Paving the New Road (44 page)

“Leave it,” Edna decided. “We won’t be walking far.”

And so two men and a barefoot woman stepped out into the night. They walked several blocks. Occasionally, a passer-by did notice Edna’s naked feet, but other than a few disapproving glares they were unmolested. Rowland hailed the first motor cab he saw and directed the driver to Richter’s.

Mrs. Schuler was clearly livid. “I remind you, Herr Richter’s home is not a hotel,” she spat at Rowland, when they returned with yet another houseguest.

Fortunately their host had returned. “Frau Schuler,” Richter said pleasantly, “I will deal with this, thank you … Perhaps you could make up a bed for Herr von Eidelsohn in the room the gentlemen use as a studio.”

She sniffed and, glowering at Rowland, shuffled off to see to the request.

“Please forgive her, my young friends,” Richter said, pressing his palms together apologetically. “She has been looking after me for so many years.”

“Not at all,” Rowland replied. “We realise that we are imposing on your hospitality.”

Richter shook von Eidelsohn’s hand warmly. “You are very welcome, my boy. I am only sorry of the circumstances.” He looked sternly at Edna’s feet. “You will make yourself ill,
Leibchen.
The pavements are cold and dirty. I have already told one of the maids to draw you a bath.” And thus, with fatherly concern, he sent her off.

The gentlemen gathered in the drawing room to drink brandy.

“Stasi and I have missed much excitement, it seems,” Richter said, stroking the dog who, as always, seemed incapable of excitement. “Mr. Greenway and Mr. Ryan told me of your latest encounter with the SA. You acted wisely, gentlemen. It is not becoming for the State to bully children, however mischievous they may be.”

“I just hope Mr. von Eidelsohn will be able to find Sasha’s mother in Vienna,” Clyde said, as he swirled his brandy.

“My family is not without means and contacts in Austria,” von Eidelsohn said quietly. “I give you my word that I shall find the boy’s mother and until then I will see that he is well cared for.”

Rowland nodded, aware that the prefix “von” indicated some kind of aristocratic lineage. He assessed von Eidelsohn silently. The man was in love with Edna, but otherwise he had no reason to dislike him. Indeed, he could hardly blame von Eidelsohn for being enamoured of the sculptress. “Miss Greenway has become very fond of the boy,” he said.

Milton nodded gravely. “She thinks he’s a cat.”

Both Richter and von Eidelsohn looked strangely at the poet, but Milton simply smiled.

“Then whatever I can do for the boy will be a demonstration of my regard for Millicent,” von Eidelsohn declared sincerely and earnestly. “You can rest assured, Mr. Negus, that the boy will be well.”

“What about the SA?” Clyde asked. “If they’re following von Eidelsohn, perhaps we shouldn’t—”

“I will accompany you to the train myself,” Richter said firmly. “Röhm and his thugs will not bother you!”

Rowland glanced at his friends. They had not seen the SA outside the mansion since Richter had complained to Himmler. Perhaps the Reich’s tailor had more power than they thought.

“Righto, then,” Rowland said. “That’s the plan.”

“What’s the plan?” Edna came in at that moment. She had changed, her feet were once again clad, and she held onto the hand of the boy whose fate they were discussing. “Sasha woke up,” she said. “I thought I should bring him down to meet Alois and Hans.”

Richter spoke first, approaching the boy and speaking softly. Sasha climbed onto the couch beside Stasi, pressing his face against the glossy black coat. The dog moved one ear.

Rowland looked at the tailor curiously. “That wasn’t German.”

“I speak a little Romany,” Richter said. “Picked it up as a young man.”

Von Eidelsohn shook Sasha’s hand solemnly and explained in Bavarian that he would take him back to Vienna and his mother. The boy considered him for a moment and nodded.

Rowland was relieved. He wasn’t sure what they could have done if Sasha had refused to go, but as it was, the child seemed eager to return to his mother.

Richter played Wagner on the gramophone and summoned Mrs. Schuler, asking the housekeeper to bring sweets for the boy. Edna reminded her to also bring milk.

Von Eidelsohn asked Sasha about his family, where they had last stopped their caravans. The child answered with directions that seemed familiar to the artist. Sasha’s father had crossed the border on some sort of business, which Rowland assumed was not entirely legal. He had fallen foul of the SA, and been sent to Dachau.

Richter put his arm around the boy and spoke to him in Romany. Rowland could not understand, of course, but Sasha seemed to respond to the gentle tailor.

Von Eidelsohn came over to where Rowland stood by the mantel. He spoke German. “Your friend Herr Richter is very kind,” he said. “Many Germans these days have forgotten what it is to be kind.”

Rowland nodded. “He’s a good man.”

“I have asked Millicent to be my wife.”

Rowland nearly choked on his brandy. “I see.”

“She has refused me.”

The silence stretched awkwardly. Rowland wasn’t sure if the man was looking to him for some kind of commiseration. It really wasn’t something he could give with any sincerity. He tried. “Fräulein Greenway has always known what she wants.”

“Sadly, it is not me.”

Rowland smiled faintly. “In that you are not alone, Herr von Eidelsohn.”

Von Eidelsohn seemed to find some camaraderie in that. He remained at the mantel with Rowland, looking idly at the framed photographs which stood upon it. He stopped, staring closely and long at the picture of Richter’s wife and child. “You know,” he said, “I’m sure I know this lady … I just cannot remember from where.”

“That was Frau Richter.”

“Was?”

“She’s passed away I believe.”

“Oh I am sorry. I do wish I could place her … it’ll come to me …”

“
Du liebe Zeit!
It is nearly midnight!” Richter exclaimed. “Herr von Eidelsohn and the boy have an early train to catch in the morning. Good fortune does not wait for those who lie abed!”

Rowland agreed. “We should probably turn in.”

And so they said their goodnights. Milton and Edna took von Eidelsohn to the studio, where a bed had been made up, and Clyde, who had always had a way with children, hoisted Sasha onto his shoulder to carry him upstairs. Rowland followed them but, remembering that he had left his notebook in the drawing room, returned to retrieve it.

He stopped at the doorway, seeing that Richter was still there, holding the picture of his wife and daughter on which von Eidelsohn had commented. Richter pressed the frame to his breast, shuddering slightly as he wept. Rowland hesitated, reluctant to intrude. He turned and retreated without a word, allowing the tailor privacy in a grief that was obviously still raw.

35

HEARD THIS ONE?

“I’m sorry, madam,” said the passport official, “but there is a mistake in your application form.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“You are described as a brunette instead of a blonde.”

“Dear me. Well,” with an obliging smile, “will you alter it—or shall I?”

The Advocate, 1933

R
owland kept his eyes on the bobbing tassel atop Alois Richter’s purple fez, in the press of milling travellers before him. The tailor led the way to the platform from which the
Orient Express
would soon embark, cleaving apart the crowd with determined swipes of his walking stick. Von Eidelsohn walked behind him with Edna. Clyde carried Sasha on his shoulders above the crush as they made their way to the first-class carriages.

The SA was a visible presence at the station, arrogantly strutting the platforms, demanding to see papers from time to time.

The
Orient Express
was ready for boarding. They moved up the platform to the head of the train and there they said their goodbyes. Von Eidelsohn, as they had come to expect, was solemn and earnest with gratitude and assurances that he would see Sasha safely into the arms of his mother.

Rowland beckoned the artist aside and gave him two cash-filled envelopes, one to cover the boy’s expenses, the other to be given to Sasha’s mother when she was found.

“It is unnecessary,” von Eidelsohn protested. “I will—”

“Take it,” Rowland insisted. “It will make me feel better that I am not accompanying him myself. If you hit any trouble, you know where to reach us.”

Von Eidelsohn nodded and placed the envelopes into the pocket inside his jacket. “I remembered last night why I knew the lady in the photograph on Herr Richter’s mantel,” he said.

“That picture was taken many years ago, during the war,” Rowland said, sceptically.

“It was many years ago when I saw her, not long after the war. I was just a young man, attending my first cabaret.” He smiled at the memory. “She was magnificent … In time, she became famous, but then she was another struggling German artist.”

“Famous?”

“Yes. The woman in that picture is a young Anna Niemann … she is celebrated now.” Von Eidelsohn glanced at Richter, who was singing some sort of ditty for Sasha’s amusement. “I did not mention it earlier because I assume she and Herr Richter parted, and I did not think—”

“Of course,” Rowland agreed. “It is best that you do not mention this to Herr Richter.” He looked carefully at von Eidelsohn. There was only an inch or so between them in height. The artist’s hair was dark, though he wore it quite long, and his eyes could definitely be called blue. Rowland turned around so that his back was to everybody but von Eidelsohn, and from his breast pocket he took the identification papers and passport which described Robert Negus as six foot one, with dark hair and blue eyes.

“May I borrow your pen?” he asked von Eidelsohn. The artist obliged.

Rowland removed the cap and broke the nib. He allowed the ink to drip onto his passport photograph and blotted it. It obscured just enough detail that the resultant photograph might have been von Eidelsohn. He put the cap back on the fountain pen and returned it with the documents to the Dadaist.

“Look, Hans, let’s be cautious … Just in case the SA is looking for you. These are my papers … if the Brownshirts do approach you and Sasha, use them. If they ask what happened to the photograph, tell them your pen leaked.”

“But how will you—?”

“Send them back to me when you reach Vienna. I should have thought of this earlier, but it only just occurred to me that you and I have similar features … at least on paper. You might not need it, but just in case.”

The whistle blew to announce the
Express’
imminent departure.

Von Eidelsohn looked distinctly panicked, but he placed the papers into his jacket and offered Rowland his hand. “Good luck, Herr Negus.”

“And you.” Rowland slapped the man’s shoulder as he accepted the handshake.

Alois Richter decided that they should celebrate the safe despatch of von Eidelsohn and Sasha with ice-cream, and led them to an appropriate purveyor, where he demanded the establishment’s best. Rowland watched as Edna chose a strawberry confection and then, changing her mind, attempted to convince Milton to trade. The poet would have none of it, declaring that she was fickle and needed some
sort of instruction in the value of constancy. Clyde had a beer with his ice-cream, more because the fact that he could do so amused him than because he really wanted a beer at nine o’clock in the morning. Milton joined him, on the grounds that it would be rude not to observe the customs of Munich, particularly when the custom was so agreeable.

Rowland glanced at his watch, and switched his ice-cream with Edna’s.

Milton accused him of undermining the lesson in character which he had been trying to teach the sculptress.

“I don’t have time to eat it, anyway,” Rowland said, smiling. “I have an appointment in about ten minutes.”

“You’re leaving us, Mr. Negus?” Alois Richter asked, wiping icecream from his chin.