Paving the New Road (21 page)

GERMAN HOPE

LONDON

One of the most interesting manifestations of the present Nazi regime in Germany is the formation of an official fashion bureau under the personal direction of the wife of the Minister of Propaganda.

Under her direction Germany will make an organised attempt to capture world fashion supremacy, and usurp the position of France as the present dictator of women’s modes.

The Australian Women’s Weekly, 1933

A
lois Richter arrived just after midday in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. He was dressed in a light pinstriped suit, complete with spats, and had swapped his fez for a green Austrian felt hat with a large red ostrich plume in its band. Stasi was, as usual, in the tailor’s arms.

“Miss Greenway,” he said, craning his neck to kiss Edna on both cheeks over the top of his dog. “You look truly enchanting, my dear. My little country house suits you, I think.”

“It is lovely, Mr. Richter.” Edna took Stasi, who, according to Richer, was very excited to see her. “We are so very grateful for your hospitality.”

“How good to see you again, Mr. Negus.” Richter took Rowland’s hand in both of his and shook it, warmly and vigorously. Rowland winced. “What is the matter Mr. Negus?” Richter asked, still shaking. “Are you unwell?”

“Not at all, Mr. Richter,” Rowland replied, forcing himself not to pull his hand away. “I’ve injured my shoulder slightly.”

Richter released Rowland. “
Eha
, my dear Mr. Negus. How terrible. What have you been doing? Have you seen a physician?”

“No, sir. It’s just a bruise, really. Shall we go in? Mrs. Engels has prepared a veritable feast in your honour.”

“Naturally, naturally.”

They escorted Richter into the house, where Clyde and Milton waited with Eva. The tailor was delighted by the addition to their party and welcomed Eva in German. Noting the blackening bruise on Milton’s face, he frowned. “You too are injured, Mr. Greenway. What have you and Mr. Negus been doing?”

“We had a rather unpleasant encounter with the SA,” Milton said, as he poured drinks.

Richter sat down, sighing heavily. “I wish I could say that it shocks me,” he said. “But it does not. You are not the first to have been innocent victims of those thugs. They wander the streets like schoolyard bullies. My good friend Franz was waylaid once because they didn’t like his hat!”

Rowland couldn’t help glancing at Richter’s rather elaborate headgear. “They were here promoting some sort of book burning in Munich.”

Richter nodded. “I have seen the invitations. Please God, it will rain! But if not, they will burn the books.”

“Which books, Mr. Richter?” asked Edna. “What could possibly be so frightening about a book that one would need to burn it?”

“Books are powerful items, Miss Greenway,” Richter replied. “But this is more to do with public performance … the Nazis know how to put on a show.”

Eva leaned over to Rowland. “What are they saying, Herr Negus?”

Reminded suddenly that Eva could not understand English, Rowland started to explain. “It’s politics really—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eva interrupted. “Should I leave?”

“Leave?” Rowland looked at her, perplexed. “Of course not.”

“I cannot understand what they are saying,” she assured him.

“Which is why I was trying to translate,” said Rowland.

Eva shook her head. “It has nothing to do with me,” she said. “It is not becoming for a woman to interfere in the affairs of men.” She stood before he could say anymore and, addressing them all, took her leave. “
Entschuldigung sie mir, bitte
. I shall see if Frau Engels would like help.”

Rowland stared after her, a little stunned. It was a bizarrely archaic attitude to be held so determinedly by someone as young and otherwise uninhibited as Eva.

Richter was describing the pageantry of the rallies the Nazi Party held in the town of Nuremberg and had the complete attention of Edna and Milton. It was Clyde who noticed the abruptness of Eva’s exit and the expression on Rowland’s face.

“What’s wrong with Eva?” he asked quietly.

Rowland shook his head. “She seems to think it’s unladylike to discuss politics.”

Clyde smiled. “Is that all?”

“Rather old-fashioned, don’t you think?”

“Some would say well bred.”

“I’d say it’s a bit daft.”

“That’s just the company you’ve been keeping, mate,” Clyde said, glancing at Edna. “You’re beginning to believe it’s the normal state of affairs.” He paused. “Have you ever heard your brother’s wife discussing politics?”

Rowland had to admit that Clyde had a point. Kate Sinclair’s only political utterances were to concur with her husband’s, and even that was done with softly spoken deference. On the other hand, he didn’t think Kate Sinclair would sunbathe naked, either. Eva was intriguingly contradictory.

Richter had now moved back to their encounter with the SA, asking for details of the incident. Milton answered but he was vague in some respects. Rowland suspected that being forced to use the Nazi salute was more deeply humiliating to the poet than he had let on. He flexed the fingers of his right hand tentatively, aware that things might have become a great deal worse had Milton not submitted.

“You cannot intend to return to the Vier Jahreszeiten,” Richter exclaimed. “It is crawling with Stormtroopers … in their ugly, badly styled brown shirts. No!” He slapped his thigh to emphasise the point. “You must all stay with me … you tell your business associates to find you in Schellingstrasse.”

“We couldn’t—” Rowland began.

Richter’s face softened. “I would like the company. It would be my last gift to Peter to have you, his relative, in my home.”

Rowland groaned inwardly, reluctant to accept the hospitality of a man they were deceiving.

Edna interjected. “Of course we’ll stay with you, Mr. Richter. Robbie can let his business colleagues know where he may be reached.” She leaned forward and rubbed his hand warmly. “It’s lovely of you to extend such a kind invitation again.”

In his joy, Richter lapsed into German. “
Das ist wunderbar, wunderbar!
”

Clyde turned to Rowland with a silent question.

Rowland shrugged, resigned. “The lady has spoken,” he said.

Following a luncheon of several courses, they drank coffee in the parlour, while Richter told them of King Ludwig of Bavaria, who had also drowned in the lake. Rowland did his best to bring Eva into the English conversation, translating everything and encouraging her to talk, but she remained quiet and reserved.

“I’m going to take a walk,” he said standing. “Would you care to come, Fräulein Eva?” Perhaps a conversation in German would lift her spirits.

Richter smiled knowingly, and winked at Rowland.

The others did not react unduly. They too had noticed that the girl had become withdrawn. It was probably time Rowland paid her some attention. He had, after all, invited her.

Eva put on her hat hurriedly and accompanied him out. They took a path lined with wildflowers towards the lake’s edge. The late afternoon sun was warm and mellow. Rowland offered Eva his left arm as any movement of his right was still painful.

“Is anything the matter, Fräulein Eva?” he asked. “You are very quiet this afternoon.”

At first she would not look at him, and then the words burst out
tearfully. “You will not be able to finish my painting, will you? With your injured arm? I hate the SA!”

Rowland nearly laughed, surprised that such a thing would trouble her so. There was something very childlike about Eva, an honest and open self-preoccupation. He found it amusing.

“Not at all,” he said. “I can use my left hand as well as my right … sometimes better.”

“Really?” she said, her eyes wide. “How can that be?”

“I was born left-handed. I learned to use my right hand when I was at school but I didn’t forget how to use my left.”

“So you will not abandon my painting?”

“No … I will finish it when we get back to Munich. When I am happy with it, you may have it, if you like.”

Eva’s eyes shone, and she beamed. “Naturally, yes, I would like it. I will give it to Herr Wolf to hang in his bedroom.” She giggled. “Do you think it might keep him awake?”

“Quite possibly,” Rowland murmured, wondering what Herr Wolf’s wife would make of it. “But perhaps you shall find another gentleman to give it to … one who has more time for you.”

“There is only Herr Wolf,” she said earnestly. “I live only for him. Surely you understand, Herr Negus.”

Rowland shook his head. “No, I’m not sure I do.”

“You are in love with Fräulein Greenway … I see the way you look at her … always.”

Rowland was caught off guard.

“She treats you like a brother,” Eva said. Her voice was sympathetic but firm, as if she were explaining something he had somehow missed. “And still, you look at her as if she is the world itself. Could you stop loving Fräulein Greenway, Herr Negus?”

Rowland stopped. “Eva …”

Eva pressed into him, her arm entwined in his and her head against his shoulder as she whispered. “You see, I understand, Herr Negus. We are both enslaved to a love which is greater than us, beyond our will. We have no choice, you and I, whatever anguish it causes us. However much we may wish we did not love, the fact is that we do.”

Rowland faltered, unsure of quite what to say. Eva seemed determined to cast him as a fellow romantic martyr. As melodramatically as she put them, her accusations were not entirely untrue. He bit his lip, embarrassed. He had not realised his feelings for Edna were so obvious.

“Have I offended you, Herr Negus?” Eva sounded frightened now. “I do not mean to. You have been so kind … I am too forward … improper. Herr Wolf has often said so.”

“Damn!” Rowland’s eyes were focussed over her shoulder. A half dozen Brownshirts walked briskly towards them. Tensely, Rowland pulled Eva behind him with his good arm.

The group slowed as it approached them. Rowland held off panic. It was not the same group from that morning. He held his ground. The troop leader stopped in front of them, studying them both openly. Eva clutched Rowland’s arm and gazed back defiantly. The Brownshirt nodded slowly and then silently moved on.

They went back to the lakehouse after that, finding Edna standing on a stool while Richter modified the hem of her dress. “When you come back to Munich, I shall make you a gown,” Richter promised. “A woman as beautiful as you, Miss Greenway, should not be buttoned into such dowdy, unimaginative styles. Do you like feathers, my dear? I think I shall use feathers … and the neckline shall be low, for your décolletage is exquisite! And a train … it must have a train … perhaps even a bustle.”

“He’s going to make her a chicken costume,” Clyde whispered, as he handed Rowland a drink.

“Better her than us, old boy,” Rowland replied.

“Don’t you worry,” Clyde snorted. “If it looks as ridiculous as it sounds, Milt will want one too.”

It was hard to know whether Edna was just being polite, or whether she really did like the idea of Richter’s feathered creation. Eva, too, seemed cheered by the talk of frocks and told Richter of her various carnival costumes. Of course, Rowland didn’t need to translate for Richter, who advised the young German woman of the fashions he predicted would prevail for the next year’s festival. As the afternoon became evening, the visiting tailor stood reluctantly, to return to Munich. He told them again how happy he was to be able to repay his debt of friendship to Peter Bothwell through his young relative, and promised to prepare great things for their arrival.

After he’d gone they sat in the garden, enjoying the lake at sunset. When Eva retired they talked of politics again, the SA and their intention to burn books to honour their Chancellor’s strange, uncompromising sense of morality.

“They’re probably printing another edition of
Das Kapital
just so they have enough books to burn,” Milton said bitterly. “Bloody idiotic … Do they really think we’ll become good little fascists because we don’t have anything to read?”

“I’d like to go back to Munich the day after tomorrow,” Rowland said tentatively. “I know we only just got here, but I’d like to see if we can’t find this journalist liaison of Bothwell’s before Blanshard and Campbell get back. What do you say?”

Clyde shrugged. “I can’t paint anymore without blue anyway.”

“Don’t be so traditional, Clyde,” Edna chided, smiling. “Hans would paint the lake and sky with red or yellow. You must let go of the rules.”

“Hans? … Oh, von Eidelsohn. He’s an idiot. I like the rules.”

Edna poked him. “Hans is an artistic genius.”

“Often goes together.”

Milton laughed. “We’d better go then, Rowly, before you’re both forced to become Dadaists because you’ve run out of paint.”