The Vengeance of Rome

FORTY-SEVEN

Ironically, the betrayal of the SA was to bring me temporary good fortune. Stadelheim and Dachau became so overcrowded their staff were refusing more prisoners. Those accused of nothing could at last be released.

The very morning of the anti-Röhm putsch, we were marched down to the discharge room. The place was in total confusion. Some of us received our bundles of clothes and other personal possessions but many did not. I was given the bag belonging to a Jew who I knew for certain had died of a heart attack a few days earlier. Only by demanding my own, when I saw it in the hands of another inmate, could I get what was mine, including my precious American passport. Then I was rushed with a dozen others past blood-spotted walls to one of the trucks which earlier had carried SA men to their deaths.

After an uncomfortable ride back into central Munich, we were deposited outside police headquarters and told to report there. But I did what many others did. I drifted into the side streets and cautiously made my way home. The main roads seemed to be full of speeding cars with darkened windows. I had to assume this was associated with what I had already witnessed in Stadelheim. Some terrible business was afoot. Had Hitler and his people been overthrown by Goebbels and Himmler? Certainly the SS seemed very much in control.

Instinct told me to avoid my flat. Instead, I huddled in my unseasonable overcoat, which at least presented an appearance of respectability, then I headed for Corneliusstrasse, for which I still had the keys. I desperately hoped the SS had not preceded me.

I arrived as the market was waking up, slipped through the gathering, incurious shoppers, hearing to my astonishment the sound of Signor Frau’s barrel organ, as sweet and clear as I had last left it. Was my Zoyea still dancing for the crowds? I wanted so much to see her. Thoughts of her, as well as of Mrs- Cornelius, had sustained me through those terrible nights. But it was dangerous. If my protector was imprisoned, who else might they be rounding up?

Curbing the impulse to reacquaint myself with friends, I at last found myself standing outside the door of my old apartment in Corneliusstrasse. It had, of course, been used by the SA and was a likely target for the SS. There was no need for my key. The door had been bashed in, and I could pass through easily. I saw no SS men here now, only evidence of a hasty search everywhere. I climbed the stairs like a sleepwalker. Still no guards. I had been so happy in that little flat. I had rarely felt safer. Today I was only frightened. The flat’s door was broken down, pulled shut but hanging on one hinge. I saw signs of violent struggle. Gunshot holes in the walls. The whole place was in disarray. A brooding stillness hung over it. For a while I had to pause to gather my wits. I suspected the SS had done all they were going to do, but it would still be wise to leave as soon as possible. I went directly to the hiding place under the sink and there, to my relief, was everything I had left. I took a little ‘coca’ to steady myself, hid the rest in the lining of my overcoat and then packed everything into a Gladstone bag. On the floor of the closet, still on their hangers, were my summer clothes. The pockets had been turned inside out, but the suits were still in good condition.

I was able to bathe and shave in cold water, and soon I was fully restored. A human being again. I looked my old, dapper self, thoroughly urbane. I turned my wide-brimmed hat at a tilt, put a light overcoat over my shoulders, even twirled a cane. My papers, plans and pistols were in the bag, together with some changes of clothes. I had money in my pocket. And I had one thought paramount in my mind: to get out of Germany while I could. Everything in me shrieked to make that escape.

Driven more by instinct than reason, I slipped from the flat and made my way to the station, taking side streets wherever possible. I had no plan and very little sense of what I was doing except following old impulses. I did not dare take a bus, certainly not a taxi. I was in a kind of trance, not sure I was really free, still ‘in the nightmare’, that state of refined terror which I had felt in Odessa, in Oregon and later in Cairo. I felt I had a target painted on my back.

I believed I was liable to random attack at any time from bloodthirsty, savage men. Men without reason who would howl after me, throwing stones and bricks at me, hunting me down until they caught me then tearing me to pieces. I had seen them do it in the past, during the Civil War in Russia and to those who would not conform in the United States. I remembered the pogroms in Odessa when I had seen anonymous Jews hunted to their deaths by overzealous Cossacks, I had already been mistaken for a Jew more than once in Stadelheim and could not risk it happening again. The only difference was that my face was well known to hundreds of thousands. I was a famous film star. I was even more vulnerable.

I tried to console myself. My privations had changed my appearance considerably. I had lost weight. The shaving mirror had shown me gaunt, hollow-eyed and exhausted. Nobody, I told myself, could possibly know me now. But I certainly did not much look like a confident and prosperous citizen.

Using such a circuitous route, avoiding any street with a policeman or SS man in it, I did not reach the main railway station for some time. Slowly I formed a plan. I was not a wanted man in Italy. I must try to make it back to Rome. There I could either throw myself on the mercy of Signora Sarfatti or hope to explain myself to Il Duce. I was sure he would at least give me his protection if he heard what had happened to me. And if nothing else, I was in a position to let him know what was going on in Germany. Mussolini could be cruel to those he took against, but he could be generous even to his enemies.

On the great concourse I went straight to the foreign desk and purchased a ticket to Rome, via Innsbruck and Milan. The man at the desk seemed surprised but gave me no problem. He seemed nervous, even ill. I tried to chat to him. He would not reply. His eyes were everywhere but on his job. When I turned to find the appropriate platform, I was astonished. The station was teeming with black uniforms. The SS were out in strength, inspecting documents, searching no doubt for those who had escaped them the night before. My SA credentials were less than useless to me. The sooner I got rid of them, I thought, the better it would be.

I looked to see if the Rome Express was in. Then I realised it made no difference. I could not afford to be caught and have my bag searched. Even as I looked, more and more SS troops piled out of trucks and buses into the station. Children and women were as liable to receive their attention as adult men. Feeling strangely invisible, like a ghost, I quietly melted again into the busy backstreets. This was not the right time for me to leave the city, but I no longer knew what to do. I could not seek out Mrs Cornelius. She was already, by many accounts, in Berlin. She would help me. But how could I get to Berlin? There must be more than one SA man out there wearing civilian clothes and wondering how he could escape to his home town or village. Anxious not to attract attention, I walked slowly back the way I had come. Every so often a car might slow down, and I even heard men cursing at me, but they had other prey that day and drove on.

Back at the Viktualienmarkt the sound of the barrel organ grew louder, reminding me that I might find help there. The warm bustle of the shoppers around me was a comfort. I saw no SS people, just the occasional ordinary Bavarian policeman, stolid, friendly and as reassuring as always. Here was the old, familiar Munich. Everything appeared exactly as it had been for centuries. Sure enough my friend Signor Frau was turning the crank of his organ, his son was rattling the box through the audience and little Zoyea was dancing like an angel along the kerb. If anything she was more beautiful. Tears welled in my eyes as I knew a tremendous surge of relief.

My bag at my feet, I stood on the edge of the pavement watching her. For three months she had been a memory, a fantasy. So powerful was the reality of her presence that I did not trust myself to approach her. For half an hour I stood there, hoping she would see me. I was now completely clean-shaven. Every so often her brother would come by with the wooden collecting box, and I would slip a coin in. He frowned at me once or twice but did not recognise me. It was not until Zoyea’s eyes met mine that I knew she remembered. She paused in her steps and blinked. Yet almost immediately her expression hardened. No doubt she blamed me for abandoning her without a word. Perhaps she knew I had been in prison and suspected me of being a criminal. I had never found an opportunity to tell anyone what was happening to me. After all, I had left my flat thinking I would be away for an hour at most. She could not have known anything. Wishing to avoid any sort of scene, I ignored Zoyea and her brother and went up instead to her father, raising my hat.

‘Signor Frau? Do you remember me?’

The Italian recognised my voice first. His eyes widened in amazement as he recalled my face. ‘Herr Peters! We heard you had gone to Hamburg and returned to America! We were rather surprised.’ He stopped himself. I think he was going to say that he would have expected me to let him know. Instead he asked, ’Did you enjoy your visit?’

‘I was never there. I was abducted. Only today did I manage to get free. It’s a long story, my friend. You must know I would have got word to you all if that were possible. I’ll be glad to tell you everything, but at present I have nowhere to live. Perhaps you could see your way to letting me sleep in your organ shed for a while? A mattress on the floor is all I would need.’

‘You have money?’ He felt in his pocket.

I raised my hand. ‘I have no money problems. But I do not want to stay in a hotel . . .’

He seemed to understand. Without another word he signalled to his daughter. She came over reluctantly, scowling at me. He told her to take me back to their house and not to ask questions. She was to show me his bed and allow me to rest there. He would be home at the usual time.

She objected. He refused to hear her. ‘I know you think Herr Peters has done you a wrong, Heckie, but I know he will explain himself. I want you to be a good Christian girl and do as I ask.’

She obeyed with poor grace. Lips pursed, eyes hard, she jerked her head for me to follow her and stamped off in the direction of their home. As we walked I talked to her. ‘I did not desert you, my dear, I promise you that. I had no chance to speak to you before I left.’

‘You could have written,’ she said. ‘We had been due to go to the cinema. We missed a Tom Mix film. And a Ken Maynard.’

‘But the police arrested me,’ I said.

Her eyes widened. ‘The real police? What had you done?’

‘Nothing, I promise. You know how confusing it is in Munich these days. Many innocent people are caught up in the troubles. A case of mistaken identity. Just like your family being mistaken for Jews. Do you know about this?’

‘You are a communist?’

‘I am innocent of everything. But they decided to arrest me, anyway.’

‘That’s impossible,’ she declared. ‘Nobody is arrested for doing nothing. Are you an enemy of the state?’

‘Of course not.’

She was unconvinced. As we walked, she fell silent, her brows drawn together. ‘A swindler?’

‘I am not a criminal. The authorities made a mistake.’

‘That’s what the burglars say in the films,’ she declared. ‘We used to laugh at them. I am innocent! I did nothing!’

‘But you have also seen the films where the man is innocent of murder and everyone declares him guilty,’ I said. ’Don’t you remember the Masked Buckaroo story where I helped young Jane Gatling’s fiancé prove his innocence? That’s what happened to me.’

‘But you are the Masked Buckaroo!’

‘They refused to believe me.’

‘And they found out you were innocent?’

‘I was released this morning. I have been in the Stadelheim fortress!’

With deep concentration, she studied my face. At length she seemed satisfied. Suddenly her little hand had slipped into mine. She asked if I wanted to go to the pictures that evening. I smiled. If possible I would be glad to go. She told me disapprovingly it was almost impossible to see American cowboy films now. The cinemas were showing nothing but historical subjects. I asked if she had seen any Gloria Cornish movies, but she had not. She had seen Fräulein Cornish on the posters outside the cinema, however. She was specialising in musicals. ‘All these English actresses are singing nowadays.’ What of my own films? I asked. She said there had been one or two ‘Winnetou’ talkies, but they had not appeared in the big picture houses. The public didn’t care for the new ones. She read the movie magazines. Musicals and historical films were all the rage. That’s what were being made now. I should learn to sing, she suggested. Even in America the cowboys were all breaking into song. Gene Autry had thrown Tom Mix and Tim Holt into the shade. She seemed aware how my acting career, at least in Germany, was over. She might even have guessed I was lucky to be alive at all.

I could not tell her the SS were busy with their lists, arresting anyone suspected of being sympathetic to Röhm or Strasser. If I was on a list, I consoled myself, I was probably noted as having been arrested already. I now realise I actually attracted less attention than before the putsch. But prison had made me timid.

At last we reached the mews, arousing the curiosity of the few little children playing there. My Zoyea opened the door of their house. I quickly slipped inside. She took my bag upstairs, came down again and politely offered me a cup of coffee. With some relief I sank into Signor Frau’s easy chair. Zoyea busied herself in the kitchen. When she returned with the coffee and a piece of cake, I told her as much as was wise about my wrongful arrest and imprisonment, my sudden release. There was still some danger of my being arrested again. I hoped it would be possible for me to sleep in their organ shed until the authorities stopped showing such a keen interest in the railway station. My plan was to get to Rome as soon as possible.

Zoyea agreed enthusiastically that Germany wasn’t the same as it used to be. She herself hoped to go to Italy soon. Her father had talked of leaving. He thought life might be better for them in Spain. His cousin worked there and was full of praise for the new government. Here in Munich, she said, there were far too many gangs wandering the streets, attacking anyone they did not like. She herself had been insulted more than once, as had her father. As I knew, people called them Jews or worse. What had Italians had to do with killing Jesus? Surely Hitler must do something about all this. I agreed. If he did not, he would soon lose the goodwill of the German people. At that moment, however, I did not know if Hitler were imprisoned, alive or dead.

‘But those SA were among the worst.’ Zoyea doubtless repeated what she had heard in the market. ‘With them gone things will be better. Were you an SA, Herr Peters?’

How could I reply, having seen the murder of so many of our most disciplined and responsible SA at the hands of the SS? Was it only last night? I replied that the SS were no better. They merely had smarter uniforms.

Privately, I suspected Himmler would prove a snake in the grass. Even if Hitler survived he would have more to fear from Goebbels and Himmler than he ever had from Röhm. Röhm had put loyalty above everything else. I was sure Himmler planned to replace Hitler as Führer. I recalled the story of Macbeth, reflecting how applicable it was to the present situation. When you spilled your own people’s blood in the name of your cause, you inevitably began the destruction of that cause. For every honest soul murdered in Stadelheim and Dachau, a high price would be paid.

Nowadays newspapers find it fashionable to emphasise the Jewish lives lost in the camps, but people seem to forget that thousands of Nazis died in them, too, not to mention millions of innocent Slavs. Once the camps were established, the path was determined; they had to be fed. In the end, as at the beginning, it scarcely mattered who went to feed the monster. The Jews, Gypsies and Slavs were the most easily available, but we should remember that many Americans also died in Dachau, together with Czechs, Austrians, Hungarians, French and Italians. Were these not equally innocent? The monster is not a gourmet. The monster does not care what blood type he drinks. The stronger the blood, the better. The more blood, the merrier. Blood is worth more by the pint than wine, yet he drinks it as his master’s machines drink oil. He is voracious. And just as his master creates more machines to drink more oil, so he creates more machines which will drink blood.

How easily the human monster becomes an addict for money, power, oil or blood or all of those things! When will the day come when neither blood nor oil will be needed to fuel the ambitions of men? My machines would be powered by light. My cities would fly through the cold, pure ether. They would leave all those addictions behind them. They would be inviolable, incorruptible and eternal.

I did not get to the bed. Even as I chatted with Zoyea and sipped her delicious coffee, I fell into a deep sleep and did not wake up until twilight with a smiling Signor Frau and his somewhat unsmiling son standing over me. Signor Frau had food waiting for me, a tender veal cutlet with new potatoes and green beans. He had cooked it for me himself. He was delighted by my praise. Once, he said, he had cooked in his uncle’s restaurant. He was curious to learn what had happened to me but remarked that I must always remember he required no explanation from me. I had saved his living, he insisted, and that meant that he was for ever indebted to me.

I disagreed. I had done so little. Yet still he was firm. I would sleep in his bed tonight and then tomorrow. If I still needed shelter, he would see what he could do. I did not resist him. The luxury of clean sheets and a soft bed, together with the prospect of a breakfast as good as my supper, made me weaken. No sooner had I managed to reach his room, strip off my clothes and lie down, than I was asleep again.

I awoke after a bad dream, but I felt well rested. I heard sounds from below, and when I went down I found Signor Frau seated at the table reading a newspaper while his daughter prepared a breakfast of eggs and cheese. The smell of the coffee was enough for me to accept their invitation and join them. The boy had gone off to buy bread, said Signor Frau, and would be back soon.

I looked at the headlines. Hitler had clearly not been a victim. The newspaper was full of the plot against Hitler, foiled by Himmler and the SS. I had never seen so many lies published in such density. Röhm was described as a pervert and a glutton, who had plotted with exiled communists, Strasser and other traitors, both in and out of the Nazi Party, to assassinate Hitler and his closest allies and impose a reign of brute terror on the German people. This had been averted by some loyal SA men joining with the SS to nip the plot in the bud. The Fiihrer had been disbelieving that so many could be disloyal, yet even now was considering clemency for Röhm. This was an obvious lie, of course. I guessed well enough what had happened to Röhm in Stadelheim. I shuddered to think what would have become of me had I remained so close to him. I would realise later how much my friend had protected me. When the lion is abroad, as Röhm often pointed out, the best place to hide is in his cage.

Though I had to be guarded, I told Signor Frau I had reason to believe the SA were involved in no such plot. Any plot was almost certainly from the right of the party. In a whisper, Signor Frau begged me to tell him more, but I could not. I did make it clear that I was not at present a wanted man and was only avoiding the SS in case they associated me with Ernst Röhm. The Stabschef had been a good friend to me. He had been made a scapegoat by Himmler.

Frau had never himself trusted Himmler. ‘That little mouth of his looks like an arsehole,’ he said. ‘And we all know what comes out of an arsehole.’

I had become used to such coarseness in the prison and did not find his language as offensive I might have done.

‘With all the commies and Sozis rounded up,’ he continued, ’they’re now squabbling among themselves. And God help those of us who are caught between them.’

I said ‘Amen’ to that and together we drank a small cup of very strong coffee.

Frau had decided not to go out to work that day. He would keep me company. I think he felt protective towards me. I feared for him. I asked him if his action was wise. People noticed if you did not keep to routines. He saw the sense in this and reluctantly agreed. ‘But you will be careful, my dear friend?’ I assured him I would. These days I was nothing but cautious.

When the boy came back with the bread, his father suggested he have his breakfast before readying the barrel organ for the day’s work. He begged me to stay in for the day and rest. I should have his bed again. He would be out until the evening, and I would not be inconveniencing him. I could stay here as long as I needed.

I promised I would. Those months in Ettstrasse and Stadelheim had exhausted me. I fell asleep in the chair listening to the wireless. I had not even put on my boots.

The news on the radio was full of Hitler’s dismay at SA treachery, which could easily have led to civil war in Germany. It was miserable stuff. The German stations talked of communist perils and of the aliens among us who must be expunged. No wonder poor Signor Frau was worried. He was one of those aliens, as, of course, was I.

How strange, I thought, to consider yourself a loyal German citizen yet be regarded by everyone around you as some sort of interloper.

I was awakened around noon by the wireless, which I had not turned off: more news of Röhm’s so-called attempted putsch, reassurances that all the ‘criminal elements’ were being rounded up and that the threats of civil war or a socialist takeover had been averted. I knew I had best lie low. Signor Frau could continue to give me shelter for a few days, so I would eventually be able to make it back to the railway station and be on my way to Rome. I had been given a timetable with my ticket. If I did not go via Vienna, I would have to change in Innsbruck and Milan since no express ran from Munich, but I had no fears of Innsbruck, even though a nascent Nazi Party had been established there for some time. I wondered what had happened to Otto Strasser and the others who managed to be out of Germany. Had they escaped in large enough numbers to regroup in a friendly country and plan a return? Were they in Prague or Vienna? Possibly they had headed for Innsbruck. Or was there something I didn’t know? How big was the Black Front? How many ‘secret’ friends did Röhm and the others have among the Nazis? What chance did my old mentor have of escaping Stadelheim and getting to safety?

To be truthful I was more than grateful to Signor Frau for his insistence I remain in his house. The organ-grinder’s mews was a wonderful sanctuary after my terrible imprisonment. While I still felt the need to flee Germany, until it was safe Frau’s was the best I could hope for.

I was left alone in the mornings when the whole family set off for the market, and I ate well in the evenings when they returned. During the day I read whatever newspapers Signor Frau had brought in the previous evening or looked through Zoyea’s vast store of film magazines. A number of them had published pictures of myself and Mrs Cornelius. I was surprised how I had altered in those few months. When not playing Winnetou, I had been sleek, urbane, and conventionally handsome. Now I had a gaunt, wolfish look. I was much paler, probably from the poor nutrition. The terror and discomfort I had experienced had caused my cheeks and eyes to sink and even my mouth seemed thinner. Eventually, with a change of circumstances and improved diet, I could be restored to my old self, but it would take some time.

After about a week I agreed to go with Zoyea to a local cinema to watch two very miserable films, one of them American and the other Austrian. Letty Lynton featured the depressive Joan Crawford and Liebelei starred Magda Schneider, Wolfgang Liebeneiner and Gustaf Gründgens. Directed by Max Ophuls, it lacked much of his familiar gaiety. Zoyea seemed to enjoy both of them far more than I did, and at that moment, certainly, it seemed the magic had gone from our visits to the films. The best part of the programme was an episode of The Wolf Dog, starring Rin Tin Tin Jr. I could not help but be reminded of Hitler’s own ‘Wulf’, his Alsatian dog.

The trailers did not promise much better to come. The news-reel was mostly about how the New Germany was restoring herself and consisted chiefly of shots of noble workers with spades and handsome men in uniforms. A smiling Chancellor hosted a party for equally happy foreign diplomats. We watched dutifully before leaving.

As Zoyea had already told me, the cowboys had all but disappeared from the screen. Tom Mix and Buck Jones had been replaced by women’s melodramas. Letty Lynton was a great success in America when it first appeared there, but in Germany it never had much popularity. The public mood was for more upbeat musical comedies and costume dramas. Glamorous English actresses continued to feature, though Gloria Cornish was clearly not getting the work she deserved. I would have preferred a musical or historical film to the gloomy, suicidal miseries we were forced to endure that evening.

I longed to restore my relationship with my little girl. Her companionship and admiration meant a great deal to me. But I was no longer the glamorous figure she had known while she was becoming a teenager. I was starved for female company. If LeBrun had been right, Mrs Cornelius had returned to Berlin to work for UfA there. By now, with her instinct for trouble, she might have departed from Germany altogether, moving to London or New York.

I was still nervous about leaving the little house and always glad to return to the comparative security of the mews. The SS and Gestapo were everywhere on the streets. Munich had been a stronghold of the SA. I jumped every time I saw a uniform and, having already suffered from prejudice in the prison, I was depressed by the notices in the shops which emphatically said they were German-owned and did not serve Jews. Ironically, I learned to avoid these places, as did the Fraus. Anyone of Mediterranean appearance was in danger of being insulted. Twice I was shoved into the gutter by men who voiced their disgust of me, and once I came under close scrutiny from the police who assumed that the dark-eyed girl with me was my daughter. But after a couple of weeks there were fewer SS about. Their action against the SA was clearly running down.

At the end of a fortnight I told Signor Frau I had better try to leave again and continue on my way to Rome. He was sympathetic. He himself was thinking of going to Madrid where he had relatives. Everyone said how wonderful life was in Spain these days. Was I sure it was entirely sensible of me to try to return to Italy? You never knew when they would turn on you, he said. The Spanish were more easygoing. There was not the same prejudice. Why didn’t I wait and see what he and his family decided to do. Then perhaps we could travel as a group? All he was waiting for was a letter from his cousin.

But I was growing anxious. I asked if I could leave the bulk of my papers and so on with him. Was there some place which would be safe? He suggested the old ‘show organ’ was as good a place as any to stow them. So I left my things, including my pistols, plans and other papers, with him to hide as he thought best. I decided to use my Spanish passport and travel as Señor Gallibasta, a Spanish tradesman. When I had settled again in Rome, I would ask him to send my possessions on to me by registered post. I took only one set of important plans and a couple of notebooks. The bulk of my cocaine I hid among the books. I did not wish to give a potential enemy any suspicion on which to arrest me. I would be able to replenish my supply once I was in Rome.

Though she was affectionate, Zoyea was disappointingly unmoved to hear I was leaving. Clearly I was no longer her glamorous hero, the sharer of her fantasies. I felt a pang, of course, but was not surprised. I, too, felt a lessening of emotional involvement. I had begun to think more and more of my lost Esmé. Why had she betrayed me so? Even now, from that scored and stained celluloid, she threatened me. If I had not tried to protect her, I should never have been compromised by Prince Freddy. I knew such women are always dangerous. I would not miss Zoyea as much once my sex drive subsided. My attention remained focused on potential danger. A threatened animal has little time for romance. Fraus little house was too small for all of us, and the boy remained, if not my enemy, certainly no friend.

What had happened to Kitty? Had she been arrested or had she followed the morphine back to Berlin? I was still in some danger from her. Half tempted to accept Signor Frau’s invitation, I knew I had no work in Spain and no one of any influence to help me. Rome remained my only immediate hope. From there I could make my way to London and pick up my money from Mr Green. Major Nye would help me contact someone of authority at the War Department. The English were bound to see the virtues of my designs. I prepared to say goodbye to the Fraus.

It goes without saying how grateful I was to the whole family. I knew I could trust them completely. They had a long history of keeping their mouths shut, of never betraying their friends. In helping me they had put themselves in a certain amount of danger. I did not wish to endanger them any further.

They would not accept direct restitution for their Christian decency, so discreetly I left an envelope of money on the little mantel and, wearing a smart summer suit, raincoat over my arm, carrying a small leather suitcase purchased at my request by the boy, I set off again for the railway station.

Restored in mind and body, if not exactly at ease with my situation, I reached the station to find it returned to normal. A few SS men and regular policemen stood around, but they were bored, not looking for anyone in particular. Approached by members of the public, the SS men would salute courteously and point out civil officers as the correct authority to help them. The boy had found out the times of the Innsbruck train for me. I went directly to the platform, presented my ticket and found a first-class compartment near the middle of the train. The express was already sighing and huffing, preparing to leave. I settled myself in the luxury of a comfortable seat and opened my copy of the Völkischer Beobachter, knowing an almost thrilling sense of relief as the train released its air brakes and began slowly to shunt away from the platform.

I was not yet free, of course, not by any means. I still had to fear the railway officials who could cause me trouble if they wished, but it would not be very long before we reached the border. In Innsbruck I would change trains for Rome, via Milan. I relished the coming pleasures of the Eternal City, of seeing my old friends again and hopefully restoring my relationship with Il Duce. I could put all my terrible experience behind me. I had been lured from my original path, which as a young man I had determined to walk. I recalled how I had sketched out my life plan, determined to serve the cause of mankind. My true vocation was calling to me again. After a diversion, for which I had paid dearly, I was now about to return to my vocation as an inventor and engineer.

The newspaper was full of Nazi triumphs. All reference to my old mentor Röhm had disappeared. Hanfstaengl’s art publishing firm, which had advertised portraits of the Nazi leadership, no longer mentioned him. The Stabschef had vanished from all official pictures, as if he, Strasser and the others had never existed, as if the world I had known was a false memory. What must rank-and-file Nazis make of this, let alone the German people?

I was not to be alone in my compartment for long. As the train drew away from the station, a well-dressed young man flung his bag on to the seat across from me and plunged in after it, stripping off his grey overcoat and throwing it casually on to the overhead rack. He raised his hat to me before putting that on top of his coat, reached into the side pocket of his bag, took out a book, a spectacles case and a newspaper, placed them on a seat, then lifted his luggage to sit it above him. He was tall, almost femininely good-looking, white-haired, a little on the plump side.

I murmured a ‘Good afternoon’, to which he responded in an exaggerated Prussian accent, asking me if I minded his smoking. We were in a smoking section. I had no reason to object. I had rather hoped to keep the compartment to myself for a while but was reconciled, merely feeling that faint resentment one has when one had been the first to settle. I agreed with him that the weather was pleasant. He, too, was going the whole way to Innsbruck. He had not bothered to book himself a sleeper, he said. Had I?

I had not. Indeed, I had not thought to do so, since my whole intention when I bought my ticket was simply to get away from Germany as soon as possible. I had not considered my comfort at all. My mind had been set entirely on escape.

So I agreed with my travelling companion that it was an unnecessary expense, since one so rarely slept on these overnight trains, what with the stopping and starting, the shunting and the clank of the couplings being taken on and off. I folded my newspaper. Was he travelling to Innsbruck on business or pleasure?

A little of both, he said. He was a decorative arts importer and had some factories to visit in the Innsbruck area, but he hoped to go to the theatre and enjoy a few restaurants while he was there. And myself?

Milan, I said. I would change at Innsbruck. I saw no reason to offer him any further details.

Was I an enthusiastic train traveller? He lifted an eyebrow in mild enquiry.

I told him that I had a great love of trains, but it had been some while since I had had the opportunity to take one.

He nodded. Had I ever used the Orient Express?

I said I had never made its whole journey but hoped to do so one day.

‘I have always had a strong desire to take the Orient all the way from Paris to Constantinople,’ he confided. ‘I mean to Istanbul, of course!’ He added how much he had always been fascinated by luxury trains. He regretted the Bolshevist Revolution, which denied him the famous Trans-Siberian express to China. Did I have any desire to see the East?

I had seen too much of it, especially Cairo and Istanbul. I had no immediate desire to return. He was impressed. What did I think of Istanbul and Kemal Atatürk? Had I ever met the man they called the architect of modern Turkey?

I admitted that I had been in his company more than once. His attempts to bring his nation into line with contemporary Europe were commendable, but he could never hope to achieve his ends while he allowed the Moslem Brotherhood to control politics there. Islamists would be the ruin of the region.

‘And why is that, my dear sir?’

‘Because your Mussulman is endemically tied to a system of beliefs rooting him thoroughly in the past,’ I said. ‘In this he has much in common with your religious Jew.’

He was intrigued and wanted me to expand on my theme. It had been so long since I enjoyed the company of intelligent and sophisticated adults I felt almost grateful to him. I explained how Jesus had been a progressive, educated as a Greek and familiar with Greek thought. Mohammed, however, had been a conservative, creating his creed in direct opposition to Christ’s teachings. Indeed, his creed had been in reaction to Greek thinking. Christ had preached love and peace while Mohammed had preached war and aggression. Mohammed believed religious faith should be spread by the sword, whereas Christ believed in passive example. Mohammed had taken religion back to the Old Testament, to those same prejudices and dark practices of the Jews. I had no time for Zionism, but if the Jews required a homeland they should be allowed to make one on condition that they give up religion and practise only secular politics.

He found this a novel and amusing idea. ‘You are yourself, I take it, of a non-religious disposition.’

I had not yet re-embraced the Greek Church. I said I had a Catholic background with several churchmen in my family. In those years I breathed a different air. Many considered religion to be backward and old-fashioned, and in my love of science I was still inclined to a form of agnosticism.

He, too, had been raised a Catholic, he told me, but had been attracted to Lutheranism before turning to an uneasy form of scientific materialism. ‘These days we place all the faith we used to place in God into science and the arts.’

I agreed. I was not sure they were complete replacements, but who could doubt that the Old Testament was responsible for many of the world’s troubles.

Yet, he asked, I did not feel that about the New Testament?

‘It is the first modern manifesto! It set the tone for the next two millennia. Our present philosophical and political debates all revolve around it. Europeans and Americans are products of it, even if we have no religious faith at all.’

‘You believe our purer Christian notions are corrupted when they are brought in contact with Jewish and Moslem ideas?’

‘Many of our great philosophers have thought the same.’

‘Nietzsche would go further. As would young Heidegger. Religion is not, then, a mere crutch, a means of escaping the stark realities of life and death?’

‘I understand how we must have some reassurances, some sentimentality.’

‘Some hope? You think Messrs Hitler and Mussolini give us that?’

‘Indeed I do.’ I answered with perhaps exaggerated enthusiasm. I was no longer sure that Hitler’s vision had very much to offer me, but Mussolini remained my ideal. He had led the Italians for over a decade and showed every sign of leading them for another two or three at least. I kept the rest of my opinions to myself, not having the measure of my companion. Privately I came to believe Hitler’s vitality was neurotic. Mussolini’s was masculine, wholesome, natural. At that time I remained convinced he could still rebuild a new Roman Empire whose power would extend across Europe and the Middle East. One day he might even lay claim to the British Isles again, to the kingdoms of the Franks and the Goths. After June 1934 Nazism renounced its place in history. Mussolini had never turned on his own, never poisoned the roots of his cause. No doubt if Mussolini had not allied himself with Hitler, Italy would be again the greatest nation in Europe, perhaps the world. I had not yet completely formalised my ideas at that point. My gut feelings told me what my mind tells me now. Those last glimpses of Röhm as he went to his death, the knowledge of what had been done to Strasser and the others, had all educated my heart, teaching me to trust no one in Germany. Even this personable Prussian with his aristocratic manners could be a Nazi sympathiser. Until I was safely out of the country, I would keep my ideas to myself. Another lesson I had learned in prison.

Herr Stross, as he introduced himself, was himself somewhat circumspect about both the Chancellor and Il Duce. I suspected he was of a liberal, perhaps faintly socialist, persuasion. The present atmosphere in Munich could not be very appealing to him. At length he opened a day-old copy of Le Figaro and began to read. After a while, when the steward came to offer refreshments, I asked if I might borrow the paper. He passed it over with an apology for its age. He had received it from a friend in from Strassburg. He had discovered one could no longer buy most foreign papers in Munich. All part, he supposed, of the government’s attempt to stimulate German internal trade. ’German goods for German patriots, as they say.’ He smiled and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of caramel cake. As the steward sliced the cake for him, he asked if I thought the new economic policies would save the country.

I had only read the VB, which, of course, was wholly behind the German Chancellor. Still cautious, I echoed the editorials I had read, evidently to my companion’s boredom. He found it hard to concentrate on my remarks.

Later we took dinner together in the restaurant car. Outside it grew dark. We passed through summer mountains. Some of the trees were already turning gold. Settled among them, little picturesque towns and villages raced past. The steady progress of the train, the wine with the meal and the brandy afterwards, relaxed us both. We became more free in our conversation and had begun to exchange jokes by the time we got back to the compartment where Herr Stross offered me an excellent cigar. As southern Germany went by, a blur of velvet and diamonds, he told me of his family, his married sister who now lived in Wisconsin, his parents who themselves had so longed to emigrate, but were now too old. I spoke of my own childhood, transferring my past to Chicago and Wilmington, describing how I had been schooled privately, by friends of my mother, and had then been fortunate enough to get a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, where I received my masters in science at an early age. Then I volunteered to fight in the War as a flyer, but not through any dislike of Germany. I had known an enthusiasm for airships and planes from youth. I had chiefly joined because I had lost my childhood sweetheart, my greatest support, encouraging me in everything. My inventions had been originally for her, Esmé. I had flown my first makeshift plane only a few years after the Wrights had flown theirs! The machine had been ahead of its time. One used one’s body as the airframe. I had another similar design I was currently working on. I told him a little about my one-man airship, describing some of my other inventions to him until, looking at his watch, he remarked we would soon be at the border.

When Herr Stross excused himself and went down the corridor to the WC, I took advantage of his absence to pull down the blinds and sniff a little ‘coca’. It had been some time since I had felt so happy in the company of a fellow spirit.

In a while Herr Stross returned and removed his passport from his bag. He had seen the customs and immigration people a few compartments away, he said. I readied my own passport.

A few minutes later the door opened. Two smartly uniformed officials, wearing swastika armbands, appeared at our door and saluted.

I told myself that I was imagining that they were looking suspiciously at me. With a display of confidence, I smiled up at them, presenting my papers.