The Vengeance of Rome

Nearing twilight, the air grew cold and the light dim as I approached the house. Not very long ago I had accepted such luxury as Prince Freddys as normal. Now I received suspicious stares from the few people I passed. I was too tired to care what they thought as I trudged up the avenue rehearsing in my mind how I would approach Badehoff-Krasnya. He owed me something. I hoped the sight of me would at least embarrass him and make him take me in. I was obsessed with the thought of warm clothing. I imagined I could get an overcoat from him, a bowl of hot soup, some socks, a bit of sausage. Some bread. Even more than the food I wanted some kind of recognition, for I was beginning to doubt my own identity.

At last I saw the house and walked up the drive, feeling the sharpness of the gravel under my thin soles. No lights shone anywhere. Had Prince Freddy fled with Kitty, perhaps to Hungary?

Like an automaton I rang the bell. It echoed into silence. I knocked and the house responded with that hollow, dead sound which tells you a building is empty. I knocked again and again, until the last of my strength had gone, and then I sat on the step and wept.

Later, hearing soft footfalls in the drive, I looked up. A tall figure emerged from the twilight. He wore a well-cut leather coat, a heavy fur hat, a scarf. I envied him those clothes. He must be very warm.

Approaching me, the man paused, his voice soft, enquiring, even sympathetic. It took a moment for me to realise he was speaking Russian. My spirits leapt. And then fell. Could it be Brodmann?

‘Dimka, is that you?’

Dimka? Few any longer knew me by that name. I must indeed be hallucinating! The last time I had seen this man was in the deep Sahara. By now he must surely be dead. Logically, if he were dead then I too was dead and a friend of the dead. Not only did I no longer care if this were true, I welcomed it. Shaking, I rose to my feet, my arms outstretched.

‘Kolya! Oh, Kolya. It is so good to hear you again. I can’t believe it’s you. Are we dead?’

‘Not at all, Dimka dear. Speaking for myself, I am very much alive. Dimka, Dimka. What has become of you?’ He was standing over me, his hands reaching out to embrace me, to lift me up. When I saw his smiling face, I began to weep. ‘I suspect I feel a little more alive than you at the moment.’

I clung to him. ‘Oh, Kolya. You are an angel of providence. I can’t believe it. Where have you been? How did you find me?’

His laughter was soft. He was a little older, of course, but just as handsome, just as aristocratic in every movement he made. I had never loved any man as much as Count Nikolai Feodorovitch Petroff.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked again.

‘Oh, Berlin, most recently. Before that I was in Prague for a while. And, of course, Libya.’

‘What are you doing in Munich? Are you a friend of Prince Freddy’s?’

‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘My people told me you were here. This place has been under surveillance. I have a new job these days, working for the government.’

‘What are you doing? Intelligence work?’

‘You’ve guessed it, Dimka dear.’ He reached a black-gloved hand to the lapel of his coat, which he turned back to display a small badge. He seemed at once embarrassed and amused. ‘I’m in the special branch of the political police. I was recruited last year. The Russian section.’

I grew dizzy with relief. I had a friend in the police, a new, powerful ally.

I let Kolya guide me back down the drive to the street. It was almost dark. Cars and trams went by on the distant main street. I smelled woodsmoke and pines. As we reached the kerb a car drew up. Kolya bent to open the back door. ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to get in, Dimka dear. We’ve been wondering if you were still in Munich.’

I obeyed him. The car was comfortable and warm. I saw only the back of the driver’s head. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Gestapo headquarters. There are some questions we need you to answer for us. We’ll give you some coffee.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Would there be any chance of a sandwich, too, perhaps?’

Of course, I had gone mad. Kolya, unlike all the others in whom I had invested my love and trust, save Mrs Cornelius, would never betray me. But he did have an onerous job to do. He had been commissioned to seek out his fellow Russians and compile dossiers on them for his masters. Better than anyone, he knew who the émigrés were and what their politics were. He knew where to find them. He knew the political colour of their groups, the cafes and restaurants they frequented, the magazines and books they published. Earlier he had been sent to interrogate Prince Freddy, after the ‘Mongol’ had been rearrested for peddling pornography. His predecessors had looked over all the blackmailer’s materials, including films, photographs and the Frau Oberhauser scrapbooks. Little of Badehoff-Krasnya’s career was unknown to Kolya. His job was to investigate everything and everyone associated with such people. Kitty was in Budapest. She had been released after she betrayed both her master and myself. I had wanted to make her my new Esmé, but she secured her freedom by telling the Gestapo what they wanted. She had accused me of molesting her at an early age, branded me a pederast and a paedophile. Her statements were shown to me. She had told them I was a Jew and informed them of my Russian alias. When Kolya had received my dossier, he had known me immediately. But he had not known how to save me.