Paving the New Road (41 page)

… It seemed a good opportunity so I asked him [Putzi Hanfstaengl] why the Nazi Party were so bitterly opposed to the Jews. His answer was surprising.

“We do not interfere with Jews. You have been around Berlin? Yes? Well you would have seen plenty of Jews with big shops looking fat and happy. I tell you, if Hitler did not want any Jews in Berlin, it would be all over in twenty minutes including the burial service.” He then burst into laughter the way Germans so often do.

As I was taking my leave, three men came into Putzi’s room and I was introduced. They were Ribbentrop, Alfred Rosenberg and a Major Schmidt. The latter spoke English with a strong American accent …

Eric Campbell, The Rallying Point, 1965

R
owland stopped in his tracks. Ahead of him was the parterre which ran down the centre of the park. It was here he had arranged to meet Blanshard. But the agent was not alone.

Alastair Blanshard stood with his hat in his hand, in conversation with a tall blonde in a herringbone skirt. Unity Mitford.

Rowland’s impulse was to turn on his heel and walk away, but it was too late.

Unity waved, her long arm flailing in a wide, excited arc. “Kanga!
Why, it’s Kanga Negus!” She ran over to him dragging Blanshard with her.

“Hullo there.” She smiled broadly. “I say, it must be my day for bumping into people. First Biddles Blanshard and now you!”

“Miss Mitford,” Rowland said, forcing himself to smile. He offered Blanshard his hand. “Robert Negus, Mr. Blanshard. How do you do?”

Blanshard, apparently relieved that Rowland did not feel the need to call him “Biddles”, responded in kind. Rowland turned back to Unity as he checked his watch. “What a surprise to find you here, Miss Mitford. I would have expected you—”

“To be at the Osteria?” she finished for him. “Not today. Mr. Hitler is in Berlin today … as is Mr. Campbell.” She burst into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

Rowland watched on uncertainly. The woman was quite mad.

Blanshard cleared his throat. “Are you acquainted with Colonel Campbell, Mr. Negus?”

“I know of him …” Rowland replied, bewildered as to where the conversation was going.

“Well, it appears Miss Mitford has played a rather amusing prank on Colonel Campbell.”

Unity slapped Blanshard’s arm. “No … stop!” she gasped, trying to control her laughter. “You must let me tell it … it’s just too much.” She hooked one arm through Rowland’s and the other through Blanshard’s. “Shall we walk? It’ll help me control myself …” She giggled again.

And so they strolled down the parterre.

Unity did nothing but giggle for a while, and then finally she began to explain her extraordinary mirth.

“I was speaking to my friend Putzi Hanfstaengl … that’s his real name, by the way; it’s so ridiculous I can’t call him anything
else. Anyway, I was telling Putzi ’bout Colonel Campbell and, you know,”—she lowered her voice to a scandalised whisper—“
his mother
. Of course, Putzi was as outraged as I that Campbell would presume to form an association with our beloved Mr. Hitler and we thought how jolly it would be if we could make him think he’d actually met someone important … They’re like that, the Jews, always trying to insinuate themselves with their betters.”

“Do you play poker, Mr. Negus?” Blanshard said loudly, glancing at Rowland over the top of Unity’s head.

“What has that got to do with anything, Biddles?” Unity said, looking at Blanshard.

Rowland took heed and tried to relax his face. Apparently his distaste was showing.

“Nothing at all, Miss Mitford … I do beg your pardon,” Blanshard apologised. “Do go on.”

“Well, Putzi—he’s the Chancellor’s secretary or some such thing—invited Colonel Campbell up to Berlin to meet Mr. Hitler at the Chancellery. As you would expect, Colonel Campbell was tremendously pleased and accepted most enthusiastically.”

Rowland looked at her with growing disquiet. Was everything they had done to keep Campbell away from Nazis of note about to be undermined by this idiotic English woman?

“But of course he won’t actually see Mr. Hitler … who, Putzi will tell him, has been called away at the last moment. Instead, Putzi will introduce him to Mr. Von Ribbentrop, Mr. Rosenberg and Major Schmidt. Only it won’t be Mr. Von Ribbentrop, Mr. Rosenberg or Major Schmidt …. but two office boys and an American friend of Putzi’s, all dressed up!” Unity positively screeched with laughter. Indeed, if her arms had not been firmly entwined with her
companions’ she might have collapsed with hilarity at what seemed to Rowland a somewhat bizarre joke.

“I take it that Mr. Hanfstaengl’s American friend speaks German?” Rowland asked.

“No … not at all! He just wanted to be part of the joke. I’ll say this for Americans, they’re always ready for a lark. Putzi’s going to dress an American in an SS uniform and tell Colonel Campbell that he’s an important Nazi. Oh, how we laughed planning it!”

It did occur to Rowland that Unity Mitford and Hanfstaengl might just have orchestrated the meeting that would allow Campbell to leave Germany satisfied that he had met enough significant Nazis to justify his trip.

Blanshard too, did not look displeased. The agent took a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and, after consulting it, shook his head with a studied show of regret. “As much as I’d like to stay, I’m afraid I have a previous engagement, so if you’ll excuse me, Miss Mitford, I’ll have to leave Mr. Negus to walk you back to your hotel.”

Unity wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “Don’t mention it, Biddles. Kanga and I will carry on.”

Rowland glared at Blanshard, infuriated by this last act of bastardry. The man was capable of anything.

Blanshard smiled, looking amused for the first time. “Let me give you my card, Mr. Negus. No doubt you’ll wish to write to me with thanks for facilitating this time with the charming Miss Mitford.” He handed Rowland a calling card.

“Oh, Biddles, you do go on!” Unity smiled coyly. “Mr. Negus is well aware that I am spoken for.”

“A man can but try,” Blanshard said, tipping his hat as he left them to it.

Rowland glanced at the card before slipping it into his pocket. Scribbled in pencil on the underside was “Back Wednesday”.

When he looked up again, Unity Mitford was studying him. “Do you want to do something a little bit naughty, Kanga?”

Rowland just wanted to leave.

She pulled at his arm. “Come on, then, we’ll have a smashing time!”

“I’m afraid I—”

“It won’t take terribly long,” she interrupted. “You simply must come … I shall be most put out if you don’t.” She folded her arms and pouted.

“Where exactly do you wish me to accompany you, Miss Mitford?”

“To the stadium at the end of Wilhelmstrasse. I want you to see why Germany is going to become the greatest nation in the world.”

Rowland relaxed. A stadium. The Nazis had a fondness for epic, classical architecture. He relented.

They took a motor cab to Wilhelmstrasse, which was located outside the central business district. The stadium he saw as they approached was not particularly spectacular. Hardly worthy of the hyperbole of Unity’s description.

They alighted near the entrance and Rowland paid the driver, who Unity instructed not to wait.

The main entrance to the stadium was shut, guarded by two SA officers who stood talking about their plans for the evening and smoking.

“This way,” Unity said, hooking her arm through Rowland’s and pulling him away as if they intended to stroll about the outside perimeter of the stadium. About two hundred feet from the entrance was another door … small and unassuming, obviously a service or utility access of some sort.

“The lock is rusted,” Unity whispered. “If you give it a decent push, it’ll open. Putzi showed me a week ago.”

Rowland stepped up to the door and shouldered it sharply. As Unity had predicted, it gave and opened.

“Quick, before anyone sees us.” Unity pushed past Rowland and into the stairwell on the other side of the door. Rowland closed the door behind them. The stairs were dark and narrow and smelled of mildew. They came up between the rows of tiered seating which surrounded the grassed oval of the stadium.

“Stay down,” Unity warned, as they slipped into the wooden seats.

Rowland wasn’t listening to her, staring instead at the thousands of men parading on the oval in perfect formation. They wore the brown trousers and boots of the SA, but their upper bodies were bare.

“What the devil are they doing?” he murmured.

“They’re practising for the victory rally in Nuremberg at the end of August,” Unity said, squirming in delight. “Aren’t they simply magnificent? A breathtaking display of Aryan manhood.”

Rowland’s brow rose. “And will Aryan womanhood be similarly displayed?”

“The girls league does a gymnastics show, I believe,” Unity said dismissively. Clearly the women did not interest her.

They watched for several minutes, Unity pointing out the precision, the discipline and the sheer beauty of so many honed male bodies moving in concert. Rowland found it interesting, though the performance of military manoeuvres while half-naked seemed a little odd.

The lines of men goosestepped, eight abreast, past the empty grandstand, perfecting a precisely timed fascist salute while maintaining the rhythm of the straight-legged stride. Rowland
wondered for a moment what had possessed the Germans to adopt the goosestep as a method of marching. Surely it was not a sensible way to move troops from one point to another? He remembered Richter’s threat to interfere with the trousers of the SA uniform. It would explain the goosestep, he supposed.

“It is a demonstration of Aryan superiority,” Unity explained, when he suggested the parade might look better if the SA had not forgotten to get dressed. “Mr. Hitler is adamant that the body must be exercised and ready to serve the Fatherland.”

The parade now stood in perfectly spaced lines and rows, and in unison began to sing. Rowland frowned. Campbell’s New Guard had also been fond of parading. He had seen several thousand New Guardsmen drill in a farm paddock the previous year. They had been less polished, and completely dressed, but the show of potential force was similar.

“We’d better go before someone notices us and asks awkward questions,” Rowland said firmly.

Unity sighed. “You really are a bit of a bore, Kanga.”

He did not reply, moving so that she had little choice but to be ushered back into the stairwell, and out of the stadium.

Unity Mitford chatted loudly about the shirtless display, giggling in a manner that irritated him to distraction. She pointed out the features of Rowland’s face that she was sure were indicative of his Aryan breeding. “Your eyes are very blue, Kanga. It’s rather a shame you’re not blond, really.”

Rowland hailed a motor cab, relieved when it pulled up. He gave the driver the name of the young Englishwoman’s hotel and ample fare to take her back.

Unity farewelled Rowland with the fascist salute, shouting “Heil Hitler!” at a volume that made him wince, and then lamented that
he was not free to take her to dinner that evening. It seemed she was completely unaware that he would gladly have done anything to get away.

Rowland walked back to Schellingstrasse. It was not a trivial distance and it had started to drizzle, but he needed to think. So far, all he had been able to discover about Bothwell’s death was that it was probably not an accident. The actress Anna Niemann seemed to have disappeared and for some reason all her belongings had been claimed by Blanshard. Rowland wondered about the book Bothwell had been writing … the one about which he’d spoken to Nancy Wake. Could he have been killed to prevent its revelations? If so, was it just Röhm who stood to be exposed? Suddenly, it occurred to him that perhaps the manuscript was among the papers in Bothwell’s trunk. He had never opened it.

Rowland was, by the time he reached Schellingstrasse, soaked and quite chilled by the cold, mist-like rain. Even so, he called in at Hoffman’s Studio to check on Eva, rather than walking on towards home. It had now been a few days since she’d arrived at Richter’s in tears, and left with the portrait he’d painted. He hoped the absence meant that she was happy.

Eva smiled delightedly when he walked in. “
Grüss Gott
, Robbie. What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing by,” he replied. “I thought I’d say hello. We haven’t seen you in a while.”

Eva sighed and rolled her eyes. “My sister,” she said. “It’s difficult to get away without her questions.”

“And Herr Wolf?”

Her face fell. “He has business away. I have not even been able to give him your beautiful painting.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t—” Rowland stopped as Eva stiffened, startled.

“Of course, Herr Negus,” she said loudly. “We do sell official prints of the Chancellor. How many would you like?”

Rowland turned. A tall thin man stood at the door into the studio proper. His face was long and severe, his hair combed tightly back from a receding hairline.

“I’d better take two of the most recent,” Rowland said, guessing that the man was Hoffman, Eva’s employer and Hitler’s personal photographer.

Hoffman strode over to stand at the counter beside Eva. “I will serve this gentleman, Fräulein Eva,” he said. “There are some accounts that need filing in the office.”

Eva nodded. “Of course, Herr Hoffman.” She paused at the door to glance hesitantly at Rowland before she left them alone.

Hoffman silently placed the photographs into embossed folders before slipping them into envelopes and handing them over the counter. “Will you be staying in Munich much longer, Herr Negus?” he asked coldly, as he took payment from Rowland.

“Sadly not, Herr Hoffman,” Rowland replied. “I shall be sorry to leave.”

“Sometimes it is best to go without delay.”

“Indeed.”

For a moment longer than necessary they eyed each other, and then Rowland tipped his hat to the photographer and left.

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