a transfer?’At my questioning frown, his smile broadened. ‘Have you been in the lions’ pit before, or are you a new boy?’

I was surprised by his confident, educated tone. I thought at first I had been confined with some kind of crooked salesman but as I grew used to the murky early-afternoon light I saw that all three of my fellow prisoners wore the good-quality clothes of upper-class Germans.

The man who greeted me shook my hand. ‘Good afternoon. Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, at your service.’ He had the easy grace and refined good looks once associated with the best sort of Austrian nobleman, exactly what he was. The other two prisoners were Doctor Bach, a prominent Munich businessman, and Herr Helander, a Swedish journalist. Doctor Bach soon returned to his bunk, on which were stacked all kinds of foodstuffs, paper parcels and suitcases. In an attitude of despair, he stared around at packets of dates, chocolates, fruit, chicken, several different kinds of sausages, thermos flasks of soup, tea and coffee, bread, cakes and pickles. Many of them still in their commercial wrappers, the foodstuffs made his bunk look like a stall in the covered market. Even the open suitcases appeared to be full of food. He had been brought here from a single cell yesterday, he said, and was expecting to leave at any time. His wife had brought the provisions that morning. For all his edible wealth, Doctor Bach was the least cheerful of the three. He had expected to be gone from the cell by now. The day before, when being transferred, he had been told he would be leaving that morning. He had mistaken my arrival for the guards coming with his release. Now, his expectations dashed, his tiny black eyes filled with tears.

Helander had no such expectations. He was a photojournalist who had been in Ettstrasse since early March and, like Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, had contributed to the Catholic press, though he had never attacked the Nazis directly. Admittedly his pictures for Paris Match had not been entirely flattering. Born in Malmo, he had lived in Munich for years, and his wife was from Munich. He was a little cynical. Without aristocratic connections, he was less likely to be released. He apologised for his present low spirits. Because the arresting officers had found some of his French publications, he believed he might very likely die here, unless he was first transferred to Stadelheim or Dachau. Stadelheim was the Munich prison where Hitler had been incarcerated after his failed putsch before being transferred to Landsberg, where he wrote most of Mein Kampf. Dachau was a brand new facility, a modern work camp designed to house hundreds of social outcasts, including communists and anarchists who had acted in some way, either in word or deed, against the interests of the German nation. I had seen an article about it in the VB. In rather austere but clean surroundings, men would be expected to serve their time and return, invigorated, to the job of restoring Germany to her place as a power among nations. The camp had been on the newsreels.

I could not imagine I was bound for Stadelheim, let alone Dachau. I told my new companions that I was innocent of any crime. I had left my home early this morning with two policemen to report a burglary. All I could think at the moment was that I was a victim of a bureaucratic accident and would be released after a short hearing. I was not even a German.

At this Count Pottendorf laughed. ‘I am an Austrian national, and my arrest was completely illegal. But I have been in Ettstrasse for several weeks and have yet to receive a hearing. We are all innocent of any crime, Professor Peters, I assure you. That is not why we are here!’

He confirmed what my warning instincts had already told me. In the general sweep of the country for those who threatened the well-being of the state, the Nazis had already arrested hundreds, perhaps thousands, many of whom had committed no crime and some of whom simply had the misfortune to bear names similar to those of socialists and others who had set themselves against all decency. We were victims of a huge, mad bureaucracy. The larger the bureaucracy, the bigger the mistakes it made. With the possible exception of Doctor Bach, who might well have run sweatshops, since he was a mass producer of clothing, it appeared we should all rightfully be in our own homes.

Looking as if he might suffer a heart attack at any moment, the portly Doctor Bach put his head in his hands. Herr Helander, a thin, lugubrious young man, whose pale face and hair gave him a washed-out appearance, went to comfort him. ‘Cheer up, old chap. You’ll be out of here by tomorrow.’

‘That’s what you keep saying. It’s obvious why you are here. You were foolish enough to goad Herr Hitler in print. But I have done nothing. The only reason I am in this place is because I am a Jew. You know what these Nazis have been up to! And all you two did in your articles was to incense them even further! What good have you done for the likes of me?’

Helander and Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf were quick to reassure him. There was probably a journalist or socialist called Bach. Several composers, after all, bore that name. Many prisoners had been released when a mix-up between them and others with similar names was discovered. It was just a matter of time before Bach would be back with Frau Bach. Meanwhile, said von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf cheerfully, what point was there in letting all this good food go to rot?

Reminded of his manners, Doctor Bach mopped his head with a large, grubby handkerchief and asked us to help ourselves from his provisions. He and Frau Bach were not Orthodox, indeed they were completely secular, and the food was not kosher. As Helander and Pottendorf tucked in, I ate a little bread and sausage and felt somewhat more human. I was determined to get out of Ettstrasse before I began to degenerate like my companions. How quickly we lost the appearance which commanded the world’s respect. At this thought, I removed my overcoat, since it had grown a little warm, and folded it carefully. I placed it on the bottom right-hand bunk, to which I had been assigned. There being no other reading matter, I accepted the offer of Doctor Bach’s Völkischer Beobachter. The paper was full of triumph. Several threats to the security of the homeland had been narrowly averted in the twenty-four hours before going to press. Jewish communist interests were being attacked and suppressed. ‘You see what I mean?’ said Doctor Bach with gloomy satisfaction as I read the front page.

Helander and Pottendorf were keen chess players and whiled away their time with mental games. I had always been impressed by this ability to visualise the whole board in play. They entertained me and took my mind off my own troubles as I waited to hear that I was free. The afternoon wore on slowly. Soon the sun began to set and I gave up much hope of being released that day.

When we came to talk, Pottendorf mentioned how his wife had returned to Vienna to work for his release there. At this Helander’s brow clouded. His own wife had just been arrested, he said. No doubt she had been asking too many questions of the political police. However, she had been able to contact a lawyer, who assured her that she would see her husband within a few days.

‘And, for once, the lawyer was right.’ Helander smiled sardonically. ‘Last time we were allowed out for twenty minutes in the exercise yard, I glimpsed her waving to me from the women’s section. I paid Schwenk, the best of the guards here, and he got a message to her. She’s not been badly treated. His guess is that she annoyed them so much and proved such an embarrassment they locked her up. It’s just a warning, Schwenk thinks. He doesn’t expect her to be in for more than a few days.’

I asked him how long he had been here. A month, he said. He was sure that he and his wife would be released at the same time before Christmas. He knew her parents must be worried sick.

Still slumped on his bunk, surrounded by his array of food parcels, Doctor Bach snuffled and moaned. He doubted very much if his little girl would be seeing her daddy at Christmas. Pottendorf sat beside him and again attempted to comfort him. ‘Come along, old chap. We’re all in the same boat. It doesn’t do to lose hope. Have a chocolate.’

Bach said miserably that while we were doubtless all in the same boat, some of us were first-class passengers and some were not. He had begun to chew inconsolably on a caramel when a warder shouted something at us and swung open the door. We were allowed to fetch water from the communal sink, and I was issued with two rough blankets. When I again tried to ask when I could expect to be released, the warder repeated that he was not party to the decisions of the bigwigs. Supper, brought round by a trusty, was unappealing, so that evening we dined off Doctor Bach’s bounty. He could barely bring himself to eat a thing.

The four of us played cards until midnight when the light in the cell was switched off. As soon as he was in bed, Doctor Bach began to sniffle again. We were all as sympathetic as we could be in the circumstances. Again Pottendorf assured him he would soon be free, but Bach grizzled into his pillow for half an hour before his enormous snores filled the cell, finally subsiding into a kind of wet whiffling noise which in turn became a rhythmic sigh.

Distrusting the blankets’ cleanliness, I lay down in my clothes praying to the gods of good luck that I would be free by morning. In case my clothes should at some time be taken from me, I hid my cocoa in my mattress. I took only a little as soon as I was convinced everyone else was asleep. I wasn’t sure I could take more than one night of this company. Apart from Pottendorf, I had nothing in common with these people. I was far too valuable to the Reich. The Nazis were practical people. They would not waste human resources. A few journalists and businessmen more or less would not be missed. But they needed scientists if their dreams of a revived, purified Germany were to be realised. Göring was bound to respond to my message.

The bells of the nearby cathedral tolled the quarters. I found them more comforting than intrusive. In the early hours of the morning, however, when all the others slept and the only sounds were the distant moans of the disturbed mental deficients in the special block, I had a sudden sink and was forced to draw on my precious store of sneg before I again relaxed. My mind sharpened, I tried to go over what I had learned. I concluded a mistake had been made. Röhm would not want me in here. Neither would Hitler. If my involvement in the Tegernsee plot were discovered I would be quietly murdered, I was sure. I also dismissed the involvement of Brodmann, my Bolshevik nemesis, or Prince Freddy. My best bet was to try to contact Hanfstaengl. Although he had claimed to have been inundated with pleas for help, I was sure he would go out of his way for me.

At six o’clock we were awakened by the warders banging on our doors, warning us to ready ourselves for our ablutions and breakfast. The prison servant, a mournful old slattern in a long overall, came in to clean the cell, splashing her bucket of disinfectant about so that we gagged on the smell. We were then forced to assemble outside with our bowls while some kind of awful soup was slopped into them by a shifty trusty whose long moustache bore witness to a score of his own meals. Happily, Doctor Bach’s provisions were still edible, and we ate more sausage and bread, washing it down with the remains of his tea and the thin coffee issued to us.

I told Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf that he must, like me, feel unhappy about being confined with common criminals but he reassured me. ‘The whole damned building is packed with politicals. Every day they take a few away, often to Stadelheim or Dachau, and every day they bring still more in.’

At about nine o’clock a warder flung the door open and ordered us all into the corridor. We were marched in military order and forced to stand to attention while he checked names on a clipboard.

This ritual ended, the warder pointed at our Jewish colleague. ‘Heinrich Bach. You are to remain outside. You others will return to the cell.’

With the door closed behind us, we speculated on the reason for Bach being taken away. We could hear his questioning whine in the corridor until his voice faded, and another door clanged behind him.

Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf thoughtfully placed the remains of Bach’s provisions into his own smart, leather suitcase. He was an old prison hand now, he said, with an apologetic grin. Bach had been using his overcoat as a blanket, and this Pottendorf straightened, plumping the straw pillow and smoothing it. The rest of the food he replaced in Bach’s cases, which he settled upon his own bunk. He did not tell us why he was doing this, but since he was the oldest inhabitant of No. 47, we assumed he knew what he was about.

His business finished, he sat down again, crossed his legs and offered us all one of his fat Turkish cigarettes. Helander and I accepted gratefully. As we smoked the richly scented tobacco, Pottendorf explained his actions.

‘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 11 th 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.

Surreptiously 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.’