Paving the New Road (43 page)

The Bismarck was only a five-minute walk away and so it was not long before Rowland returned with Nancy Wake. On the way back he had apprised her of the unexpected addition to their party.

“He came all the way from Vienna by himself?” Nancy asked, shocked.

“The little scamp was probably stowed away on the
Orient Express
when we first came over. He seems a rather resourceful chap.”

“But he’s just a child.”

“He is.” Rowland shook his head. “It appears the poor lad’s been in Munich all this time, entirely on his own.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t come to the attention of the SA before now,” Nancy said. “The gypsies have always been blamed for the petty crime that occurred in Munich. And the Nazis pledged to restore law and order.”

“It would be just like the SA to do so by bullying a child,” Rowland said tersely.

“If you can get him back to Vienna, at least he’ll be safe,” Nancy replied.

When they walked into the restaurant, young Sasha was devouring sausage. Although he was no longer trying to fit as much into his mouth as possible, he hunched over the food as if he were afraid it would escape. Edna had somehow managed to procure a large glass of milk for him as well. She stroked his hair and observed as he ate, entirely ignoring Milton, who was making purring sounds.

“How long has it been since you last ate something, Sasha?” Rowland asked, as he sat down.

Unwilling to stop chewing, the boy held up five fingers.

“What are we going to do with him?” Clyde asked. “We can’t leave him on his own.”

Rowland studied Sasha for a moment. The child could not have been ten. “We’ll have to take him back to Richter’s until we determine a way to send him back to his mother.”

“What are we going to tell Richter?”

“That we found a little boy who needs help,” Edna said firmly. “Alois is too kind not to be glad. He’ll understand that we couldn’t just leave him to the SA.”

And so it was agreed. They did not question the boy further, allowing him to eat as they spoke with Nancy Wake.

The young journalist was excited. “Colonel Campbell returns from Berlin today,” she said. “I have an appointment to interview him tomorrow afternoon.” She took an envelope out of her handbag. “My friend from the
Guardian
helped me mock these up,” she said, showing them what appeared to be media despatches from Australian correspondents.

Milton scanned through them. He laughed suddenly. “Look at this, Rowly,” he said, sliding the sheaf across the table.

Rowland’s eyes moved quickly over the page. “De Groot? By George, that’s brilliant!” He looked up at Nancy, who laughed proudly. “Campbell will completely lose his rag if thinks De Groot is staging a coup.”

Captain Francis De Groot was Eric Campbell’s deputy of sorts. A slight, retiring man, who had, by a single act the previous year, gained a notoriety that eclipsed that of his media-courting Commander-in-Chief. During the official opening of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, De Groot had charged in on horseback and slashed the ribbon ahead of the then Premier of New South Wales. Overnight, he had become a hero of the right wing and Rowland suspected the fact irked Campbell.

They spent the afternoon going through the questions Nancy had prepared, making suggestions and laughing as they anticipated Campbell’s reaction. They spoke in English so Sasha could understand none of it. They kept him distracted for a while with food. When he’d eaten more than seemed humanly possible for such a small boy, he curled up on the bench and slept. They let him be. Every now and then Edna reached over and patted the boy.

34

ART PILLORY

A NAZI SHOW

BY ELLA A. DOYLE

(of Sydney, writing from Munich)

There are two specimens of Dadaism — framed compositions of bits of wire-netting and string and galvanised wire and linoleum and post-cards.

Underneath every picture in the exhibition the price paid for it is given, together with the name of the gallery which bought it, and on a red placard in white lettering one reads “Paid for out of the taxes imposed on the German workers!”

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1937

A
lois Richter had not yet returned from the business which had taken him temporarily out of Munich, and so Rowland was forced to explain Sasha to Mrs. Schuler. The housekeeper was clearly unhappy and not predisposed to making the boy welcome.

“He can sleep on the chaise lounge in my bedroom,” Rowland said, when she moved to assign the child to the servants’ quarters under her charge. “It’s only for a night or two, until we can get him back to his mother.”

“Very well, Herr Negus.” She glared at Sasha. “I have counted
the silverware,” she said, wagging her finger at the boy. “I know
everything
in this house. If anything is so much as moved one inch, I will know!”

“He is not a thief, Frau Schuler,” Rowland lied. “You need not worry.”

They took charge of Sasha themselves, seeing that he was fed once more, and bathed. Mrs. Schuler burned the ragged clothes, insisting that they were infested with parasites, and so one of Milton’s shirts served to clothe the boy as an interim measure. Rowland bypassed the housekeeper and sent one of the housemaids to procure some clothes for the child. When Sasha had been settled under blankets on the chaise lounge in Rowland’s room, Edna braved Mrs. Schuler’s hostility, venturing into the kitchen and returning triumphantly with milk.

Rowland spoke to the boy again. No longer afraid of them, Sasha answered his questions.

“What are we going to do with the cheeky blighter?” Milton asked finally, falling back on Rowland’s bed. “We can’t very well just put him on a train.”

Rowland loosened his tie. “Ed, that Dadaist chap—von Eidelsohn—has he left yet?”

“For Austria? Hans is going tomorrow or the day after … He didn’t want me to see him off,” Edna replied.

“Of course, he wouldn’t,” Rowland said, glancing at the sculptress. The presence of Edna could well undermine both the will and the ability of any man to leave with dignity. “But we might have to go see him tonight, regardless. He could take Sasha back to Vienna with him and see that the boy’s returned to his family.”

Milton sat up. “That could work.”

Rowland grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. “Right then—Ed and I will go speak with him now. You two best stay here and protect the poor little chap from that Schuler woman.”

Hans von Eidelsohn was living in his studio. His work and equipment had already been packed and shipped and all that remained in the generous space was an iron bed and a large suitcase. Given the lateness of the hour he answered their knock cautiously, looking out through a barely cracked door before admitting them. Clearly bewildered, he greeted Rowland with his eyes on Edna. He kissed her hand tenderly and then both cheeks, embracing her as he did so. Rowland cleared his throat.

Edna told him why they had come.

Von Eidelsohn seemed to collapse a little. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” he stammered. “I hoped that you had decided to come with me.”

“Oh, Hans,” Edna said softly. “That is just not possible.”

Rowland stared out of the uncurtained window, giving them what privacy he could. He had no wish to witness any sign of intimacy between the two, in any case. It was how Rowland had always borne his regard for Edna.

It was perhaps because he was looking so determinedly at the street outside the studio that he saw them: a fleeting glimpse as the men walked through the edges of the yellow cast of a streetlight. Stormtroopers.

“Mr. von Eidelsohn,” he asked, without turning from the window. “Are you aware that you are being watched?”

Von Eidelsohn was startled, releasing Edna quickly to switch off the studio’s solitary lamp. Rowland waited until the artist was
standing beside him before he pointed out the figures of the men who stood across the street and the commercial van parked a few buildings away.

“
Meine liebe Gott
,” von Eidelsöhn said grimly. “I have not seen them before.”

“Have you ever looked?” Rowland asked, wondering if the surveillance had just begun or whether von Eidelsohn was not particularly observant.

“I have not,” von Eidelsohn admitted. He smiled wryly. “I suppose it is a compliment to be considered so subversive.”

“But why?” Edna asked, pressing her face to the window pane. “What have you done?”

“My work,” von Eidelsohn replied. “Dictatorship and oppression rely on a conspiracy of society and tradition. My art challenges the apathy of the masses.”

Rowland’s brow twitched upwards. Apathy-challenging was not the way Clyde had described von Eidelsohn’s work, but then surely the SA were not vigilante art critics. Perhaps they had read some political message into the piles of old hats and empty pails.

“What do you think they’re up to, Robbie?” Edna asked.

“I don’t know.” Rowland frowned. “Perhaps they’re just making sure Mr. von Eidelsohn leaves … or taking note of who visits him …” He glanced at the suitcase and addressed the artist. “Is that all you have?”

“Yes, I’m catching the train to Vienna tomorrow. The rest of my things have been sent on already.”

“Perhaps you should leave with us … Is there a back way to this place?”

“Yes, there’s an alley from the street behind. It’s a little awkward …”

“We’ll leave that way, then, and hail a motor cab a couple of streets away. I’ll come back for the car tomorrow when you and Sasha are safely on the train.”

Von Eidelsohn looked at them, alarmed. “Do you think it’s really necessary?”

Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m inclined to be cautious.”

“Very well.” Von Eidelsohn fumbled about the dark room, throwing a few last items into the suitcase and making up the bed, ensuring the covers were taut and smooth.

Rowland thought the last a little odd, but he let the man be. They were in no particular hurry, though he did wonder what the watching Brownshirts thought the three of them were doing up here in the dark.

When von Eidelsohn was finally ready, they slipped out of the apartment and onto a small balcony at the rear of the building. From there, von Eidelsohn tossed his suitcase onto the balcony of an adjoining building. There were about three feet between the two. Obviously well accustomed to using this exit, von Eidelsohn climbed onto the iron railing and leaped across. Edna removed her shoes. Rowland helped her up on the railing as she too prepared to jump. She glanced down and took a deep breath. He had not yet released her hand when she slipped.

Edna stifled a scream. It came out as a strangled gasp. Rowland held her with one hand. Her shoes clattered to the ground below. She looked up into Rowland’s face, fixed her gaze on his dark blue eyes and hoped he would not let her go. Rowland had no intention of doing so. He bent over the railing and secured her with his arm around her waist. For a moment they did not move, all straining for any sounds that the Stormtroopers at the front of the building
had heard, that they were coming to investigate. Rowland could feel Edna’s heart beating against him as he held her, his feet firmly on the balcony floor, hers in mid-air. There was nothing but the sounds of warring cats in the alley.

Now von Eidelsohn reached across and grabbed the sculptress. Edna put her arms around his neck. Rowland did not release her until he was certain von Eidelsohn’s grip was sure, and then he relinquished her to the German artist’s arms.

Von Eidelsohn dragged Edna onto the second balcony and embraced her silently.

Rowland stopped to catch his breath before he climbed onto the railing himself and jumped across.

Edna pulled away from von Eidelsohn and reached up to kiss Rowland’s cheek. “Thank you, Rowly,” she whispered.

He smiled. “We’d best go find your shoes,” he said.

They climbed down the narrow stairs into the alley, but in the darkness they found only one shoe.