The Vengeance of Rome

Driven more by instinct than reason, I slipped from the flat and made my way to the station, taking side streets wherever possible. I had no plan and very little sense of what I was doing except following old impulses. I did not dare take a bus, certainly not a taxi. I was in a kind of trance, not sure I was really free, still ‘in the nightmare’, that state of refined terror which I had felt in Odessa, in Oregon and later in Cairo. I felt I had a target painted on my back.

I believed I was liable to random attack at any time from bloodthirsty, savage men. Men without reason who would howl after me, throwing stones and bricks at me, hunting me down until they caught me then tearing me to pieces. I had seen them do it in the past, during the Civil War in Russia and to those who would not conform in the United States. I remembered the pogroms in Odessa when I had seen anonymous Jews hunted to their deaths by overzealous Cossacks, I had already been mistaken for a Jew more than once in Stadelheim and could not risk it happening again. The only difference was that my face was well known to hundreds of thousands. I was a famous film star. I was even more vulnerable.

I tried to console myself. My privations had changed my appearance considerably. I had lost weight. The shaving mirror had shown me gaunt, hollow-eyed and exhausted. Nobody, I told myself, could possibly know me now. But I certainly did not much look like a confident and prosperous citizen.

Using such a circuitous route, avoiding any street with a policeman or SS man in it, I did not reach the main railway station for some time. Slowly I formed a plan. I was not a wanted man in Italy. I must try to make it back to Rome. There I could either throw myself on the mercy of Signora Sarfatti or hope to explain myself to Il Duce. I was sure he would at least give me his protection if he heard what had happened to me. And if nothing else, I was in a position to let him know what was going on in Germany. Mussolini could be cruel to those he took against, but he could be generous even to his enemies.

On the great concourse I went straight to the foreign desk and purchased a ticket to Rome, via Innsbruck and Milan. The man at the desk seemed surprised but gave me no problem. He seemed nervous, even ill. I tried to chat to him. He would not reply. His eyes were everywhere but on his job. When I turned to find the appropriate platform, I was astonished. The station was teeming with black uniforms. The SS were out in strength, inspecting documents, searching no doubt for those who had escaped them the night before. My SA credentials were less than useless to me. The sooner I got rid of them, I thought, the better it would be.

I looked to see if the Rome Express was in. Then I realised it made no difference. I could not afford to be caught and have my bag searched. Even as I looked, more and more SS troops piled out of trucks and buses into the station. Children and women were as liable to receive their attention as adult men. Feeling strangely invisible, like a ghost, I quietly melted again into the busy backstreets. This was not the right time for me to leave the city, but I no longer knew what to do. I could not seek out Mrs Cornelius. She was already, by many accounts, in Berlin. She would help me. But how could I get to Berlin? There must be more than one SA man out there wearing civilian clothes and wondering how he could escape to his home town or village. Anxious not to attract attention, I walked slowly back the way I had come. Every so often a car might slow down, and I even heard men cursing at me, but they had other prey that day and drove on.

Back at the Viktualienmarkt the sound of the barrel organ grew louder, reminding me that I might find help there. The warm bustle of the shoppers around me was a comfort. I saw no SS people, just the occasional ordinary Bavarian policeman, stolid, friendly and as reassuring as always. Here was the old, familiar Munich. Everything appeared exactly as it had been for centuries. Sure enough my friend Signor Frau was turning the crank of his organ, his son was rattling the box through the audience and little Zoyea was dancing like an angel along the kerb. If anything she was more beautiful. Tears welled in my eyes as I knew a tremendous surge of relief.

My bag at my feet, I stood on the edge of the pavement watching her. For three months she had been a memory, a fantasy. So powerful was the reality of her presence that I did not trust myself to approach her. For half an hour I stood there, hoping she would see me. I was now completely clean-shaven. Every so often her brother would come by with the wooden collecting box, and I would slip a coin in. He frowned at me once or twice but did not recognise me. It was not until Zoyea’s eyes met mine that I knew she remembered. She paused in her steps and blinked. Yet almost immediately her expression hardened. No doubt she blamed me for abandoning her without a word. Perhaps she knew I had been in prison and suspected me of being a criminal. I had never found an opportunity to tell anyone what was happening to me. After all, I had left my flat thinking I would be away for an hour at most. She could not have known anything. Wishing to avoid any sort of scene, I ignored Zoyea and her brother and went up instead to her father, raising my hat.