Paving the New Road (46 page)

Clyde nodded at Rowland. “Good luck, mate.”

Richter made his telephone call and then returned to fuss and moan and flap. Rowland waited, trying to look contrite.

Mrs. Schuler shuffled into the drawing room just moments after Richter had eventually walked out of the door. She stood silently as he removed his tailcoat and then his waistcoat. In shirtsleeves, he handed her the ruined garment and she hobbled off, presumably to resurrect it, leaving him alone but for Stasi, who was, according to his custom, lying immobile on the couch.

Rowland waited until he heard the door to the kitchen scullery close, and then he slipped out of the drawing room into Richter’s study. Like the rest of the house, it was decorated according to the tailor’s florid taste, lit with chandeliers and papered in crimson and yellow. The desk was inlaid with acorns and woodland leaves, and a dressmaker’s manikin served as a coat stand. Rowland started at the desk, going through each of the drawers in turn. There was nothing of interest. He opened the filing cabinet and rummaged through the files, hoping one would jump out at him, though he knew it was futile to expect to find something among the hundreds of papers.

The photograph of Richter’s wife and daughter which had gone missing from the drawing room was on the desk. Rowland looked closely at the sepia image, studying the face of Mrs. Richter for a time. He pulled the photograph of Anna Niemann from inside his notebook and compared the two. Von Eidelsohn had been right. It was Anna Niemann. He considered the composition of the photograph. Anna Niemann was at the picture’s edge … there was a shadow that wasn’t hers. Rowland fished out his pocketknife and used the blade to unscrew the frame. The picture inside had been partially obscured by the bevelled matt of the frame. He pulled the frame away. There were two other figures beside Anna: Alois Richter and Peter Bothwell. The three had their arms about each other, laughing. The picture had been dated on the back: 1915.

So Bothwell had known Richter during the war, when their countries had been enemies. Bothwell had been a spy even then. Anna had possibly spied against Germany. Could Richter have also been a traitor to his country? Despite his reservations about the SA, and the dress sense of Himmler, the tailor had always seemed proudly nationalistic.

Rowland checked his watch … He had been searching Richter’s study for nearly forty minutes. Wondering what had become of Mrs. Schuler, he placed the photograph into his notebook and hid the frame behind some books on the shelf.

He stiffened as the silence was disturbed by a pounding at the front door. Hastily, Rowland put the study back in order and slipped out into the hallway. The pounding continued. Again he wondered what had become of the housekeeper. Perhaps she could not hear the knocking from the kitchen.

Deciding he’d best answer it himself, Rowland lifted the latch. He’d barely turned the handle when the door was forced sharply from without and he was thrown back.

“What the devil—”

The Brownshirts barged in. Rowland froze as a gun was pointed at his forehead.

The man who stood before him was pugnacious. Deep scars marked his cheek and chin; his eyes were small and porcine. Ernst Röhm.

Rowland checked his panic, assessing what he faced. There were eight men, or men of sorts. Three seemed very young, their shoulders still narrow and slender. Two others were of Röhm’s vintage and, like him, in bloated decline. The remaining two were physically between the fresh-faced adolescents and the battle-scarred veterans. Regardless, Rowland was grossly outnumbered.

Hitler’s deputy sneered at him. “So this is Herr Negus, the artist.”

Rowland did not allow the surprise to show on his face. He had assumed this was about their subterfuge on the night of the book burning. How would Röhm even know he was an artist?

They dragged him into the drawing room. Stasi jumped off the couch and crawled beneath it. Rowland noticed, because it was the
first time he had seen the terrier move of its own accord. It was probably a bad sign.

“What do you want?” Rowland demanded in German, as a young officer searched him, taking his notebook and handing it to Ernst Röhm.

Röhm pulled out a chair at the card table and invited Rowland to sit. “I have questions, Herr Negus. When they are answered adequately, you will be free to go.”

Rowland took the seat. The SA Commander went to the gramophone and placed a record on the turntable. Wagner. Röhm closed his eyes, inhaling deeply before he returned to sit opposite his prisoner. “We are told that you have been conducting an affair with a young German woman.” Röhm spoke slowly, precisely.

Rowland’s brow rose. “I’m sure I don’t know who you mean.”

Röhm signalled to his men. Two stepped forward. One dragged Rowland up and the other punched him repeatedly in the stomach, and then they sat him down again.

“Let us not begin by being unco-operative, Herr Negus,” Röhm warned, as Rowland clutched the table, gasping.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rowland repeated angrily, as he forced the air back into his lungs.

Röhm’s face darkened. Rowland braced himself. Then suddenly, the Nazi veteran grinned, leaning forward to slap the Australian on the back. “We are all men here, Herr Negus. We all understand sexual appetite, even if we do not all eat from the same trough.” He laughed. “Fräulein Eva Braun. She has been satisfying you, yes?”

Rowland straightened painfully, startled. This interrogation was about Eva. His mind worked feverishly to make sense of the question. For some reason, Röhm wished to shame Eva. He looked
the Nazi in the eye. “No … Fräulein Eva is a child. We have never been unchaperoned. I only painted her portrait.”

At that point one of the Stormtroopers whom Röhm had sent to search the house returned, dragging the canvasses he’d found in the studio: Clyde’s landscapes and Rowland’s first painting of Eva.

Röhm glanced at the blue nude and laughed. “So, Herr Negus, you are a modernist … with neither talent nor respect! The Reich does not take kindly to the defilement and slander of German womanhood. We’ll teach you that.” Again he signalled his men.

This time Rowland struggled, but there were too many of them. Three held him down and a fourth forced his right arm out straight over the table.

Röhm stood and walked over to the mantel. He took the fire iron from its stand and tested its weight. The movement of music now playing on the gramophone was rising and he waited until it reached the crescendo. Rowland swore, twisting desperately as he realised what the SA Commander was about to do. A hand slammed his head against the table so that all he could do was watch. It took Ernst Röhm three swings to break Rowland’s arm.

For a while, Rowland couldn’t comprehend anything but pain. Released, he slid off the table onto the floor.

Leaving him to his agony, Röhm studied the nude of Eva. “So this is the painting.” He traced his finger lewdly over the figure, poking as if he expected the image to react. “You painted her after you had her, yes?”

Rowland fought for focus through a haze of pain and fear. Instinctively, protectively, he knew he must deny absolutely any improper contact with Eva, for her sake if not his.

“That is not Fräulein Eva,” he managed to get out. “It’s Fräulein Greenway … she has been my model for many years.” He stopped,
closing his eyes to shut out the spinning of the room. “The painting I did of Fräulein Eva is a study of her face which she wished to give her father.” Rowland held his arm against his chest, hoping to God that Röhm had not seen the other portrait.

It seemed he had not.

The Nazi picked up Rowland’s notebook and flicked through it, searching. Luck sided with the artist now. Rowland had never sketched Eva—he’d painted her image directly onto canvas. There were many pencil studies in the artist’s sketchbook, many of Edna, but none of Eva.

Röhm stopped as the photo Rowland had taken from Richter’s study fell out and onto the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, studying the image as he straightened again. “So the old fox has secrets,” he said, slipping the photo into his pocket and tossing the notebook aside.

Rowland watched helplessly.

Squatting, Röhm placed his rubber truncheon under Rowland’s chin, and scrutinised his face. The Nazi’s smile was smug and cruel. “I wonder. What exactly were you doing in the Königsplatz in the uniform of the
Leibstandarte
SS
, Herr Negus?”

Rowland didn’t reply. He had almost dared to hope that Röhm wouldn’t recognise him from the night of the book burning.

Röhm struck him personally this time, kicking him repeatedly as he lay on the ground. “Answer me!”

“For God’s sake … it was a joke,” Rowland choked. “We thought we’d test the power of an SS uniform.”

“So, you make a fool of Ernst Röhm,” the SA Commander said coldly. He bent over and tore open Rowland’s shirt.

Even through the torture of having his injured arm wrenched away from his chest Rowland wondered what the hell Röhm was
doing. Stories of the Nazis’ perversions came too easily to mind, and the greedy excitement of his assailant did nothing to allay his fears. He tried in vain to pull away.

Hitler’s deputy dragged on his cigarette, and then, smiling, ground it into Rowland’s chest.

For a moment Rowland thought he might lose consciousness. He began to hope he would.

“Wilhelm.” Röhm summoned a young Stormtrooper, who looked at Rowland with wide, frightened eyes. There was a glistening shadow of golden fluff on the boy’s chin and cheeks and Rowland realised the Brownshirt had not yet begun to shave.

Röhm put his arm around the youth and kissed his forehead. He lit a new cigarette and gave it to the boy.

Wilhelm hesitated and Röhm rubbed his shoulder encouragingly.

The boy closed his eyes as he held the glowing cigarette hesitantly to Rowland’s skin. Röhm nodded approvingly, shouting “Heil Hitler!” as Wilhelm twisted it in. Rowland swore in English and then German as he tried to writhe away. He lost count of how many times the cigarette was relit and stubbed out on his chest in what seemed to be some bizarre initiation of young Wilhelm into Röhm’s inner circle. They asked him again and again about Eva, promising a confession would end the ordeal.

Finally, with Rowland barely conscious, Röhm turned away in disgust. He instructed his Stormtroopers to leave … all but Wilhelm. When the two of them were alone with Rowland, he took the revolver from his holster and gave it to the boy.

“Shoot him,” he said. “Richter will bring in the others and they will tell us about the liaisons of Fräulein Braun.”

The words brought Rowland out of his exhausted, tortured haze to full and desperate awareness.

Wilhelm looked down at him and as their eyes met, each saw the terror in the other’s.

The boy’s voice shook as he spoke to his superior. “You may want to stand back,
mein Herr
, lest blood splatter your uniform.”

Röhm smiled broadly, stroking the back of the boy’s neck before retreating several paces to the doorway.

“Don’t move,” Wilhelm mouthed at Rowland before he pointed the barrel of the gun at his head.

37

THE FATHERLAND UNDER FASCISM

Reign of Persecution and Terror, Brutality and Bloodshed

… an artist friend. I had better call him Walther—he still has one eye to lose! Last summer he was the gayest person I met in grim Germany, as advanced in his art as in his politics; a daring experimenter in colour and line. Now his paintings are ashes, his face a pulp, one eye has gone, and the other in danger.

The Worker, 1933

W
ilhelm fired two shots and then stepped away from the body and vomited.

Röhm laughed as the boy pushed past him out of the room, sobbing, “I want to go now.”

Straightening his cap, Röhm followed his young charge.

Rowland gasped, breathing again when the front door was slammed. Whoever Wilhelm might become, he was not yet a murderer. The bullets had hit the floor just a few inches from Rowland’s head.

Setting his jaw, Rowland used his left arm to manoeuvre his right across his chest. He flinched as it made contact with the cigarette
burns and then for several minutes he lay there as he tried to summon the energy and will to sit up. He had to get to the hallway and phone for help, though he had no idea who he could call.

He wondered what had happened to Mrs. Schuler … Where was she? Surely they hadn’t murdered the old woman? She could be calling for help, but he couldn’t hear anything over Wagner.

What had Röhm meant when he said that Richter would bring the others in? He needed to warn them somehow. The record played out and the house fell into silence. Rowland closed his eyes, trying to think clearly.

Perhaps he’d fainted—he wasn’t sure. He knew only that when he opened his eyes again, Alois Richter was standing over him. Rowland blinked, suspecting that the figure was a hallucination. But Richter remained.

The tailor was angry. “What have they done?” he lamented, looking over Rowland. “They left you like this …?”