The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
I asked him if he had liked the girl. Oh, yes, he said. He and she had got on very well, though she was a little boisterous with him in her country way. She had been a happy little thing. But sometimes she would sink into dark, black moods. He had seen the Führer at his wits’ end with her. This was the first time I had heard someone close to Hitler use the Führer title without irony. It meant ‘guide’ as well as ‘leader’. It fell naturally from the young man’s lips. I admired his commitment to his Chief, even if my own recent impression of Hitler was somewhat different.
How was he so familiar with Geli’s state of mind? Well, of course, it was in all the papers. Even those not vehemently anti-Nazi. She and he had been great pals. A jolly, outgoing person fresh as a mountain flower, she had never lived in a big city before which no doubt put an extra strain on her. She could hardly have known what she was doing. But if you read some of the papers, you’d think Hitler had taken a gun and shot her himself. Wasn’t it disgusting what a cynical press did with tragedy! These days no limits were put on the indecencies and uncollaborated scandal they published.
Von Schirach was innocently sincere. I could not help being charmed by one so young for his age but full of zeal and idealism. I saw no mystery in Hitler’s liking for him, why Hitler had put him in charge of the movement’s idealistic boys. Von Schirach said he would be leaving for the capital fairly soon. Meanwhile, a stiff, old-fashioned Prussian bow and a heel click, given a somewhat burlesque quality by his clothes, and he was at my service. As his boys hefted my luggage, he passed an aristocratic word with the porter and led the way from the hotel. In French I complimented him on his English. He laughed easily. His mother was American, he said. She had been in the theatrical profession and had never bothered to learn German, so he had spoken English until he went to his primary school. His father, though a member of the Prussian Officer Corps, was a great cosmopolitan and famous in Weimar as a theatre director. He had run the Court Theatre, which I presumably knew. ‘We have a great deal in common, Herr Peters. I have a background already in show business, you see!’
His laughter was open and refreshing. His attempts to create a bond, assuming acting to be my main occupation, were kindness itself. He became more serious. ‘And my family was always very open-minded. They didn’t complain much at all when I joined the Nazis. Of course, it wasn’t the first patriotic organisation I had been in. Now they and Herr Hitler are great pals. He was so sympathetic over Uncle Karl. And that perhaps is why my heart goes out to him now. My uncle killed himself from shame after the sell-out at Versailles. I hate those bastards who stabbed the German fighting man in the back. I’m determined to devote my life to Germany. My family supported me absolutely. I could have joined the Nationalists or one of the more conventional parties, but they did not object. They have always had bohemian friends even before they knew our Führer.’
He told me all this as we walked rapidly towards the tram stop, his greatcoat flapping around his bare legs, trailed by the Brownshirt boys lugging my bags. The pavements were crowded with busy shoppers and workers beginning to wrap up against the mid-autumn air. The shops were stuffed already with seasonal delights. You would never know the country stood on the brink of economic collapse. I understood the importance of creating a mood of optimism. Every grocery was a riot of red, gold, silver, green and blue. Every carpet shop and furniture store displayed the latest geometric ‘jazz’ patterns. Every third doorway offered the delights of coffee, chocolate and vanilla strudel, their scents mingling with the sour-sweet smell of beer and sausages. The city was warmed by the acrid stink of cigar smoke and burning oil in the sharpening air. The cafes were full. Music from the latest films poured out of them. Everywhere they were playing Lilian Harvey’s wonderful ‘Das gibt’s nur einrnal, das kommt nicht wieder’ — ‘This Happens Once and Never Again’ — which had been the big moment in Der Kongress tanzt. Hinting at a return to the old German values, the song made such a change from the wild, unmusical rhythms of the jungle and the American ghetto which Berliners, at least, had taken to in their millions. I thought about Mr Mix. He would have done well to go to Berlin where to be black was to find instant employment!
In Munich smart uniforms were still in evidence. Policemen, postmen, civil servants, students, Storm Troopers, Stahlhelm, regular soldiers, Salvation Army and others were everywhere, but the War had taken the best of us. An ambulance sang by, scattering horses and cars. Little boys ran in its wake. I watched them until my view was blocked by a great bakers dray full of hot bread, drawn by a team of massive shire horses. With a police constable’s help, it turned against the traffic like a great ship taking the wind.
Overhead was a lattice of wires for telephones and electricity. Other cables powered the blue-and-white trams jingling and banging with festive clatter along the broad thoroughfare between tall trees whose golden leaves already clogged the gutters. Horses and motor vehicles jostled, clinked and hooted at pedestrians who dodged in and out of the traffic, much to the disgust of matrons and chauffeurs. Everywhere, in banners and placards, Oktoberfest was anticipated. Already the Bavarian peasant farmers with their equally stolid sons could be seen on the streets. Many of them wore their traditional best. The praises of films were shouted in banner print. Voruntersuchung!! (Storms of Passion), Der Mann, der seinen Mötder sucht. That last was a strange title which struck a chord. How could a man go in search of his own murderer? I never saw the film and so never discovered the answer.
Willy Fritsch and Charlie Chaplin smiled out at us. Betty Annan lifted her skirts to dance. Emil Jannings was sober and stern. Familiar faces. Marlene Dietrich. Joan Crawford. The big success was Monte Carlo Madness with the debonair Hans Albers, whom some thought I rather resembled. Louise Brooks. Lilian Harvey. Lon Chaney. Advertisements for beer and political parties added more vivid colour to kiosks, cable standards, postboxes and walls, wherever they would stick. Hindenburg was presented as a vital old knight, his stern eyes staring over his proud Prussian moustachios towards his hinted-at retirement. Many showed pictures of Hitler striking heroic poses as saviour of the Fatherland. Nazi banners boldly confronted the Marxist invaders. The threat from the East was a reality to these people who had lived close to the marches where Christianity came face to face with Islam and her allies. But for a miracle, and the courage of a few fighters, Bavaria would be Communist to this day.
Other posters warned of Jewish power. Still others exhorted us to vote Communist, Nationalist, Christian Socialist, Social Democrat, Anarcho-Syndicalist and for Flag and Country. A dozen millennial visions were pasted across the posts and kiosks and walls of that busy modern town. Perhaps it was too late for us to turn again to the New?
In my view the Nazis were wrong to stop publication of the Bible. They should have let the Old Testament fade into history, remembered only by obscure denominations, revered by a few marginalised sects, like the Apocrypha. The Old Testament and our continued reference to it to this day maintain the Jewish influences all decry but none ever properly address. I cannot understand why such organisations as the White Defence League warn all who will listen about the Bolshevik Jewish threat, yet every Sunday happily tucks its propaganda under their arms and sets off for church! L’histoire est un perpetuel recommencement.