The Vengeance of Rome (93 page)

In the morning came a knock on the door. Though I had slept very little I was in better spirits. Already up, I called for the person to come in. A tall, stooping white-haired man greeted me. He wore a loose, blue serge
suit, a white shirt and a bow tie. Shaking hands, he introduced himself as Professor Mueller. I accompanied him to breakfast in a big, well-lit canteen full of other men and women clearly of our class, yet all carrying something of the familiar air of
Lagerfliegen
. They did not speak except to say ‘good morning'. Few smiled. I imitated them. Mueller offered me a little approving nod. ‘We are a monastic order here. We have taken a vow of silence. If we did not, we should be returned to our former condition. That is the first rule.'

I understood. I accompanied him to the counter to collect my breakfast of good-quality bread, a kind of roasted muesli, butter and jam, a slice of luncheon meat, a small piece of cheese.

For the first time in months I wondered about the things I had hidden in Signor Frau's barrel organ. Where, I wondered, was the family now? And were my papers and keepsakes still safe? With SS help, I thought, I might find them again.

As I left the dining hall I was met by an SS man and told to go with him to an unmarked door. He knocked and stood back to let me pass. In a neat office was a large, tidy desk and behind the desk a plump, pale man in pince-nez, his black uniform jacket opened and his tie loosened. He stood up, buttoning his tunic, giving the raised-arm salute. Obersturmbannführer Ludwig Wolfowitz was our SS commandant. He welcomed me to the camp, which he called the Institute. Ordering me to sit down he presented me with the list of questions I had already answered. By now I was a little bolder.

‘You understand, Herr Obersturmbannführer, that I am first a scientist?' I told him humbly. ‘You know, of course, that I am among other things an engineer. Before my arrest I submitted certain plans to Reichsmarshall Göring.'

‘Those ideas are what brought you here, Professor Gallibasta.' Wolfowitz frowned. ‘You wish to serve the Reich. We are here to be served! We are interested in your designs, especially your one-man airship, what you rather fancifully call your flying infantryman. We would develop the idea for observational purposes, equipping the flyer with a radio. We will help you in any way you need. You now have a special rank, a new number. You are an F prefix, which means you are the Führer's prisoner. Only our leader can have you moved from here. You will take your orders directly from his office. You will be further rewarded if your work significantly helps the Reich.'

‘I am honoured,' I said. He dismissed me.

Everyone at the Institute was equally well treated. We had an opportunity to redeem ourselves, some chance of eventually regaining our former lives. If we did well we could look forward to status, honour and freedom
in the community. I had the use of a fully equipped drawing office staffed by highly skilled men and women. Anything I needed was requisitioned for me. My old drawings, the ones I had sent to Göring, were brought in to remind me of my original ideas so that I could prepare a practical design for my one-man airship.

My men and women would rise into the air like spiralling smoke. They would fly like birds between golden cities travelling the skies in orbit above our abandoned globe.

The Institute was a dream, not a positive experience of the real world but at least a temporary release from the nightmare. It offered hope. It returned a future. I laboured hard and swiftly, knowing if one idea were successful I would be allowed to work on others. Always uniformed SS came and went, reminding me that I was F2106 and could be returned to Dachau or worse at any moment. This meant that I kept obsessively to the rules. The facility had many workrooms and sheds I was never allowed to see, just as other inmates were not permitted access to me or my designs. I saw them in the canteen, but only the minimum communication was permitted us. I had a closer relationship with my radio, which broadcast the German programme, chiefly consisting of light classical music and some news broadcasts which kept me apprised of the nationalist struggle against the republicans in Spain and the achievements of Hitler and the Nazi Party in rebuilding a modern homeland.

The only people I talked to at length were the SS and technicians who came to learn how to build the first prototype of what we were calling my LWIX, the hydrogen-filled wing-shaped one-man airship which within months sat tethered in her hangar waiting to be tested. The ship's construction had gone rapidly, for it was a fundamentally simple design. I was very proud of her. The harness below the wing held a small but powerful engine, the aerofoils and the airscrew. Suspended from the wing in a mixture of canvas and plywood, the pilot would be buckled in, using various instruments together with his own arms, legs and feet to steer the little vessel through the air. We called her the
Luftgeist
. She could glide silently through the clouds undetected once her engine was switched off. Then, when necessary, she could become a darting hawk, attaining a height of over five thousand feet. Hovering above a desired location, the pilot, by means of a radio apparatus attached to his flying suit and helmet, also integral parts of the machine's design, could send messages back to base. I had originally planned for her to be armed, but for the moment the Führer wished only to see a non-combative version.

In the hangar I was able to demonstrate the machine to visiting groups of air staff. Surprisingly respectful, they often called me ‘Herr Professor' and asked insightful questions. Some were particularly interested in the power/ weight ratio, wondering how she would behave in high winds. I believed her light motor, the latest Heinkel could produce for us, was more than capable of propelling her against anything but the most powerful hurricane. Clearly my ship would be better able to perform in conditions where high winds rarely prevailed, such as the European theatre.

I began at last to emerge from the nightmare. Even the SS, impressed by what the air generals had to say, subtly changed their attitude towards me. The
Luftgeist
was certainly a good-looking machine. Her silver wing-shaped airbag was shaped like an aerofoil suspending an empty atmosphere suit capable of protecting the pilot against the worst weather conditions. Swinging from the ceiling of the hangar my
Luftgeist
resembled nothing so much as a gigantic moth.

She was ready for her tests.

The morning of 5 May 1937 I was disturbed at my shaving by a knock on my cell door. Behind his sallow adjutant stood Obersturmbannführer Wolfowitz. He was almost cheerful, waving a piece of paper. ‘Good news, F2106. We have been given clearance. The Air Ministry is ready to try our
Luftgeist
out!'

My soul, repressed for so long, began to come to life again. ‘Where are we going, sir?' I expected him to name a nearby airfield.

‘I must stay here with my duties. But you, F2106, are privileged to be going at once to Burgos by special train. The Führer wishes the
Luftgeist
, which does not officially exist, to have immediate trials in the Spanish arena. A matter of secrecy. We do not want the world to know too much about Germany's business. Your great moment is almost here. I envy you. You will have a chance to meet those filthy Reds at first hand!'

My ship is called
The Death of Hope
.

My ship is called
Das Ende
.

I think we first met Moorcock in 1965. We had been to see Mrs Cornelius's children in their pantomime for Holland Park Comprehensive. Mr Auchinek the impresario convinced the school to revive a harlequinade from the turn of the century. The show was very colourful: faded golds, scarlets, deep blues and greens, with plenty of stage tricks and people in big heads. I supplied the old costumes. I bought them in Hastings as bankrupt stock. Auchinek was in love with Mrs Cornelius and so he put all three of her offspring into starring rôles. Jerry played Pierrot, Frank was Harlequin and Catherine was Columbine. We expected them to go on to successful stage careers in those days. Even Miss Brunner thought Jerry would be the next Dick Bogarde.

Everyone enjoyed themselves, though I found it all a little vulgar and chaotic. They received write-ups in the
Kilburn Advertiser
and the
Kensington Post
, and Moorcock came to interview them at Blenheim Crescent. He lived round the corner in Colville Terrace and worked for the magazines as a free-lance. His piece appeared in
Plays and Players
, but it was too short, made fun of the whole thing and got half its facts wrong. He thought it heralded a rebirth of the old-fashioned panto. Personally I would have sued him. Mrs Cornelius was pleased with it. Frank and Jerry hated it. Catherine said she thought Moorcock meant well.

The pantomime,
The Crock of Oil; or, Harlequin Imperator
, was put on at the old Kilburn Empire. We walked there from Ladbroke Grove, across Harrow Road up to Kilburn High Road. The traffic is terrible on the Harrow Road. We had attempted to find a taxi, but it was impossible. You can spend hours trying to cross against that noisy traffic. It comes in from the west and north, all lorries, buses and vans. It is filthy there. We were late for the performance but were allowed to stand at the back until the first interval when we found our seats. People were very kind. We still enjoyed that
atmosphere of camaraderie which has since vanished from the neighbour-hood. Nobody has any manners these days since Labour came to power. Once they used to die in church in that good old-fashioned way, celebrating mass. These days they clutch at their hearts as they leave the pub or get on a bus. They die in the street, like animals.

‘You take one day at a time, Ive,' Mrs Cornelius tells me. She smiles in reminiscence. ‘There's somefink abart your Aye-taye airmen, say what you like. They're sexy.'

She is talking about her time on Majorca after she left Berlin. She stayed with Desmond Reid after she went there with Major Nye, who was acting as an observer for the British government, but all the Italians thought he was a military spy. They treated him with cheerful goodwill. They were euphoric, he told me. They had tremendous morale. Later I was to experience a little of this myself.

We stop on the bridge to watch Concorde go over. What a beautiful plane she is, I say. I never received credit for her, but I am so glad to have seen her fly before I die.

‘Wot d'yer mean, yer morbid old bugger?' she says.

That ship is the future, I tell her. One day the airways will be full of such beautiful craft.

‘One day,' she says, ‘we'll be able to afford a ticket on ‘em.'

Sometimes I think she has no poetry. I sigh. ‘You are a cynic.'

‘If yer say so, Ive.'

‘Think what that plane symbolises, dear Mrs C. What her name promises. Unified Europe. A balance of power against communism and rank American materialism. One day all planes will fly beyond the speed of sound. They will be graceful and beautiful again.' We hear the distant bang as she reaches her cruising speed and disappears. ‘They bring harmony back to the world.'

She puts her arm through mine. She is affectionate. ‘Yer silly ol' sod,' she says.

Mrs Cornelius is modesty personified. She continues to insist she was neither my guardian angel nor my saviour in those pre-war days. She was never in prison, and they lied to me to stop me escaping. But I do not believe her. She was arrested by the Gestapo, I know, for helping me. Pure coincidence, she says, that she left Berlin for Spain. She knew there was a war on, but she'd thought the Balearics would be all right. She'd had such a nice time there before. She had already left Berlin before I was taken to the Institute. Then when Reid went back, she was stuck in Majorca with, as she puts it,
that rather jolly bunch of Italian airmen. She didn't see much of Major Nye. He was busy in Palma, and she did most of her entertaining in Andratx, well away from any politics. I think she protests too much. Her influence saved me. My love for her never falters. My faith is always refreshed. My gratitude never fades. She is my muse and my ideal. Technically we are still married, but I will not formalise the matter until I can bestow my true name and title upon her. I have explained this to her, and she accepts the problem with her usual generosity.

Some years ago when I had sold the icon I discovered and had some decent money, I wrote away to one of those genealogy people who make you your family arms and trace your ancestors. I gave them what information I could. They sent me back an heraldic shield. In one quarter were the arms of the Romanoffs, in another the arms of the Pyatnitskis, but the other two quarters they left blank. They said the Soviets had made it hard to trace my relatives. So many had died. So many were in exile. If I could give them more information they would be happy to continue the search. And continue taking my money! I said. To tell me what I already know. Mrs Cornelius agreed. She read their letter. ‘It's a racket, Ivan.'

Most people round here call me Peters, a name they can easily remember. Peters is on my bills. Only formally will I give my name as Pyatnitski or Pyat, and even this is not my actual identity. She knows I am a colonel. Sometimes she still introduces me as Colonel Pyat. Her little Cossack. I would be so proud if, before I died, I could make her a princess. I would take her on a honeymoon around the world aboard the
Queen Elizabeth 2
. We would fly home on Concorde. One can still enjoy life in a civilised way, if one has money. There remains a chance that someone will take up one of my patents.

Mrs Cornelius never speaks of her own ordeal as a prisoner of the SS when she was used to ensure my own cooperation. I had no choice but to obey them, or she would have suffered.

After I left the Institute, I was put on a train, together with a crate containing my machine, to Burgos, which Generalissimo Franco had made his capital. The old town was teeming with military people, including many Italians and Germans. I even found a German graveyard beside one of the churches. I was introduced to Herr von Stohler, a gaunt, introspective civilian in charge of my project, and he explained how he wanted to test the
Luftgeist
. The machine would have only Spanish markings, he said. He wanted no hint of its being German, and since I was also a Spanish citizen, I would be able to pilot her without arousing suspicion. ‘We are very grateful
to you, Professor Gallibasta.' He was rather relieved to see me, he said. He was courtesy personified. I almost wept with gratitude to be treated as an equal again. At the moment most of the German squadrons were deployed further south. In the north the Italians were far too undisciplined as flyers and they possessed no useful observation aircraft themselves. They were as likely to frighten the enemy off before the Reds could be engaged. My machine was just what the doctor ordered.