Paving the New Road (34 page)

Beimler had, of course, escaped the camp, but Heinrich had been released, ransomed somehow by moneyed friends. Egon Kisch, too, had been imprisoned, though at a place called Spandau, in Berlin, and then deported to his native Czechoslovakia. A journalist by profession, he had returned to Germany illicitly to report on what he called the daily atrocities of the Nazi regime. Beimler and Heinrich spoke of the work details, the brutality and the daily humiliations of the Dachau camp … and the men who were still incarcerated there.

“Is it just the Communists they’ve imprisoned?” Rowland asked. He had forgotten now that they were themselves prisoners.

Kisch shook his head. “Most are Communists, Social Democrats or trade unionists, but there are also Jehovah’s Witnesses. Their religious beliefs preclude them from swearing allegiance to the Fatherland, you see. There are some gypsies—gypsies are classed as asocial—a few indiscreet Freemasons and anyone who speaks against the Nazis.”

“Surely the law does not allow them to hold people on such grounds?”

“We are taken into protective custody in the interest of public security and order,” Beimler said bitterly. “We are suspected of activities inimical to the State.” He laughed, leaning over to Rowland. “That, my friend, is true. My activities oppose the Reich, my heart
opposes the Reich. We begin with Hitler a steady march towards our own destruction.”

“Sadly,” Kisch added, “many Germans are too distracted by parades and uniforms to realise that our country is being wrested from us. We are cheering the man who enslaves us while the world watches on admiringly.”

Nearly an hour passed before Eisen returned and told them to go.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Rowland said, as he and Clyde climbed back into the Mercedes.

“And you,” Kisch said gravely. “I fear that our fight will become more than a German one. The fascists are not just here.”

Eisen followed them back to Richter’s house in Schellingstrasse in what appeared to be an old baker’s van. He waited just beyond the driveway. They heard the van start again only when porch lights came on and the door was opened.

The relief was apparent on the faces of Milton and Edna as they entered.

Even Richter rose enthusiastically. “
Danke Gott
, you have returned.”

“Yes … sorry …” Rowland hesitated, unsure of how much they’d told their host.

“I was about to telephone Himmler,” Richter declared. “How dare those SA thugs use you and Herr Ryan as a taxi service! And to detain you so long! It is unacceptable … unacceptable.”

“Actually, the poor fellow didn’t detain us,” Rowland said, glancing quickly at Clyde. “I’m afraid we took a wrong turn on the way back and found ourselves lost.”

Richter frowned. “Miss Greenway was very concerned.” He wagged his finger. “You have worried her.”

“Don’t scold them, Alois,” Edna said, rubbing Richter’s arm. “They couldn’t help getting lost.”

Richter looked at her and smiled. “Of course,
mein Kind
.” He patted her hand. “I am sorry, gentlemen. I am a foolish old man who can’t bear to see Miss Greenway distressed.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Edna said laughing. “I barely cared at all!”

“We’re sorry, Millie,” Clyde said. “I told Robbie to turn left but he just won’t take directions.”

Rowland opened his eyes, unsure if he had actually heard or just imagined the soft click of the door handle. He rolled over towards the sound though he could see almost nothing in the darkness.

A whisper. “Rowly?”

He sat up. His eyes adjusted quickly and he could make out the familiar silhouette. “Ed.”

Edna closed the door behind her.

Rowland waited until she’d made her way over to his bed. He was a little surprised, but not unduly alarmed. Edna lived with him. The four of them had some time ago, fallen into a familial informality with respect to each other. Back in Sydney, Edna often wandered into their rooms in the middle of the night to talk about some matter that couldn’t wait till morning. They were not scandalised by the sight of each other in pyjamas. But still, Edna usually conducted herself properly when they were guests elsewhere.

“What are you doing here?” He pulled at the curtain which cloaked the window above his bed, allowing the moon to cast Edna in colourless light.

“I want to know what really happened today. I presume it’s something you don’t want Alois to know.”

Rowland nodded. Richter had been home that evening and they had been unable to talk alone.

“You’re cold,” he said, noticing that she was shivering. He got out of bed and, slipping on his robe, pulled up a chair for himself, so that she could climb under the bedcovers. In whispers he told her of Beimler, of what they had done to ensure his escape, and of Frank Heinrich, Egon Kisch and the Communists hiding in the factory attic.

She listened, hugging the quilted bedclothes around her. “They wanted to shoot you?” she breathed, aghast.

“I think that Eisen fellow is just a bit of a hothead,” he said, on reflection, “though I can’t say I’d blame them for doing whatever necessary to stay out of Dachau.”

“What will they do? How long can they possibly hide?”

“I suppose they’ll get out of the country … They didn’t really tell us. Understandably, they’re a mite paranoid.”

“Alois was dreadfully upset when he heard you went with the SA. He was so worried, it made me scared.”

He smiled. “There were two of us, Ed, and Beimler was alone … initially, at least. Richter’s probably right to be worried about the SA … but Beimler wasn’t SA, as it turns out.”

“It was more than that. Alois was really distressed.”

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. He trusted Edna’s instincts. “You suspect there’s more to it?”

“I’m worried about him, Rowly. He seems scared.” She had stopped shivering now and she let her hands emerge from under the covers. “If we come to the attention of the authorities, he might be in a lot of trouble for harbouring us. He could lose his business … What if they send him to Dachau?”

Rowland stared at the sculptress. She was right. They had entered into this knowingly and willingly. Richter was just a
bystander, but if their plans went wrong he could be more than ruined. “We should leave.”

“Germany?”

“No—we can’t leave Munich until Eric Campbell does. But we could go back to the Vier Jahreszeiten.”

“That would hurt him terribly, Rowly. He’s become so fond of us.”

“He’ll have to face it someday. You’re not his daughter, Ed.”

Edna laughed softly. “He does remind me of Papa, though Papa never made such a ridiculous fuss of me.” She lowered her pitch to mimic her father’s, which was not easy while speaking in a half-whisper. “’Pretty is as pretty does my girl. Empires were not built by silly young things in fashionable frocks.’”

“Selwyn wanted you to build an empire?” Rowland asked, bemused. He’d always found Edna’s father eccentric, but the expectation seemed unreasonable even for him.

“I believe he must have been teaching ancient Rome at the time,” Edna giggled. Selwyn Higgins lectured in Classics at the University of Sydney. “Poor Papa’s always wanted me to fulfil my mother’s potential, to be the artist Mama might have been if she hadn’t married him.”

“But your mother was happy with Selwyn, wasn’t she, Ed?” Rowland asked wistfully.

Edna stopped. She bit her lip and shook her head. “Oh, Rowly, I thought Milt had told you.”

“Told me …”

“How my mother died. She took her life when I was thirteen.”

Rowland stopped breathing for a moment. Milton hadn’t told him. Of course, Rowland had known Edna’s mother had passed away, but the sculptress had never before spoken of the manner of her death.

“My God, Ed, I’m sorry.” He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to hold her, but aware that she was in his bed, he refrained. Instead, he took her hand in both of his, and kissed it.

“I thought you knew, Rowly—I wasn’t keeping it from you.” Somehow her laugh was sadder than tears. “Who would have thought Milt was so discreet?”

Rowland said nothing, not sure what he could say. He had always admired Edna’s independence, as much as he wished she would forsake it for him. It was a part of her vibrancy, the indomitable spirit which had bewitched him from the first. Her commitment to freedom had always appeared joyous. She laughed off the devotion she inspired, danced away from proposals of marriage like some merry, seductive nymph, and yet now it seemed there was tragedy at the core of the liberty she cherished.

It was Edna who broke the silence. “Don’t feel badly for me, Rowly. It was a long time ago. I don’t want to think about Mama right now. Can we not talk about it for a while?”

“Of course.”

“We have to do something to protect Alois,” Edna continued, turning her mind determinedly from her mother. “Something other than going back to the Vier Jahreszeiten. It would hurt him too deeply.”

“I don’t see what else we can do.”

“Can’t we make Campbell leave? Then we can go home before the authorities notice us and without upsetting Alois.”

Rowland dragged a hand through his hair and regarded her dubiously. “How exactly are we supposed to make Campbell leave, Ed?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t you talk to Mr. Blanshard? You’ve done everything he’s asked … He probably wants to go home too.”

“I can’t imagine Blanshard having a home, to tell you the truth. He’s not really a family dinner sort of chap.”

“Rowly … please.”

He looked at her. Rowland could see that she was really frightened for Richter; conflicted by the possible consequences of what they were doing. He felt ashamed that it had not even occurred to him. Edna was right. They had had no business dragging Richter into this and, now that they had, they would have to ensure that he was not going to suffer for it. “Do you think Richter has any idea we are not who we say we are?”

“I do wonder sometimes,” she said. “Rowly, I know what we’re doing is important, but let’s face it, we don’t really know what we’re doing. I’m just afraid we’re going to leave Alois in a terrible mess.” She took Rowland’s hand. “Speak to Mr. Blanshard … please, Rowly.”

Rowland smiled. He wondered if she was aware that he was unable to refuse her anything. If she’d asked him for the moon, he would try to pull it from the sky. “I shall speak to Blanshard,” he promised. “Don’t worry about Richter … we’ll make sure he’s all right even if we have to take him and that bloody dog back to Sydney with us.”

Edna laughed quietly. “I wonder what Lenin would make of poor Stasi.”

Rowland’s brow rose as he considered it. “I fear Len may try to eat him.”

They talked long into that night, and though neither mentioned Edna’s mother again there was a new closeness to their conversation, an understanding where there had only been acceptance before. When she eventually returned to her own room, Rowland lay awake, conscious of the faint, lingering smell of rose perfume on the sheets.

27

The function of the so-called liberal Press was to dig the grave for the German people and the Reich. No mention need be made of the lying Marxist Press. To them the spreading of falsehood is as much a vital necessity as the mouse is to a cat. Their sole task is to break the national backbone of the people, thus preparing the nation to become the slaves of international finance and its masters, the Jews …

Certainly in days to come the Jews will raise a tremendous cry throughout their newspapers once a hand is laid on their favourite nest, once a move is made to put an end to this scandalous Press and once this instrument which shapes public opinion is brought under State control and no longer left in the hands of aliens and enemies of the people. I am certain that this will be easier for us than it was for our fathers. The scream of the twelve-inch shrapnel is more penetrating than the hiss from a thousand Jewish newspaper vipers. Therefore let them go on with their hissing.

Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf

R
owland’s next conversation with Alastair Blanshard was more tense than usual. For one thing, Blanshard was irritated by the fact that Rowland had demanded the meeting as a matter of urgency. The agent was at pains to clarify the nature of their relationship.