The Vengeance of Rome

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 Lehar 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.