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 am, sir, an American citizen. I served in the War. I fought the Bolsheviks. My family is as old as history. Surely you are not suggesting . . . ?’
‘I would not insult you.’
I relaxed to a degree, but my peace of mind was destroyed. Surely Röhm had not betrayed me? What motive would he have? To keep me quiet? Impossible. If he had wished to be rid of me, he would have killed me himself or had one of his SA people do it. We shared too many secrets. More likely one of Röhm’s enemies was behind this. Streicher? No. Doubtless one of the new ‘Berliners’, like Goebbels. Johnny-come-latelys who had jumped on the Nazi bandwagon as soon as it showed signs of success. Well, they would not crack me! I resolved to keep Röhm’s secrets, and my own at all costs. I, who had endured the Cossack whip and the exquisite tortures of al-Habashiya, would not easily reveal anything to these people. I have not eaten that which is unclean. Anubis is my friend. I played with the blind children. I became reconciled to my own murder. I who was dead am resurrected. I who have remained pure have endured the torments of death and the land of death and am whole again. I know there is a life to come. I have been promised that life.
I had to give up my documents, my wallet and whatever small change I had in my pockets, but I was not searched. I still had enough sneg to last several days, by which time I was sure I would be out. The officer asked, almost as an afterthought, if I was armed. A pistol, perhaps, for self-defence? I was furious. ‘My dear sir!’
I was back in the nightmare. I had thought never to be in it again.
Still in my overcoat I was handed over to two brown-shirted SA men, who escorted me up several flights of stairs. They addressed me with gruff lack of respect. The first was a young man with a pale, thin mouth and uncertain green eyes; the second was an older man, who had the manner of a regular army NCO. They were cheerful enough, though they called me a ‘rascal’ as if I were some sort of criminal, and told me it would do ‘my kind’ good to see the inside of a jail for a few days. Even then, said the older man, I would never know what it was like to serve in the trenches. It was on the tip of my tongue to reveal to them how I had served with the Don Cossacks, but this would have required further explanation, and besides, I had been fighting against Germans.
Collecting myself, I asked what they meant by ‘a few days’, and they refused to reply. I said that I fully expected to be free by that afternoon. I was an honest, hard-working professional man. I had paid the German government large amounts of tax. I folded my arms in an attitude of contempt as, at last, we arrived at a dank guardhouse. Here I was handed over to two regular prison warders, who showed none of the uncertainty of the others. They were older men, rough and ready, but not without an air of humanity. Admittedly there was a military atmosphere to the place, but also a sense that if you behaved yourself, ‘kept a clean nose’, as they say, you would not suffer any particular indignity. The Munich police had a reputation for fairness. I was sure I would be released within hours when they discovered my papers to be all in order. The worst that could happen was that I would be held overnight until Röhm or Göring were contacted.
Their paperwork done, I was escorted along another passage until we reached a door with the enamelled number 47 screwed to it. The guard unlocked this and flung it open. ‘Grüss Gott, gentlemen! You have a new roommate.’ His voice was charged with aggressive sarcasm. ‘Out you come. At attention, if you please!’
Three men came blinking into the bright, electric light of the corridor.
My first impression was that I was to be thrown in with the worst kind of desperadoes. They were unshaven, pale-looking creatures who wore a motley collection of clothing and had dirty, dishevelled hair. What were they? Thieves? Forgers? Kidnappers?
‘Very well. Back in you go!’
I followed them into the dimness, natural light falling through the single, high, barred window of the cell. I regarded them uneasily in case they attacked me. Four bunks were stacked in pairs on either side of us. A WC stood between the bunks. Graffiti on the walls. A stink of urine and sweat.
‘You’ve missed lunch,’ said the youngest man with some satisfaction, as the door was swung shut behind me. I heard bolts being rammed home and knew a moment’s panic.
‘You haven’t missed much. Lunch is best avoided.’ The tallest of the prisoners came forward, extending his hand. ‘Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to purgatory. Are you a transfer?’At my questioning frown, his smile broadened. ‘Have you been in the lions’ pit before, or are you a new boy?’
I was surprised by his confident, educated tone. I thought at first I had been confined with some kind of crooked salesman but as I grew used to the murky early-afternoon light I saw that all three of my fellow prisoners wore the good-quality clothes of upper-class Germans.
The man who greeted me shook my hand. ‘Good afternoon. Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, at your service.’ He had the easy grace and refined good looks once associated with the best sort of Austrian nobleman, exactly what he was. The other two prisoners were Doctor Bach, a prominent Munich businessman, and Herr Helander, a Swedish journalist. Doctor Bach soon returned to his bunk, on which were stacked all kinds of foodstuffs, paper parcels and suitcases. In an attitude of despair, he stared around at packets of dates, chocolates, fruit, chicken, several different kinds of sausages, thermos flasks of soup, tea and coffee, bread, cakes and pickles. Many of them still in their commercial wrappers, the foodstuffs made his bunk look like a stall in the covered market. Even the open suitcases appeared to be full of food. He had been brought here from a single cell yesterday, he said, and was expecting to leave at any time. His wife had brought the provisions that morning. For all his edible wealth, Doctor Bach was the least cheerful of the three. He had expected to be gone from the cell by now. The day before, when being transferred, he had been told he would be leaving that morning. He had mistaken my arrival for the guards coming with his release. Now, his expectations dashed, his tiny black eyes filled with tears.
Helander had no such expectations. He was a photojournalist who had been in Ettstrasse since early March and, like Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, had contributed to the Catholic press, though he had never attacked the Nazis directly. Admittedly his pictures for Paris Match had not been entirely flattering. Born in Malmo, he had lived in Munich for years, and his wife was from Munich. He was a little cynical. Without aristocratic connections, he was less likely to be released. He apologised for his present low spirits. Because the arresting officers had found some of his French publications, he believed he might very likely die here, unless he was first transferred to Stadelheim or Dachau. Stadelheim was the Munich prison where Hitler had been incarcerated after his failed putsch before being transferred to Landsberg, where he wrote most of Mein Kampf. Dachau was a brand new facility, a modern work camp designed to house hundreds of social outcasts, including communists and anarchists who had acted in some way, either in word or deed, against the interests of the German nation. I had seen an article about it in the VB. In rather austere but clean surroundings, men would be expected to serve their time and return, invigorated, to the job of restoring Germany to her place as a power among nations. The camp had been on the newsreels.
I could not imagine I was bound for Stadelheim, let alone Dachau. I told my new companions that I was innocent of any crime. I had left my home early this morning with two policemen to report a burglary. All I could think at the moment was that I was a victim of a bureaucratic accident and would be released after a short hearing. I was not even a German.