Paving the New Road (23 page)

Impulsively, Edna embraced him. “It’s a beautiful gown, Herr Richter,” she whispered into his ear. “Helena would have loved it too.”

Amidst this hospitality, they were very soon at home, but despite the comforts and distractions of their situation Rowland had not forgotten Peter Bothwell.

Clyde called out to him from the sitting room as he was about to leave one morning. “Where are you going, Robbie?” They were careful now to use their pseudonyms if it was at all possible that they would be overheard by Frau Schuler or any of the other servants who tended Richter and his house.

Rowland checked the room and the adjoining hallway before replying. “The Bismarck,” he said. “I’m told the expatriate journalists like to drink there.”

“Would you like some company?” Clyde asked, putting down the pen with which he’d been writing a letter.

“To whom are you writing?” Rowland asked. Clyde had always been a reluctant correspondent.

“Rosie.” Clyde smiled as he mentioned the pretty, somewhat emotional young woman who had once been Rowland’s model, and who was now his sweetheart. “Eva got me thinking. I didn’t want Rosie to think I’d forgotten her.”

Inwardly Rowland flinched, guilty that he was the cause of Clyde and Rosalina’s separation so soon after the pair had begun courting. Rosalina Martinelli was, to his mind, difficult and a trifle hysterical, but it was clear that Clyde was completely besotted. He’d already written several times since they’d arrived, and when he spoke of his sweetheart it was with helpless and grateful adoration. Clyde, it seemed, had become hopelessly enslaved. Still, Rowland was not about to dampen his friend’s devotion. Clyde was the most faithful of men.

“You finish your letter, mate,” he said. “I’ll not be long.” He put on his hat. “Where have the Greenways got to, by the way?”

“They stepped out with that Dada bloke, von Eidelsohn, this morning, to see some new exhibition. Von Eidelsohn brought our Millie a tiara made out of cutlery … apparently he calls it
Silverware
.”

“Good Lord. How much did she pay for that?” Rowland had already received two telegrams from the Graziers’ Association demanding that they exercise fiscal restraint and cease squandering funds immediately.

Clyde hesitated. “It was a gift. A symbol of his deep admiration … carried on a bit, really.”

Rowland nodded. It seemed von Eidelsohn was about to become Edna’s latest conquest. He reacted as he always did to Edna’s liaisons, with studied and determined indifference. The sculptress was not his.

He left Clyde to his letter and walked from Schellingstrasse to the Königsplatz at the city’s centre. Just a couple of blocks from there
was the Bismarck Hotel, which the concierge at the Vier Jahreszeiten had assured him was the favoured drinking place of both British and Australian expatriates.

The bar had been fitted out to look like a traditional English pub, complete with kitsch knickknacks on the walls. It was already crowded. Patrons sat on bentwood chairs around the several small round tables, and at the long wooden bar. Rowland ordered a gin and tonic, and stood by the bar, savouring the background of English conversation.

He had enquired of the German barman, who would only tell him that most of the foreign journalists came in at about three.

And so he waited, enjoying his drink and listening.

He first noticed the group to his left because of the laugh that emanated from its centre. The group was a huddle of men, overlapping pinstriped shoulders, but the laugh was female. Somewhere in the masculine circle was a woman. He watched curiously, waiting for a break in the suited circumference. Eventually one of the men went to the bar.

Small—not much more than five feet tall—she balanced on the barstool with her legs crossed. Her face was round, her dark eyes striking on milky skin. Despite her height, she did not seem slight. Her figure curved in a tight skirt, and when she spoke it was confident and mischievous and without reserve. Rowland thought her beautiful.

“Would you care for another drink, Nancy?”

There was a general movement towards the main bar as several men sought to buy the young woman a drink. Rowland’s interest, which had been piqued by her person, was sharpened by her name. Blanshard had said that the rumours concerned a woman called Nancy.

He was just contemplating how exactly he would approach her and ascertain whether she was in fact the Nancy he sought when she left her companions and took the stool beside him.

“Hello, there,” she said, leaning on the bar. “I haven’t seen you here before. Who are you with?”

“Robert Negus,” Rowland said removing his hat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss …”

“Wake, Nancy Wake.” She offered him her hand.

“I’m not with anyone, I’m afraid,” he said, answering her initial question. “I came in on my own.”

She laughed. The sound was loud and natural. “I meant, who do you work for. I’m with the
Chicago Tribune
.”

“Oh … I’m not a journalist.” He looked at her quizzically. “If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Wake, you don’t sound American.”

“Oh, I’m not. I’m Australian, really … English more recently, and Parisian.” She smiled and winked. “The Americans don’t mind—you can’t read an accent, you know.”

He returned her smile. “May I buy you a drink, Miss Wake?”

She looked at his glass. “I might have one of those.”

Rowland signalled the barman and ordered another gin and tonic.

“None of the fellas seem to know you either, Mr. Negus,” she said. “Most of the boys who come here are old hands. What are you doing here?”

Rowland’s brow rose. Not only had she noticed him, she had asked about him. Nancy Wake was sharp.

“My cousin used to drink here,” he said quietly. “He died suddenly, last month. I’m in Munich to collect some of his possessions.”

She was clearly startled. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Negus. What was your cousin’s name? Perhaps I knew him.”

Rowland tried not to watch her reaction too obviously. “Peter Bothwell.”

Nancy put down her drink. “Put your hat back on, Mr. Negus. I think you and I should take a walk.”

Rowland placed some money on the bar to pay for the drinks. “It would be a pleasure, Miss Wake.”

He was aware of the disappointed and resentful scrutiny of Nancy Wake’s colleagues as he accompanied her from the bar. He couldn’t really blame them.

She took his arm and they strolled towards the Königsplatz like any other young couple.

“I knew Peter very well,” she said. “We were very dear friends.”

“How did you meet him, Miss Wake?” Rowland kept his voice casual.

“At the Bismarck,” she said carefully. “I was devastated to hear of his death. I’ll miss him a great deal.”

“It would be easier to accept,” Rowland ventured, “if the circumstances of his death were not so strange.”

“Monsieur Sinclair, bonjour!”

Rowland turned startled. Albert Göring walked towards him, hand outstretched.

17

GERMANY HAS RAILED BACK TO BARBARISM

Nazi Policy Outrages Against Workers and Jews

But the worst tragedies are those of the thousands of poor homes that have been broken up, and whose breadwinners are in the jails or the new concentration camps. I saw the flats of two trade union men after they had been raided. All the pictures and ornaments were smashed. The wife and mother sat amid the ruins in the grey hopelessness of despair. “We got through the war, and the blockade, and the inflation … . I can’t stand any more … . I can’t start again!” The senseless savagery of it!

And the stories from the countryside are worse. But the most astonishing thing about the whole situation is that so few Germans know what is happening except in their own district. The stranglehold on the Press is complete.

The Worker, 1933

R
owland took Göring’s hand, painfully aware that he was in the presence of two people each of whom knew him by a different name. By the look on her face, he was certain Nancy Wake understood French. He introduced her quickly.

“You are a lucky man,” Göring said, slapping Rowland on the back. “So often in the company of beautiful young actresses.”

Nancy glanced at Rowland suspiciously, but she said nothing.

The situation might have become more awkward if not for the growing noise from the Königsplatz. A large crowd had gathered, and cheering was punctuated by the harsh barked commands of the SA. “What’s going on?” Rowland murmured, still speaking French.

Albert Göring clapped the hat back on his head. “Let’s find out, shall we?” He strode towards the excited gathering, moving bystanders aside with an imperious tap of his walking stick. Rowland and Nancy followed.

They jostled their way to the front of the onlooking crowd. At first Rowland wasn’t sure what he was witnessing. Several people were on their knees on the stones of the plaza, scrubbing with small brushes. Brownshirts stood over them, shouting orders and insults … “Bolshevik! Jew! Degenerate!”

“What is this? Who are these people?” Rowland asked Göring.

“They are Germans … from the so-called re-education camp.”

Göring shouted at the Brownshirt captain in German. “What are you doing?”

The man sneered in reply. “Is it not obvious,
mein Herr
? The plaza needs cleaning.”

A proportion of the crowd laughed.

“This is disgraceful, inhuman! I demand you stop at once!”

The Brownshirt turned his back pointedly.

Göring’s face flushed furiously. “Very well, then,” he said, stepping forward and kneeling next to an elderly man. “May I borrow your brush,
mein Herr
?” He took the scrubbing brush and proceeded to scour the ground. Onlookers began to snigger.

The SA captain screamed at Göring. “Get up! Get up now!” He pulled the truncheon from his belt.

Rowland tipped his hat to Nancy. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Wake,” he said, as he moved in among the group of prisoners. He knelt beside a man who had momentarily stopped working to gape at Göring through cracked, wire-rimmed spectacles, and, taking his brush, began to scrub.

Göring laughed and called in French. “Well done,
mon ami
!”

Faced with two volunteers, the SA captain hesitated. The crowd’s laughter was now with the dissidents.

Then Nancy was on her knees too. She began to hum as she cleaned the stones. This proved too much for the Brownshirt, who bellowed for his men to arrest the intruders. A scuffle broke out as they dragged Nancy to her feet and restrained Rowland. The SA held back the crowd as the three were placed under arrest. The captain demanded their names.

Göring stood straight. His held up his hand to silence Nancy and Rowland, and extracted a card from his pocket.

“Yes, that is correct,” he said, as the captain stared at the name. “Albert Göring.”

“But Herr Göring …” the man stuttered, panicked now. “Surely there is some mistake …”

“Yes, the mistake is yours!” Göring roared. “I do not know under what authority you drag these fine Germans out to scrub the plaza, but I know that you cannot prevent me and my friends from assisting in the cleaning you claim is so necessary!”

Nancy clutched Rowland’s arm. “What is he saying?” she asked.

Despite the fact that he was being held with one arm twisted behind his back, Rowland bent down towards her and translated quietly.

Nancy smiled, her eyes glistening. “Isn’t he magnificent?”

Rowland nodded. “Smashing.”

The Brownshirt captain was now almost pleading with Göring to walk away and avoid embarrassing his brother. Göring insisted that if scrubbing was necessary then he would stay and lend a hand. It was all Rowland could do not to cheer. In the end there was nothing the man could do but abandon the orchestrated exercise in humiliation, to avoid falling foul of Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring.

As the crowd dispersed, some jeered Göring, annoyed that the spectacle had been cut short. One or two shouted that he was a Jew.

Göring slapped the dirt from the knees of his trousers.

“Monsieur Göring,” Rowland started, reverting again to French.

Göring cut him short. “We have been on our knees together,
mon ami
. Now you will call me Albert.”

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck, smiling. “Very well, Albert … shall we have a drink?”

Nancy cleared her throat.

“With Mademoiselle Wake, of course,” Rowland amended.

Göring clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, I believe a drink is called for … but you must let me select the venue.” He twisted his moustache. “I know a place.”

He took them to a run-down coffee house in a back street well away from the Königsplatz. The windows of the small eatery had been smashed and were partially boarded over, but it was open for business. Many of the patrons were recognisable as Jews by their orthodox attire, the long, spiralled locks and skullcaps. Others could have been anyone, but for the fact that they were patrons here.