The Vengeance of Rome

‘But you have nothing to tell me,’ she said. ‘I already know all there is to know.’ Her smile was unfriendly.

‘I do not understand,’ I said. ‘I have been abroad for so long.’

‘Indeed,’ she said. She was lucky enough to be in possession of an entire dossier on my movements since I had left Constantinople and turned up in Paris in the expatriate community. She had some wonderful news cuttings from America, for instance. As she murmured her triumph, I could barely keep my composure. She spoke quietly and we were not overheard, but I suspect she did not care if there were listeners. It appeared, she said, that I had swindled my way across at least two continents before hiding myself in Cairo.

I told her that I had had no chance of defending myself. I had been protecting others. She knew me. Was I a monster?

I do not believe I have ever been as wounded by laughter. I begged her to take a glass of tea with me. ‘And now I know where you are,’ she said, and swept into the crowded lobby, leaving through the glass doors to a car. I still did not know where she lived. All I had was a name. I seriously regretted my impatience in leaving Röhmannsvilla.

It took several hours for a room to be found for me. Some sort of crisis was afoot. The political situation in Germany remained highly volatile. Banks were closing down, and ordinary people were panicking. The radio and newspapers appealed for people to keep their heads. But they had nothing else to lose. There were dozens of rumours about seizures of power, tycoons fleeing the country, a peasant army on its way to Berlin. They grew increasingly fantastic. I had too many other things on my mind. I tried to put a telephone call through to Rome, to Margherita Sarfatti. I could contact no one else without arousing suspicion.

I barely understood the news. So much had been going on, I suppose, that it was impossible to explain. New names were everywhere. Old ones had vanished. This situation was critical. That one was calm. In the end I decided to wait until I met a party friend who would explain everything to me.

Luckily the hotel made no fuss about my bill. They had been reassured earlier by Putzi’s involvement with me and had seen me arrive in an SA car flying the Stabschef’s flag. My room was a little small and at the back of the hotel looking down on the garages, but I was lucky to have it.

I made several more telephone calls. Erna Hanfstaengl, Putzi’s sister, told me her brother was in Berlin. ‘They’re all in Berlin, Max. There’s a different crisis every twenty-four hours. I doubt if anyone will be back in Munich until the weekend at least.’

It soon became evident, especially after my encounter with the Baroness, that this was the best time to leave. I would offend no one. They were all too involved with their politics. Yet I still had no money and no credit. In the atmosphere of panic, there would be little I could sell which would raise me what I needed. I decided to try my friends in the Roman press corps. Tom Morgan was in Milan. I left a message with his secretary. I put through another call to Billy Grisham, but again the lines were saturated. Eventually someone from his bureau got through to me. They thought I was their Munich stringer. They told me Grisham was already in Berlin. When I asked for his number they said it was the same as always. I had made them suspicious.

None of the other numbers I tried were of any use. Some had been changed while I was away. I felt totally isolated in the middle of so much urgent activity. I did not, of course, wish to call Röhm, for I knew he would object to my leaving. Göring, my other important acquaintance, was still, I understood, with his dying wife. That newborn Bait Seryozha was as likely to want to borrow from me as lend me the money for my ticket, and I had other reasons for not wishing to resume contact with him. He had clearly been dropped by Röhm.

My inattention to the newspapers for the past couple of weeks meant that everything I overheard was a mystery. The only familiar names were Hindenburg and Hitler. Chiefly the conversation was about money and business and the failure of the banks. The consensus was that America, with considerable troubles of her own, could no longer keep Germany afloat. Once again the Fatherland faced the appalling inflation of earlier years. Already people were becoming suspicious of cash. I felt that I should buy my ticket before I needed millions just to tip the conductor. I tried the Bürgerbräukeller, the Hofbräuhaus, the Eberlbräuhaus, the Löwenbräuhaus and the Löwenbräukeller, all favourite Nazi beer cellars. The young men in the Thorbräukeller, a regular meeting place for the SA, were positively rude. I found no one I recognised.