The Vengeance of Rome (73 page)

When I visited my Italian friends, anxious to see how Zoyea was growing, I found they had mixed feelings about the ‘German Mussolini'. Their experience in the markets had sometimes been unpleasant, and the police had been slower to defend them. Perhaps the Storm Troopers mistook them for Jews, they said reasonably, but to make a living had become difficult without some kind of harassment.

I was sympathetic. I understood that laws had been proposed which would force Jews to identify themselves. This would have the positive effect of showing who was not, in fact, Jewish. Meanwhile, it might be wiser to modify their gypsy image and return to a more evidently Italian rôle. Perhaps they should concentrate on their ice-cream business? They appreciated my advice. To reassure them I revealed I held high rank in the Italian
fascisti
and took orders directly from Il Duce. If there were serious trouble, I would reveal that identity. I also had powerful friends among the Nazi higher ranks, but on that occasion I did not make a great deal of my SA connections, since the Italians saw the SA as their chief enemy.

My attempts to contact journalist friends in Berlin were frustrated. I had even asked Hanfstaengl to see what he could find out about the situation in Rome, but from Mussolini himself I still received no word. It became clear to me that my association with Fiorello and his group had made me permanently
persona non grata
. Signora Sarfatti had no doubt added to the poison, and Mussolini had done what he sometimes did to others he felt had betrayed him: simply cut them out of his life and his memory. That, sadly, is the price a man of integrity pays for staying loyal to his friends. Signor Frau was deeply impressed by my revelation of Fascist contacts, however, even if I doubted their worth myself. He blessed the Virgin and all his saints for the coincidence of our meeting in the food market.

That afternoon for the first time little Zoyea took tea with me in my new flat in Wurzerstrasse. I had hung framed pictures of myself and fellow stars on the walls, all artfully coloured and looking extremely realistic. The furniture was in the latest modern styles, big and solid and reflecting the values of the crafts guilds of olden times with the same simple beautiful
lines. The walls were in neutral tones, the pictures carefully lit. The bedroom was a reproduction of Emil Hoffer's famous set for
The Golden Shadow
, and Zoyea instantly recognised the tall posts and heavy draperies. She gasped her delight and hardly dared to enter the room in case she be swallowed whole by the oriental fantasy! It was one of my few indulgences. I had let one of UfA's top designers prepare the place for me while we were filming, and I was pleased with the result.

With her father's permission, Zoyea stayed overnight, sleeping in the big bed all on her own while I was engaged with a number of new lady friends and resumed my adventures with Kitty von Ruckstühl. She found it politic, she said, to leave the capital where there was considerable unrest among the
demi-monde
. Not a few had already been taken into protective custody. Some had been released but would not speak of what had happened to them. They tended to be the ones who now remained silent in any conversation. She said they had done nothing. Many had even been Nazi sympathisers. I could not believe she had the full story. She was speaking from her own subjective perspective with its own special significance. I was not surprised some of Prince Freddy's unsavoury drug-pushing friends might have been given a warning by the authorities. But I pretended a certain sympathy, if only to keep the social peace.

Still I had not asked Kitty about her half-brother. I intended to raise that subject the evening we met in the Caversham Bar of the Hotel Bavaria in the most fashionable part of Munich. I had grown fond of the place and was well known there. But Kitty did not arrive alone. She brought her ‘gang' with her. The bar was what Hanfstaengl called his ‘favourite watering hole', and he, too, was there that night. Putzi had lost much of his earlier cheer. Events had pushed him into the margins, whereas he had expected by now to be at the centre. He still boasted of his friendships with Hearst and many of the other big American newspaper tycoons, but one had the feeling he pumped up his own ego. He was not aggressive enough to enjoy the public meetings, though he faithfully accompanied Hitler on his flying tours of the country. He hated air travel, he said, but Hitler insisted his ‘clown' go with him everywhere to play him to sleep after a hard day with a crowd.

Hanfstaengl came in with a group of visiting Americans, and they sat down together at a distant table. They did not seem to like Kitty's friends, who were a rather bizarre party, mostly theatricals from the Franz Lehár touring company and a couple of Prince Freddy's freaks. At first I thought Major Nye, who entered quietly wearing a soft hat and a raincoat and seated himself in a corner, was there to join Hanfstaengl; but his glance when he
recognised me was eloquent, and I said nothing. I was faintly reassured by the English secret agent's presence in Munich. Mrs Cornelius was always safe when Nye was near.

Excusing myself, I went over to greet Hanfstaengl and be introduced to his slightly distant group of acquaintances. He had been made Foreign Press Attaché but was engaged in some passing rivalry with Goebbels over the best approach to the press. We spoke briefly in German, which the Americans did not understand. Why wasn't he in Berlin? I asked. Shrugging, Putzi told me he didn't want any argument. His
Mikado
had been a disaster, sabotaged, he claimed, by the mockery of Göring and the jealousy of Goebbels, who had quite plainly conspired against him. The Führer had not come to see
The Mikado
. Only Hess had arrived, which gave one some idea of Hess's status with the Führer at the moment. Until Hess told him, Hitler had not even realised when it was playing because Himmler and Goebbels had deliberately confused him. When he learned what had happened, it was too late, and Hanfstaengl was chided for being a bad organiser! He had tried to tell Hitler the truth, but the Chief's mind was on other things and he was too busy to intervene, so for the time being Putzi was home in Munich with his wife and children, who were an increasing comfort to him. He was proud of his boy. He wanted a future for him, he said. He was not wholly happy with the direction the party was taking. He was far too loyal to Hitler to say much to me, but he knew I was sympathetic.

The Americans rose after one drink and asked for taxis to their hotels. Putzi apologised and organised this for them. When he came back he seemed pleased to join Kitty and myself. He spoke lugubriously to Kitty, trying to explain how the SA had been overzealous in its wish to ‘clean up' Berlin, but those activities were now being curbed by Stabschef Röhm himself. Privately I knew Röhm was concerned with discipline and saw no need to alienate potential friends. Many of the units were almost self-ruling, and he was having difficulty re-exerting control. The men felt, in turn, that he had betrayed them.

Kitty listened to Putzi without much interest. At that moment I realised I was the holder of an appalling secret, one that could easily kill me now Hitler and his men were undisputed controllers of Germany. Certain people, especially Röhm and Strasser, knew what had occurred on that particular night soon after the death of Geli Raubal. Not only did they know who I was, they knew what I had done. And if Hitler began to wonder who in Germany carried his darkest secrets, he would soon begin to make serious enquiries of his friends, and they might be prepared to sacrifice me to save themselves. I
don't believe Strasser knew my name. My life lay in the hands of my closest Nazi ally, the only man who had a dossier on me! I was grateful that Röhm's loyalty to his friends was famous. But what if
his
movements and relationships became known to others? Hearing Kitty's litany of complaints, I began to wonder if perhaps I might be in serious danger. After all, some of those arrested had been quite as well known to the public as myself.

Even as Hanfstaengl moved away to speak to the Chinese albino in Kitty's party, I felt a chill. She laid her hand on the back of mine. Her eyes reflected the ice in her glass. Her smile, nonetheless, was rather friendly. We were now alone at that end of the bar. She evidently had something important to say to me. I leaned towards her.

‘Max,' she said suddenly, ‘did you have my mama murdered?' Pouting, her head to one side, she became alarmingly birdlike.

My stomach turned over at the very thought. A sharp stabbing pain, like edged metal. ‘How could you consider such a thing? Your mother and I had our differences, but I certainly didn't hate her enough to kill her!'

‘That wasn't really what I asked you.' Her smile slick with misery, she lifted her cocktail in a salute.

‘Your mother fell out of a window. Why would you believe I pushed her?' I was almost reeling with the horror of the thought. ‘Why, the presumption was that she—that she was depressed. I read in the paper that she had died in London. Believe me, Kitty, I have never been in London. The only acquaintance I have in London is an actor who appeared briefly in one of my films, and he is no more a murderer than I am. Why would you believe I pushed her?'

‘Because it improves the piquancy, I suppose. You know how easily bored I get with the stale plot of life. Anything to put a new twist on it, eh?'

I found it hard to believe she was still so young and had become so cynical. But the world was a very hard place, as Kitty knew. It could be as cruel to jazz babies as to war veterans. The whole idea of death and destruction had become almost modish among certain young Berliners. She told me Prince Freddy had been asking after me. He missed my entertaining company, he said. He had to be content like everyone else with watching me on his screen. Did he have personal copies of my movies? I was flattered. Were they perhaps the films Mr Mix and I had saved in Morocco?

‘One or two. Well, did you? She was getting afraid of you, you know. Someone had threatened her. She was sure the threats came from you. That's one of the reasons she went to London. She left a box of papers with me in case something happened.'

‘My only concern is for the child,' I told her. ‘For the little boy. Is he safe?'

‘Oh, yes. Freddie was very kind. Alfred has relatives in Palestine who took him in. Some of those papers mentioned you …'

This, of course, alarmed me. I asked casually what she had done with the box. She shrugged her narrow little shoulders. She hadn't had time to look through it much. Just the usual papers. Mementoes. Memories of former lovers. She had never been that interested in her mother's private life.

I thought this disingenuous. Since she had shown considerable curiosity when we first spent time together in Corneliusstrasse! I reassured her. My opinion was that her mother had become hysterical, perhaps a little paranoid, and had fixed her attention on me, who intended her no harm at all. If I had wanted her dead, I could have killed her myself when I was in Berlin or have had one of my friends hire somebody. I knew it was still a lot easier to find an assassin in Germany than in England!

Kitty had grown bored with the subject. ‘Let's go back to this new flat of yours,' she said. ‘It sounds as if you've found somewhere comfortable at last.'

We said goodnight to poor Hanfstaengl and the others and collected our coats. In the taxi Kitty agreed that her mother's hatred of me was probably simply because I had severed my relationship with her, a familiar but nonetheless terrible form of thwarted passion or insane jealousy. I would not have put it past her to have killed herself and then to have let people think I had murdered her!

When we reached my Wurzerstrasse apartment, I opened the heavy oaken door with the odd feeling someone had just left the place. Once again my sixth sense came into play. Had Brodmann found me? Had someone been searching the apartment? Was it Hitler's people? Mussolini's?! Was I growing paranoid, inventing enemies for myself? Probably. After all, I was an internationally celebrated film star. In Berlin they might be common currency, but in Munich people would notice if I came to any harm. I saw no real evidence of intrusion and was quickly distracted by Kitty. She had grown suddenly passionate.

Almost as soon as we had closed my front door, Kitty was unbuttoning her blue silk wisp of a dress and stepping out of it. She wore a matching camisole and pantolettes with flesh-coloured silk stockings and little blue shoes that matched her dress. With a turquoise torque in her hair, she was irresistible as she trotted swiftly with her purse to the kitchen and prepared herself a syringe. Morphine, she said with a slightly apologetic shrug. Her nerves had been bad lately. She thought it was to do with her mother. ‘You
know,' she said, as she inserted the silver needle into her thigh, ‘you always wonder if there was something you could have done. I'm over it now, though. I won't need this much longer.'

I had always loathed narcotics and feared their habit-forming effect. Unlike the benign stimulant, the narcotics are deadly. Opium, morphine and heroin are all of such high toxicity they immediately alter the nature of the body and make it dependent upon what Prince Freddy called ‘the bloom of paradise'. Of course, anything she told me about ending her use of morphine was self-deception at best. I have known few to stop the habit voluntarily. To say anything to her would have been useless. She might have agreed with me, might have sworn never to stick another needle into her veins, but within a few hours those promises would have been forgotten.

Once I had thought her Prince Freddy's mistress, then his camouflage. Now I saw that she was his slave. Morphine was never free. All I could do was suggest that she try a little of my ‘cocoa'. She was happy to comply, but clearly the cocaine was merely a side dish. The expression and manner which had puzzled me in the hotel bar were the effects of her morphine use.

I made love to young Kitty with some sadness, much to her eventual impatience. The evening was not very successful for either of us, but she fell asleep in my arms, a whisper of flesh and soft hair, so slender that I hardly realised she was there. Early the next afternoon when we both awoke, she found a tin of cocaine in her little bag and offered some to me. She could get plenty later, she said. She retired to the bathroom with her syringe case.