The Vengeance of Rome

‘Good news, Dimka. The authorities have at last reviewed your case. Those letters and designs you sent to Reichspräsident Göring? You have convinced them of your usefulness. Your efforts have not been wasted.’

Only dimly can I make sense of what he says. ‘Convinced?’

‘Your design for flying infantry, I believe. They don’t tell me much. Now war has broken out in Spain we have a practical theatre in which to test your idea. You are to go to Berlin, to a special camp. You will be given the chance to build your prototype.’

Uncertain whether or not this is some SS joke, I give no reaction. If I knew what was expected of me I would display the appropriate behaviour.

‘I’d have thought you’d be delighted, Dimka!’

I understand then that I must smile. I do my heroic best.

‘Excellent.’ Kolya puts his beautiful hand on my shoulder blade. ‘I am to take you to the Institute myself.’

Had my friend rescued me at last?

August 1937. After I had showered and been equipped with a civilian suit, Kolya took charge of me. We entered a large Mercedes with a chauffeur. At once the car began moving.

The landscape, so lush and golden with harvest, was too rich for me. I felt almost nauseated by the sight of it. The food we ate on the way was difficult to hold down. I had to close my eyes to keep the images in. If I opened them for too long I began to cry. Sometimes Kolya would pat my arm and offer me a little distant comfort. Sometimes he would croon to me. ‘There, there. It’s over. You’ve paid your debt. It’s over.’ But I could no longer really believe that. I did not know there had been a debt to pay.

Once I ventured to ask him who had issued the instructions for me to be taken from Dachau. He would not tell me.

‘Circles far above my head, dear.’

Kolya could not be responsible for my imprisonment. Maybe Mrs Cornelius was responsible for my release. Perhaps she had spoken to our old friend Göring. He was a well-known humanitarian. But what if this were an SS charade? I did not allow myself to hope too much.

At night we reached a group of buildings protected by a high concrete wall. As the car’s great lamps threw the compound into shadowy perspective I thought at first they were film studios.

Kolya seemed relieved we had arrived. When we got out of the car, we were greeted by a man in SS uniform to whom Kolya gave my papers. ‘You’ll have to sign for him,’ he said.

‘Are you leaving me, Kolya?’

‘For the moment,’ he said. ‘By the way. Your friend Mrs Cornelius is in custody. She will be well treated if only you cooperate fully with us.’

In a state of some shock I was taken directly to the SS cells. Was I to meet Mrs Cornelius here? The cells were clean, well ordered and smelled strongly of pine disinfectant. I answered basic questions: my name, nationality and political affiliations. The interrogator’s sallow face was shadowed by the peak of his cap. Satisfied with my answers, he made some rapid marks on the papers in front of him and grunted. I had learned never to speak until spoken to. He got up and left me standing at attention. Tired as I was I did not move until another SS man returned and told me to follow him.

I went with him across a courtyard into a taller building, along several identical lime-washed corridors until we arrived at a door painted pale green. ‘These will be your quarters.’ He pushed the door open and made me go in ahead of him. He showed me the sink with running water, a glass, a chamber pot. He then left, closing the door behind him. I did not hear it lock.

Standing in the little cell of my own, with its pristine bed, its sheets and blankets, its radio set and its copy of Mein Kampf, I hardly dared to move, let alone undress and get into bed. Everything was antiseptically clean. Opening the top drawer of the little chest at the end of the bed, I found a pair of blue pyjamas, some slippers, not quite my size, some soap, a toothbrush, some toothpaste and other toiletries, all held in a little cotton bag which had my name and a number stencilled on the side: Prof. M. Gallibasta. At last they had recognised my qualifications and accepted me as Spanish!

But I was not free of the nightmare. I still trembled with terror as I put the pyjamas on, expecting the door to fly open and guards to be standing there. Even when I had settled between the sheets and switched off the light I listened for boots in the corridor. But it was quiet. There were no screams, no shouts, no barking dogs. Through the unbarred window I heard the ordinary sounds of a late-summer night.

In the morning came a knock on the door. Though I had slept very little I was in better spirits. Already up, I called for the person to come in. A tall, stooping white-haired man greeted me. He wore a loose, blue serge suit, a white shirt and a bow tie. Shaking hands, he introduced himself as Professor Mueller. I accompanied him to breakfast in a big, well-lit canteen full of other men and women clearly of our class, yet all carrying something of the familiar air of Lagerfliegen. They did not speak except to say ‘good morning’. Few smiled. I imitated them. Mueller offered me a little approving nod. ‘We are a monastic order here. We have taken a vow of silence. If we did not, we should be returned to our former condition. That is the first rule.’