Paving the New Road (50 page)

Nancy winked. “It is why the Reichsmarschall is sending us to his brother … he will be disappointed if his gift is not received.”

At each mention of Hermann Göring, the manager sweated a little more. The flamboyant Nazi minister was renowned for his extravagant perversions and his fondness for his brother. It would not do to displease him.

“Top floor,” he muttered. “Suite two.” He looked at them so beseechingly they were stabbed with unexpected guilt. “You will be discreet, won’t you, Mesdemoiselles? This is a respectable establishment.”

Nancy raised her chin loftily. “Monsieur, we are professionals!”

Taking care to appear unhurried, they sauntered with emphasised sway to the polished doors of the hotel lift. The young attendant fumbled with levers and conveyed them to the top floor. As they stepped out, Edna blew the bellboy a kiss and laughed as he blushed and stumbled as if knocked back by the impact of it. She noticed that he waited with the doors open, watching, waiting to report their reception to his manager.

Nancy knocked.

Albert Göring opened the door in his smoking jacket, an open book in his hands, an ebony cigarette holder clenched between his teeth. He gazed at them, alarmed. He squinted and peered more closely, and then stepped aside to admit them.

After they’d entered, Göring stuck his head into the hallway and caught sight of the lift attendant watching the proceedings with an excited, salacious grin. He nodded and closed the door.

“Well, well,” Göring said, turning to smile upon them. “Monsieur Sinclair’s beautiful young starlets …”

Edna didn’t waste any time. She sat Göring down and told him everything.

He listened with unfolding horror. “They broke his arm?”

Edna nodded. Her eyes brimmed as she remembered the state in which they’d found Rowland. “To punish him for the painting,” she said. “They only left because they thought the boy had shot him.”

“And Monsieur Richter?”

“Rowly believes he telephoned Monsieur Röhm that evening.”

Göring clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Poor Monsieur Sinclair. Perhaps he is no longer so naive a spy.” He took Edna’s hand. “But you did not come here to tell me stories,
ma chère
. What can I do to help?”

Edna nearly wept at his unthinking kindness. “We have to leave Germany, Monsieur Göring.”

“Of course.”

Edna pulled from her purse four passports … their actual passports, rather than those which had been supplied by the Old Guard. The men had secreted them in the lining of their jackets, just in case.

Göring took them from her, shuffling through them. “And you, Mademoiselle Wake … do you not want to return home?”

“One day,” she smiled. “But for the present, the authorities are not seeking me and there is much to be done in Europe.”

“Indeed, Mademoiselle, indeed.” Göring puffed intently on the cigarette in its Bakelite holder as he thought. “Are Mr. Sinclair and the two gentlemen in a place of safety right now?”

“They are in hiding,” Edna replied. “They are as safe as they can be.”

“Good, it may take me a day or so to make the necessary arrangements.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I shall give your passports to my brother, Hermann.”

Edna recoiled. “You’re turning us in?”

He looked at her gravely. “I hope not … I think not. Hermann can grant safe passage out of Germany. I am hoping he will do so because I ask him … but there is always the risk that his love for the Nazi Party is greater than the bonds of brotherhood. That he will betray both me and you.”

“How great a chance?” Edna asked, swallowing.

“I will do my very best for you,” Göring replied. “I will play every card of fraternal loyalty and brotherly love. I will remind him of the games we used to play, of the toys we shared, and we shall see.”

Edna hesitated. And then for some reason, Wilfred Sinclair came to mind. Wilfred, who at times seemed to disapprove of his brother’s very existence. They were so different, Wilfred and Rowland, and so committed to being so, and yet their loyalty to each other was unwavering … unspoken but absolute. Edna had no doubt that Rowland would die for his elder brother, and Wilfred had never failed to arrive when all seemed lost. But he couldn’t help them now. She decided. “We will hope with you then, Monsieur Göring.”

40

FRANCE WELCOMES EXILED GERMANS

Books Banned By Hitler To Be Published

LONDON

The Paris correspondent of the “
Daily Express
” says that the anti-Nazi demonstration by Jews in London has electrified the immense German population in Paris. France has given a home to many of Germany’s former big men in science, literature, philosophy, art and the cinema. A mass attack on Hitlerite Germany is being planned from here by her own former leaders. France, says the correspondent, is delighted at the events, as she recognises that Germany is now more isolated in Europe than any nation since Napoleon met his Waterloo. So German migrants are welcomed. They are by no means all Jews, but include many men of the liberal school of thought. A French publishing house will soon begin the publication of German books recently burned in the streets of German cities by Hitler’s orders.

The Advertiser, 1933

T
he bohemian café near the station was all but empty. It was early and the proprietor was still setting up for the day’s trade. Four men and a noticeably beautiful woman sat nearly shoulder to
shoulder about one of the round tables. Two of the men drank coffee silently, while the others conversed quietly in French.

“Thank you, Albert.” Rowland slipped the papers the other had just given him into his jacket. He used his left hand. To those who knew him, he seemed pale and a little drawn, but otherwise he was shaven and well groomed. “I cannot repay what you have done for us, but if there is ever an opportunity, I shall try.”

Göring smiled. “Regrettably,
mon ami
, there may come a time when I shall need to call in favours.”

Rowland looked at him, his intense blue eyes clear and sincere. “Whatever you need, mate, whenever you need it.”

Göring rested a hand on his shoulder. “Now, remember, your papers are in order, but Röhm’s murderous thugs are still looking for Monsieur Negus. They will know that his arm has been broken. It is important that Rowland Sinclair has no such injury.”

Rowland nodded. Still splinted with ten-inch rulers held in place with packing tape, the injury was invisible under the sleeves of his shirt and jacket. Using the limb as if it were uninjured, however, was proving a challenge. Any accidental turn of the wrist was excruciating, but he had practised the movement required. Initially, the exercise had been staggering, leaving him gasping and cursing. Then, at Milton’s suggestion, he had tried a two-handed greeting, bracing the impact on his right arm by clasping his left hand over the top. It was a more intimate form of salutation than Rowland generally used—something he associated with clergy and politicians—but it did make the motion bearable. He could now shake hands without any obvious sign of the pain it caused. And Clyde and Milton were ready to curtail a prolonged handshake by offering their own greetings. As for other things, Rowland had been born left-handed. He could write quite as well with his left hand as his right.

Somehow Albert Göring appeared to have convinced his powerful brother to grant the necessary visas and approvals, and had organised for them to take the
Orient Express
from Munich to Paris. From there, they would make their way to London, and then back to Sydney via ocean liner. That was the plan, anyway.

Of course, the train and its passengers would be checked by the police, the SA and possibly the SS, but unless Röhm himself was searching carriages Rowland was unlikely to be recognised as Robert Negus. The newspapers to date had not carried a photograph, just a description that could have applied to many men.

“If you are captured,” Göring continued, “I will do what I can, but it will be difficult if you fall into the hands of Röhm. It is hard to tell what Himmler would do … whether he would want Röhm to bear the full force of the Chancellor’s displeasure for your escape or whether he would be willing to forgo that opportunity to gloat, in order to bring you in himself.”

“Best we should avoid him, then.” Rowland stifled a yawn. He wondered if it was fatigue which was keeping him so calm. Perhaps he was just too tired to panic.

Göring walked with them to the platform. He kissed each of them on both cheeks in farewell. While Clyde and Milton had always found this form of Continental greeting uncalled for, they were happy to allow Albert Göring to do whatever he wanted.

To Edna, Göring said regretfully, “I could have made you a star,
ma chère
.” And then, as he helped her into the carriage, he announced loudly, “Hermann sends his regards and implores you to forgive him for not being here to see you off himself. The Chancellor requires his presence, you see.”

“What’s he doing?” Milton whispered, startled.

Rowland glanced at the Brownshirt troops who stood ready to board the train. “He’s letting the SA know we’re out of bounds.”

Albert Göring had done his best to badge them with the protection of his brother, including insisting upon the swastika pins they wore in their lapels. Despite the fact that the Nazi cross had been burned into his chest—or perhaps because of it—Rowland struggled with wearing the insignia visibly. Clyde and Milton were no happier, but they could all see the wisdom of adopting the guise. Of course, Hermann Göring knew nothing of this … He had, to his mind, merely approved some documents for his brother’s friends. It was not the first time and would not be the last.

They climbed aboard and found their seats, listening nervously as the SA made its way through the carriages, demanding papers and asking questions.

The Brownshirt who came into their cabin was young, and so blond he appeared to have neither eyebrows nor lashes.

He stood between the facing seats, clicking his heels and raising his arm in an enthusiastic fascist salute. “Heil Hitler!”

“
Grüss Gott
,” Rowland replied casually. “Is there a problem?”

The man looked closely at him. “We are searching for a foreigner named Negus … a dangerous and desperate criminal.”

Rowland shook his head. “We don’t know him, I’m afraid.”

The Brownshirt stepped closer, scrutinising him. “I do not know him either,
mein Herr
, but a witness describes him as having dark hair and striking blue eyes.”

Rowland smiled. “Your witness is describing Chancellor Hitler.”

“And you, Herr …”

“Sinclair,” Rowland finished. They waited as the Brownshirt dropped his eyes to their lapel pins.

“I see you are a member of the party, Herr Sinclair. Why did you not return my salute?”

Rowland cast his eyes about the small compartment. “There’s not much room in here. I was afraid I’d poke someone’s eye out.”

The Brownshirt stepped back. “I will make room.”

At first Rowland didn’t move. He sensed the alarm of his companions, the tension as they silently tried to understand with the smattering of German they’d picked up.

“Shall we see your salute, Herr Sinclair?”

“I don’t see that it’s necessary,” Rowland said coldly.

“It would be polite, Herr Sinclair, and one assumes you do not wish to offend a member of the SA.”

Rowland stood slowly, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure he could force his right arm into the fascist salute, but he wasn’t sure how he could refuse.

At that moment, the compartment’s door was opened and another Brownshirt walked in. He was older, a man of authority.

“
Was ist los?
” he demanded. “What is the problem here?”

Rowland decided to take the offensive. “Your man here seems to think I look like Herr Hitler. The fool’s so overcome by the supposed resemblance that he wants me to perform the salute so he can fantasise that the Chancellor is saluting him!”

The young Brownshirt stuttered in protest, but Rowland spoke over him. “Really, this is outrageous! I will be speaking to someone about this.”

“You don’t look like Herr Hitler!” The officer looked at the first Brownshirt incredulously.

“That’s what I said. I suspect your man has been drinking!” Rowland took his papers from his pocket and handed them over.
“Perhaps you should tell me your name, and the name of your insubordinate inferior.”

The SA officer perused the documents, flushing deeply when he recognised the personal endorsement of Hermann Göring. He glared at his younger colleague and flicked his head towards the door.

“
Dummkopf
! Idiot! Get out.” He handed the papers back to Rowland. “My apologies, Herr Sinclair. Some of the new recruits are overzealous. It will not happen again.” He proffered his hand and smiled.

If Rowland hesitated, it was imperceptible. He accepted the handshake and smiled tightly as the officer pumped his hand vigorously.