Paving the New Road (38 page)

“Good for you!” Milton said, with an entirely convincing show of approval. “Someone’s got to look out for the poor chap.”

And so the meal continued. The Australians ate quickly because they had no wish to prolong the encounter. Unity dominated, for the
most part, enlightening them with her views on world politics and trade and recounting childhood pranks played on victims ranging from servants to the Queen Mother. Milton occasionally amused himself by reflecting her manner, inventing terms with aplomb in a way that seemed to endear him to their guest.

Unity tried again to bestow Robert Negus with a nickname, and eventually Rowland gave in. He hoped never to see her again, anyway, so what she chose to call him was irrelevant. Delighted, she dubbed him “Kanga”, which, it seemed, was all she knew of Australia. Albert Greenway she decided to call “Golf” and he appeared to be well pleased with the title, launching into an improbable story about his familial connections to the great fairways of Scotland. She used the monikers repeatedly, stamping them clumsily into every possible sentence.

Rowland checked his watch. “Good Lord, Albert, we’d better get on, or we’ll be late.” He signalled for the bill.

“Making your acquaintance has been quite unforgettable, Bobo,” Milton said, shaking Unity Mitford’s hand as Rowland settled the account.

“Yes, my dear Golf, it’s been simply scrumptious. We must do this again. I’m here most days, though you must understand that I will abandon you if Mr. Hitler comes in.”

“I do understand, Bobo,” Milton assured her. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from Mr. Hitler.”

Rowland smiled now, as parting seemed imminent. “Good afternoon, Miss Mitford,” he said, still refusing to participate in the ludicrous exchange of nicknames.

And so it was with considerable relief that they left The Honourable Unity Mitford at the steps of the Osteria Bavaria.

They walked in a kind of stunned, uneasy silence and it was not until they were well away that they spoke of the encounter.

“I’ve gotta admit, mate, you weren’t exaggerating,” Milton said eventually. “That girl is a very unsavoury kind of mad.”

“I wonder if Hitler’s noticed she’s following him about. I should think he’d find that a little disconcerting.”

“Certainly ought to.”

Rowland removed his hat and rubbed his hair. For some reason he felt vaguely embarrassed by Unity Mitford. She was the epitome of the ruthless and puerile upper classes of which the Communists spoke, which he had always laughed off as a political caricature. But there she was, and spending any more time in her company could very well turn him into a Bolshevik.

“It’s all right, Rowly.” Milton elbowed his friend. “It’s not as if she’s related to you.”

Rowland sighed. “If she was, I could at least have her committed.”

Milton laughed. “The asylums might get a bit overcrowded if you were committing people for hating Jews,” he said quietly. “That’s not a new thing, Rowly.”

Rowland looked at him. Milton smiled, but his dark eyes flashed angrily … and there was something else. “Milt …”

“She makes me sick, Rowly. And what’s worse, she scares me. What’s happening here terrifies me in a way that you’ll never know.”

“I understand …”

“No, you don’t, mate.” Milton shook his head firmly. “How could you understand? You’re a member of the ruling class in every way … money and breeding. How could you possibly know what it’s like to be despised for the blood that runs in your veins? To be excluded before you say hello? To have neither the money nor the connections to change it? I’m not saying you don’t care, mate, or that you don’t want to understand, but you just can’t know!”

Rowland faltered. “I’m sorry, Milt … I didn’t mean …”

Milton groaned. His smile was abashed, apologetic. He placed his hand companionably on Rowland’s shoulder. “No, Rowly, don’t be sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.” The poet met his eye. “I’m pleased life’s given you a leg-up. You’re a good bloke … the best mate I’ve ever had. That woman’s just unnerved me a bit.”

Rowland chewed his lip, scowling. Unity Mitford troubled him beyond the irritation of their contact. Perhaps it was that she expressed her bigotry so blithely, as if she were talking about hats, or the latest film. As if hating Jews was just the latest fashion.

Milton hooked his thumbs into the pockets of the luridly striped waistcoat he had borrowed from Alois Richter. He sighed, resigned. “If Lady Bobo manages to cause a rift between Campbell and the Nazis, it’ll be worth it.”

Rowland glanced at his watch. “Come on, then, we’d better hurry.”

“For what?” Milton asked. “I thought you’d simply made up an appointment to get us out of there.”

“I certainly would have if we didn’t actually have one. But as it is, we’re meeting Nancy at the Bismarck.”

Milton grinned, his anger now forgotten. “What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?” He nudged Rowland. “I could head back to Richter’s, if you like.”

“Browning,” Rowland said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be daft, we’re nearly there. Nancy was going to see what she could find out about this actress, Fräulein Niemann, who Bothwell called on before he died.”

“Oh.” Milton was clearly disappointed. “I had hoped you might finally have gotten over Ed.”

“Ed? Oh, I see,” Rowland said, now following Milton’s line of thought. He laughed. “I am afraid one doesn’t get over Ed—one simply learns to live with it.”

Nancy Wake was waiting at a table by the window, writing in a small journalist’s notebook. She looked up as they approached and smiled warmly. Indeed, Milton was sure there was something in her eyes as she looked at Rowland that he had not seen before.

“Hello, Nancy,” Rowland said, aware that Milton was watching him carefully. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not at all,” she said. “Do sit down … I have a great deal to tell you.”

Rowland and Milton took seats at the little table, and signalled the waiter. They made small talk until their drinks arrived, and once the waiter had left them, Nancy began excitedly.

“Anna Niemann is quite a big star … She had her heyday during the war, but she could still attract big crowds.” Nancy flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “She’s lived in Vienna since 1920, but before that she was working in Munich as a cabaret singer. Her father was some kind of professor and she attended boarding school in England. It was quite a scandal for her to take to the stage. Apparently her family disapproved of her acting.” Nancy glanced mischievously at Rowland. “I suppose you’d understand all about that.”

Rowland laughed, and waited for her to go on.

“That’s the official biography … and then I came across something really interesting.” She smiled, building the suspense. “I spoke to a colleague who’s been freelancing here for twenty years. He can’t
be certain, but he’s pretty sure that Anna Niemann was accused of spying during the war.”

“Spying?”

“It seems she had a British passport, and travelled a great deal on her own … and so she fell under suspicion.”

“What happened?”

Nancy shook her head. “Not really sure. My friend recalls she was arrested, but this was after the war had been won. There wasn’t really a great will to prosecute, I expect.”

Rowland tapped the rim of his glass as he thought. Anna Niemann may have been a spy for the British. Perhaps that was the connection between the actress and Bothwell.

“So what about her disappearance?”

“It was investigated,” Nancy said. “Theatregoers complained, for one thing, and of course when the show was cancelled investors lost money. The official line is that she returned to Vienna, but nobody has heard from or seen her since. She’s disappeared.”

“What about the SA or the SS? Could she have ended up in a camp?”

“They only hold men,” Nancy replied. “And there’s nothing on record to indicate she was a Communist, or Jewish, or even just critical of the Nazis.” She pulled a photograph from her bag. “I managed to find one of her most recent publicity shots.”

Rowland took the picture. Anna Niemann seemed to be between forty and fifty. She was a handsome woman, with heavy eyebrows and an aquiline nose. Her eyes were light and piercing and her mouth expressive. She had the kind of face he would have liked to paint. Her features were not perfect, but there was a vivacity and strength to them. “May I keep this?” he asked.

Nancy nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Rowland slipped the photograph into his pocket as he thanked her.

“My pleasure,” she replied. “In fact, I wrote a piece on her for
The Tribune
so the research was very useful.”

“As long as we’re not imposing intolerably.”

“Not at all,” she laughed. “Now this interview … I called and spoke with Mrs. Campbell. She promised to pass on my request—said Colonel Campbell was always happy to talk to the press.”

“That much is true,” Rowland replied. Eric Campbell had always courted the spotlight. “You’re still sure you want to do this, Nancy?”

She put her hand on his and smiled. “Don’t worry, Rowly. Nothing will go wrong. And who knows—I might just write a story about Colonel Campbell.”

30

The psyche of the broad masses is accessible only to what is strong and uncompromising. Like a woman whose inner sensibilities are not so much under the sway of abstract reasoning but are always subject to the influence of a vague emotional longing for the strength that completes her being, and who would rather bow to the strong man than dominate the weakling—in like manner the masses of the people prefer the ruler to the suppliant and are filled with a stronger sense of mental security by a teaching that brooks no rival than by a teaching which offers them a liberal choice.

Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf

T
he business district was lively when Milton and Rowland finally left the Bismarck. Munich’s hard-working citizens conducted last-minute business, and bought bread and sausage before returning to their homes for the evening. The spring air was tinged with the scent of limes and geraniums. Rowland was thoughtful. Anna Niemann had disappeared almost immediately after Bothwell and Richter had gone to see her. Bothwell was dead. It occurred to him that he should speak to Alois Richter. He couldn’t imagine that their kind host was involved, but he had been there.

“Missing her already?” Milton smiled, misinterpreting his mood.

“Who? Oh, Nancy. I was thinking about Richter, actually.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Rowly?”

Rowland ignored the reproof. “I might have to talk to him about Bothwell, and Anna Niemann.”

“How are you going to do that without giving the whole game away?”

“I’m not certain … but Richter’s the only avenue we haven’t yet exhausted. At the very least, he might be able to tell us what passed between Bothwell and Fräulein Niemann.”

Milton frowned. “Ed’s very fond of him and he’s completely wrapped around her little finger … Be careful, mate. He might feel a bit put upon if he suspects you’re not really Peter Bothwell’s grieving cousin … not to mention that he does business with the Reich, so he could be skittish about harbouring spies.”

Rowland turned up his collar as the wind rose briskly. “I’ll come up with something.”