Paving the New Road (13 page)

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FOR EVER ENGLAND, by General Seely: 8/6 (6d.)

The Argus, 1933

“P
oor old bloke should face facts and bury that wretched hound,” Clyde murmured, as they strolled down Schellingstrasse.

Edna shoved him, though she laughed. “Stasi is just a little lazy.”

“Lazy!” Clyde guffawed. “I’ve seen fur stoles show more signs of life!”

“Mr. Richter loves him, Clyde. Stasi keeps him company.”

“I suppose. Gotta admit, the hat had me worried for a while, but Richter’s not a bad bloke really.”

Rowland agreed. Richter had been a warm and generous host. He had shown them examples of the uniforms that his factories made for the Reich, pointing out the modifications that would be made if he were to have his way. Opening his best wine, he had pressed upon Rowland the keys to his house on the edge of Lake Starnberg, should they wish to use it.

“Perhaps we should have agreed to stay with him,” Edna sighed. “I don’t think Mrs. Schuler is great company.”

“We need to be at the Vier Jahreszeiten for this chap Blanshard to contact us,” Rowland said, trying to stem Edna’s compassion with practicalities. He suspected that Richter reminded Edna of her own father, who had a similar proclivity for ridiculous headgear.

They had, after taking an extended and lavish luncheon with Richter, decided to explore a little before returning to the hotel. And so they strolled down Schellingstrasse, enjoying the gothic façades and baroque architecture of Munich.

“Richter’s correct about one thing,” Clyde said, casting his eyes about the busy street, bustling with business and smartly dressed shoppers. “The Germans seem to be doing well under the National Socialists. I haven’t seen a beggar since we arrived.”

Rowland realised he was right. Perhaps they were not looking in the right places but the streets seemed devoid of the homeless and destitute who haunted many parts of Sydney. “It does seem positive.”

“Depends who you are, I expect,” Milton said, nodding towards a boarded shopfront. Its windows had been broken, vandalised. On
the door was scrawled the word “
Juden
”, in white paint. He thrust his hands into his pockets, his eyes hard.

Rowland stared silently at the abandoned premises. That the fascist government of Germany victimised Communists was no surprise, but the hostility towards Jews was harder to understand. It seemed to him bizarre and arbitrary. He glanced up at the sign above the shop. “Blumberg für Mensch” … a Jewish tailor … at one time, at least. Perhaps this too was why business was so good for men like Richter, who were allowed to prosper unmolested.

Edna entwined her arm in Milton’s and, quiet now, they walked on.

Rowland’s face was dark. Silently he berated himself for allowing his friends to come. He could have refused. Why didn’t he refuse? As much as Milton was probably the most untraditional Jew in the world, he was still Jewish. To expect him to witness this and hold his tongue was too much.

“Stop flogging yourself, Rowly.” Clyde and Rowland had fallen a few steps behind the others.

Rowland did not reply.

“Milt was determined to come … not just for you. We’d heard rumours through the Party—he wanted to see for himself.”

“So now he’s seen.”

“And we’re even gladder we came, Rowly. It’s important we don’t let Campbell take this home.”

“This would never happen back home,” Rowland murmured, with more optimism than conviction.

Clyde shrugged. “I hope not. I hope it’s just that the Germans are stupid or mad … but maybe they’re not, Rowly. Maybe, just maybe, Campbell could replicate this back home. If Lang hadn’t been sacked, how many more men would have joined Campbell and the New Guard?”

“But Lang was sacked,” Rowland replied. “All the hysteria seems to have subsided, thank God.”

Clyde extracted cigarette papers and a tobacco tin from his pocket. “You know what I think, Rowly?” he said as he tipped tobacco along a paper and rolled a cigarette. “I reckon that Campbell picked the wrong enemy. If Lang hadn’t been sacked he’d still have an army, still be leading a revolution. Over here he might just learn how to choose a new villain and create a new rallying point.” Clyde pointed his cigarette at a poster in a baker’s window. He couldn’t read it, but the sinister depiction of a misshapen money-lender with his foot on the neck of a weeping woman made its message obvious.

Rowland cursed.

Clyde lit his cigarette. “You know, I’ve seen a very similar drawing … on a New Guard poster, except it was Lang who was stepping on some hapless woman. As I said, Campbell just picked the wrong villain … he hasn’t got anybody to unite his fascist masses against anymore.”

Rowland glanced at Milton and Edna ahead of them. Milton was laughing now as the sculptress pulled him towards some shop.

He turned back to Clyde. “You make a lot of sense.”

Clyde grinned. “I tend to—you’d do well to remember that, old mate.”

Rowland laughed. “I shall try … I say, where did they go?”

“That shop, I think.”

The business was a photographic studio: Hoffman’s. Clyde and Rowland entered to find Edna trying to talk to the young blonde-haired assistant with the half-dozen words of German in her vocabulary. For a while they simply watched as the sculptress engaged in pantomime to ask whether Hoffman’s would develop the
film she had shot. Milton stood beside her, obviously amused and no help whatsoever. Eventually Rowland intervened, introducing himself and his companions in High German. “My friend would like to have some photographs developed, if that is a service your business provides.”

The shop assistant smiled warmly and responded. “I’m afraid we don’t, Herr Negus. Herr Hoffman provides a complete studio service … He is our beloved Chancellor’s personal photographer, you see. We develop only our own pictures.”

Rowland translated for Edna, who was visibly disappointed. “We shall have to wait till we get home.”

“I could develop the photographs for Fräulein Greenway on my day off, if you like,” the shop assistant volunteered. “I would hate to have to wait, myself.”

Rowland passed the offer on to Edna, who accepted gratefully, addressing the girl in English as Rowland translated. “I know I’m impatient but I usually do my own developing, you see, so I find waiting a trial.”

A conversation followed, for the sculptress had a talent for making friends which transcended language, and Rowland was, in any case, on hand to interpret. It was agreed that Edna would bring in her rolls of film, which the shop assistant, who introduced herself as Eva, would develop when next she had a chance. Eva was friendly and unreserved. She and Edna talked enthusiastically about photography, and the latest cameras and techniques. Her laugh was natural and easy.

Rowland gave Eva the card of Robert Negus the art dealer, on which he wrote the name of the Vier Jahreszeiten, where they could be reached. “
Dankeschön
, Fräulein Eva. We will see you again soon.”

“I will look forward to it, Herr Negus,” she replied, looking up at him with large china-blue eyes. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance … all of you.”

Rowland smiled. “And we you, Fräulein.”

When they finally returned to the Vier Jahreszeiten later that evening, there was a message waiting for Robert Negus.

Rowland opened the envelope as Milton tried to replicate gin-slings from the contents of the Ludwig suite’s drinks cabinet. It seemed that the poet had developed a fondness for Raffles’ signature cocktail.

“Is that from Mr. Blanshard, Rowly?” Edna asked, as she rummaged for the rolls of film she intended to have developed.

“Indeed it is,” Rowland confirmed. “I’m to meet him tomorrow morning at the Königsplatz.”

“How will you know him?”

“I won’t. Apparently I’m to carry a copy of last week’s
Der Stürmer
, and he’ll find me.”

“Just you, then?” Clyde grimaced as he tried the concoction Milton presented to him.

“At this stage.” He glanced at Milton, who was phoning down to the reception desk in search of pineapple. “It’s easier to be discreet on my own.”

Clyde chuckled. Edna flopped down on the settee beside Rowland.

“What’s the Stirmer?” she asked.

“
Der Stürmer
.” Rowland sighed. “It’s a filthy rag, put out by some deranged idiot. I don’t particularly like the idea of even carrying it around.”

“Well, where are you going to get a copy?”

“They’re everywhere, Ed. Sadly
Der Stürmer
is rather popular these days.”

Milton handed him a glass and sat down opposite. “Don’t worry about it, mate, just do what you have to.” He sipped the frothy cocktail of his own making, his face breaking into a broad and triumphant grin. “I must say, I’m a genius.”

Tentatively, Rowland tried the drink he’d been handed. It didn’t taste anything like the Singapore cocktail. He winced as it went down. “Good Lord, what did you use instead of pineapple?”

“Crème de menthe and peach schnapps … shall I mix you another?”

“I suspect the one might be enough to kill me.”

Rowland awoke the next morning with a headache. It didn’t surprise him. The evening had somehow turned into a series of attempts to replicate the gin-sling without pineapple. At the time it had seemed like a good idea.

He and Clyde had stumbled back to their own suite in the early hours of the morning. Now it was nearly nine. He was due at the Königsplatz by ten.

Rowland showered and shaved quickly. A bleary-eyed Clyde emerged as he was searching for an appropriate tie.

“Is it morning already?” Clyde groaned. Clearly the previous evening’s consumption had been generic in its effect. “He’s bloody well poisoned us,” he complained.

Rowland smiled, pointing to the tray of coffee he’d just had sent up. “That’ll help … or you could just go back to bed.”

“No,” Clyde sighed, reaching for the pot. “It’d hardly do for us all to be asleep while you go off to meet a spy.”

The conversation was interrupted by a knock. Rowland answered the door, as Clyde was still undressed.

“Good morning, Robbie!” Perhaps it was the after-effects of the alcohol, but Edna seemed dazzling that morning. Fresh, and so beautiful it was almost hard to look at her. Rowland stood back to let her in.

“I thought I had better make sure you were up,” she said, as he shut the door. She smiled. “You didn’t look so well when you left last night … oh Clyde, you poor thing!”

Having realised it was just Edna, Clyde returned to the coffee pot in his pyjamas. He grunted and poured.

“You look pretty, Ed,” Rowland murmured, as he knotted his tie in the sitting room mirror.

“Why thank you, Rowly,” Edna said, twirling to display the fullness of her skirt. “It’s a little exciting having a wardrobe full of clothes I’ve never seen before.”

“How’s Milt this morning?” Clyde asked.

“He was waxing his moustache when I left,” Edna replied, shaking her head and giggling. “He should be along in a minute.”

Rowland checked his watch. “I’d better get going. Are you going out? Shall I meet you all back here for lunch?”

Edna nodded. “Yes, do. I thought that since we’re supposed to be art dealers, the boys and I should be seen at a few galleries.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Rowland admitted. “I wish I could join you.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “Perhaps you should buy a few things. We’ll be rather unconvincing dealers if we don’t actually buy or sell anything.”