The Vengeance of Rome

‘But you have also seen the films where the man is innocent of murder and everyone declares him guilty,’ I said. ’Don’t you remember the Masked Buckaroo story where I helped young Jane Gatling’s fiancé prove his innocence? That’s what happened to me.’

‘But you are the Masked Buckaroo!’

‘They refused to believe me.’

‘And they found out you were innocent?’

‘I was released this morning. I have been in the Stadelheim fortress!’

With deep concentration, she studied my face. At length she seemed satisfied. Suddenly her little hand had slipped into mine. She asked if I wanted to go to the pictures that evening. I smiled. If possible I would be glad to go. She told me disapprovingly it was almost impossible to see American cowboy films now. The cinemas were showing nothing but historical subjects. I asked if she had seen any Gloria Cornish movies, but she had not. She had seen Fräulein Cornish on the posters outside the cinema, however. She was specialising in musicals. ‘All these English actresses are singing nowadays.’ What of my own films? I asked. She said there had been one or two ‘Winnetou’ talkies, but they had not appeared in the big picture houses. The public didn’t care for the new ones. She read the movie magazines. Musicals and historical films were all the rage. That’s what were being made now. I should learn to sing, she suggested. Even in America the cowboys were all breaking into song. Gene Autry had thrown Tom Mix and Tim Holt into the shade. She seemed aware how my acting career, at least in Germany, was over. She might even have guessed I was lucky to be alive at all.

I could not tell her the SS were busy with their lists, arresting anyone suspected of being sympathetic to Röhm or Strasser. If I was on a list, I consoled myself, I was probably noted as having been arrested already. I now realise I actually attracted less attention than before the putsch. But prison had made me timid.

At last we reached the mews, arousing the curiosity of the few little children playing there. My Zoyea opened the door of their house. I quickly slipped inside. She took my bag upstairs, came down again and politely offered me a cup of coffee. With some relief I sank into Signor Frau’s easy chair. Zoyea busied herself in the kitchen. When she returned with the coffee and a piece of cake, I told her as much as was wise about my wrongful arrest and imprisonment, my sudden release. There was still some danger of my being arrested again. I hoped it would be possible for me to sleep in their organ shed until the authorities stopped showing such a keen interest in the railway station. My plan was to get to Rome as soon as possible.

Zoyea agreed enthusiastically that Germany wasn’t the same as it used to be. She herself hoped to go to Italy soon. Her father had talked of leaving. He thought life might be better for them in Spain. His cousin worked there and was full of praise for the new government. Here in Munich, she said, there were far too many gangs wandering the streets, attacking anyone they did not like. She herself had been insulted more than once, as had her father. As I knew, people called them Jews or worse. What had Italians had to do with killing Jesus? Surely Hitler must do something about all this. I agreed. If he did not, he would soon lose the goodwill of the German people. At that moment, however, I did not know if Hitler were imprisoned, alive or dead.

‘But those SA were among the worst.’ Zoyea doubtless repeated what she had heard in the market. ‘With them gone things will be better. Were you an SA, Herr Peters?’

How could I reply, having seen the murder of so many of our most disciplined and responsible SA at the hands of the SS? Was it only last night? I replied that the SS were no better. They merely had smarter uniforms.

Privately, I suspected Himmler would prove a snake in the grass. Even if Hitler survived he would have more to fear from Goebbels and Himmler than he ever had from Röhm. Röhm had put loyalty above everything else. I was sure Himmler planned to replace Hitler as Führer. I recalled the story of Macbeth, reflecting how applicable it was to the present situation. When you spilled your own people’s blood in the name of your cause, you inevitably began the destruction of that cause. For every honest soul murdered in Stadelheim and Dachau, a high price would be paid.

Nowadays newspapers find it fashionable to emphasise the Jewish lives lost in the camps, but people seem to forget that thousands of Nazis died in them, too, not to mention millions of innocent Slavs. Once the camps were established, the path was determined; they had to be fed. In the end, as at the beginning, it scarcely mattered who went to feed the monster. The Jews, Gypsies and Slavs were the most easily available, but we should remember that many Americans also died in Dachau, together with Czechs, Austrians, Hungarians, French and Italians. Were these not equally innocent? The monster is not a gourmet. The monster does not care what blood type he drinks. The stronger the blood, the better. The more blood, the merrier. Blood is worth more by the pint than wine, yet he drinks it as his master’s machines drink oil. He is voracious. And just as his master creates more machines to drink more oil, so he creates more machines which will drink blood.