The Vengeance of Rome (53 page)

‘Here she is, Alfy,' whispered Röhm. ‘Here she is.'

Hitler's pale, bloodshot eyes shifted from my mask to my legs to my panties, my crotch. His skin was a mottled silvery white illuminated with the deliquescence of a corpse. The familiar face, so stern and confident in his pictures, was puffed and lined with exhaustion. I noticed gelatinous moisture on his head and arms. The eyes remained a yearning vacuum, the eyes of an unfed incubus. I recoiled and then recovered. I made a sympathetic feminine sound. Once this was over, I reminded myself, I would be free. I was sick of fantasy. I would go to England, collect the money waiting for me, and resume my life.

Hitler spoke. His voice was a reedy vibrato, the voice of a sick child. ‘
Wer ist es?
'

‘Your friend,' murmured Röhm. ‘
Deine Freundin
.'

I held the dog whip like a sword as I drew a deep breath of the hellish atmosphere.

‘Dein Engel.'

I composed a smile.

‘Your angel.'

I lift my left leg and bring the red spike heel down between Hitler's naked shoulder blades. I push him flat to the dirty carpet. The spike depresses his white flesh and leaves an almost bloodless mark. I press again with the right foot. Another deep impression. The black leather of the dog whip caresses the back of his head. He is blubbering some sentimental nonsense into the pile.

—Shut up, you bad, filthy little louse. Filthy little louse-boy. Naughty louse-boy filth. Shit-eating, piss-drinking disgusting little Yid. Bad, bad, bad doggy. What are you?

—Bad doggy.

I balance myself and grind the red heel down into the left shoulder.

—Bad, dirty little Alfy. Bad, stupid little Yid bitch.

Another babble of wet grizzling. —
Mummy. Mummy
.

—Dirty, filthy worthless Yid louse. What are you?

—Worthless. Yid louse.

I grind again. —What are you?

—Worthless Yid louse, mistress.

—Dirty Yid louse eat shit.

There are now a dozen circles branded into his back. They look like the marks of the plague.

He grovels. His spittle makes my shoes glisten. I draw the whip across his head through his matted hair.

—Bad boy, I say softly. His tongue tastes my ankle. I am surprised at my own tone. —Dirty little Alfy. Dirty little shit. I am almost affectionate.

I draw back my arm. The heavy black whip is perfectly balanced. I could hold it like a foil, if I wished, between the tips of my fingers. But I grip it firmly, flexing my muscles as I gather my strength for the first blow.

Hitler's narrow bottom is lifted.

I lay a swift series of stripes across his buttocks. They are still very white but the blood is beginning to come up.

I begin another series of blows across the backs of his legs.

—Disgusting little queer. Dirty Yidshit queer. Filthy, stinking little shitheap. Naughty, naughty little pansy slut. What are you?

—Pansy slut, mistress.

I hardly hear the sounds he makes. The rhythmic whistling of the whip, the thick smack as it strikes yielding skin, the patterns criss-crossing the flesh, all absorb my interest.

—What are you, Yidshit?

—Filthy little Yidshit, mistress. Filthy Yidshit whore.

—You make me sick. You make me want to gag.

I piss in Hitler's mouth.

I spread my legs so that I look directly down on Hitler's white face.

I discharge a forceful stream of pale green-yellow urine. The urine soaks into his dark, matted hair. It glistens in his moustache. It runs down his chin, his ears, his neck and over his narrow chest, darkening the carpet. His breath becomes an eager gasp.

—Open your mouth, Yidslime.

The mouth obeys. An independent entity.

—
Mummy.

—Bad dirty Yidboy, dirty little slimeyboy. Drink it, queerboy. Drink it, wankerboy. Bad, bad, baddy boy. Drink it all up. Nasty, nasty, dirty boy.

I piss into the black depths. The liquid splashes loudly against his teeth, and makes a hollow sound as it cascades down the black void of his throat and into his skull.

—Yum-yum.

I shit in Hitler's eyes.

The loose stools fall one after another like wet, stinking eggs breaking on his gargling head. The excrement slides off the skin and slips to the floor, leaving brown streaks across the face.

—Yidshit queerboy. Cowardly, nasty, dirty whore.

—Ja! Ja!

—Disgusting, messy, dirty, sloppy, careless little pigyid.

—Ja! Ja!

I squat on his face.

—Foul little subhuman scum. Lick my arse clean.

He writhes and rolls. He begs for mercy. The smell is strong. His whole head and upper body are now covered in sticky filth.

—Bad, naughty, dirty Yidshit queerboy. Bad doggy Yidshit queerboy. Lick it up, dirty boy. Lick it all up for Mummy.

I force the dildo into Hitler's anus. I use my own shit to lubricate it. Hitler groans and shivers. He begins to beg me to stop. I push the dildo in harder. I take his ball and squeeze it. He begins to thrash. I clutch at his penis. It slips out of my hand. I take a tighter hold on it.

—Dirty little Yidqueer bad boy Mummy's bad boy dirty boy dirty dirty boy dirty Yidboy queer.

I dig my nails into the soft flesh. I twist the dildo to give him the maximum pain.

He starts to scream. The noise inspires my efforts. I shout at him. I jump back and kick him. I take the dildo out and shove it into his mouth to stop him blubbering.

—Shut up, queerbaby bumboy dirty queerboy bumbaby, crybaby Yidboy. Bad naughty Yidboy. Dirty Yidqueer bumboy. What are you?

—Dirty queerboy fuckmemummy.

He writhes on the floor at my feet, the dildo in his mouth, his cold eyes moving with a disturbing vitality.

—Bad dirty Yidboy queer. Bad boy, bad Alfy, bad, bad, bad Alfy.

—I didn't mean—I didn't want—I didn't do it—It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

—Only your fault.

The whip rises and falls. —Dirty boy. Bad boy.

I kick him to the ground so that he lies spreadeagled on his face. I walk on his back. I shout at him. I take the dildo and push it into him again.

—No, Mummy. No, Mummy. My angel, my angel …

—No isn't a word we use. Bad word. Naughty word. Punish dirty Alfy.

I take his head and grind it into the shit. I make him roll in the shit. I make him lick it up. I whip his legs. I bugger him with the dildo. I piss in
his mouth. I trample his body. I spit on his genitals. I shriek at him. I call him more names. But only the names I have been taught.

Blood pours from his rump. The room is like a slaughterhouse.

—Punish him. Bad Alfy. Bad Uncle Alfy.

—Please, Geli. Please, Geli.

His screams blended with my own.

I left him sobbing on the bed armoured in his own juices.

I looked back briefly as I closed his door. Through the filthy crust those pale, unsouled, unblinking eyes were staring at me, as if to remember me. Only for an instant did they meet mine.

They flickered with chilling triumph.

‘He has a beautiful mouth.' Röhm settles himself back in the deep seats of the car. He removes his soft hat, smoothes his military head. His scars are livid in the occasional flashes of artificial light from a streetlamp or window. He is periodically flung into deep, sharp shadows. Out of uniform, he always seems a little plastic and uncoordinated, as if the belts and stiff flannel help sustain his equilibrium. In repose he looks like a disappointed child. As I remove the lipstick and mascara, he sighs. The cigar he smoked before leaving is still on his breath.

‘Did you notice, Mashi, what a soft, beautiful mouth the Führer has? Like a girl. Of course, he'll want to kill us both after this. He'll savour the wait. Like a cat. He'll hardly know he's doing it, then he'll pick his moment. That's what he's good at. He understands sadism because he understands masochism. It involves patience, passivity. Only a few days ago he and I were reflecting how the world runs on sadism. Do you follow me, Max?'

My friend radiates a strange, euphoric humour. Perhaps sensing our lack of intimacy, he has become unusually loquacious. ‘The de Sades run the world. At the top, the cruel but high-minded soldiers, aristocrats and creative artists. Their orders are translated by honest bureaucrats, esteeming authority above everything, passing on the orders to brute sadists at the bottom. My SA boys, for instance. Scum for the most part, but the middle layer gives a political legitimacy to the whole operation. The decent middle doesn't understand the addictions and joys of sadism. They can even produce civilised rationalisations for everything! They're trained to understand only the notion of just punishment. They can't imagine the calculated use of terror as a refined political instrument. We have to accept these realities, even if we don't discuss them in public. The better we know our system, the better we can use it to effect. If we are to rebuild German civilisation, we
have to rid ourselves of the grime of Judaeo-Christian repression. We must learn to be healthy brutes again. Alf and I used to talk a lot about that. The power of cruelty, you know, to achieve high ideals. Channel your desires one way, and you become a criminal psychopath. Channel them another way, and you become a great political leader. We worked it out years ago. In the War. Those Jews in Vienna, imitating real people as ever, took our insights and sentimentalised them for the millions. Their pseudo-philosophers and -psychologists had a stranglehold on popular culture. But we were sustained by our secret knowledge. More romantic days, Mashi, in many ways. You're lucky to have me as your own personal guide!'

His wounded face shakes with humour. ‘I am your Virgil. You are my Dante! The conversations one has at the height of one's ecstasy! Every so often you remember them, and a taste of the ecstasy comes back. At least a taste of it, eh? I envy the young. I hate them.' Almost reminiscently he fingers his crotch.

Scarlet, white and gold, the great crucifix swings like a pendulum across my field of vision. How could Christ create Dachau? Scarlet and rich, dark gold through the scented smoke.
Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!
The crucifix sways in the hazy air. What Jew could know such grief, such joy in Christ?

When he said ‘kill us both', did he mean himself and Strasser?

Strasser was in front with the driver and heard none of this. He had folded his huge, shaven head down into the collar of his camel-hair coat and appeared to be sleeping.

‘Well, he'd hardly bother with me,' I said.

The Stabschef looked at me in surprise. His mind had been elsewhere. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier remarks. Then he smiled. ‘Oh, don't be too sure. Alf and me used to play such games. Such bloodthirsty games.' Röhm began to laugh. ‘He has a memory for detail, our Alf, even if he's inclined to forget the broader issues.'

‘Not in that state.' I had now removed all the make-up. Not at that level of possession. Something else had taken hold of him. I was a symbol. A memory. A substitute. I no longer existed.

‘Especially in that state,' said Röhm. ‘I know. He can be a mean little pincher and hair-puller, our girlie. Never remembers a favour. Never forgets a slight. Still, I only said he'll want to kill us. I didn't say he could. It's me and Strasser have to worry. You'll be fine, Mashi, while I look after you.' Then he chuckled in that pleasant, easy Bavarian way he had and slapped me on the knee. ‘Alfy can be tricky, but not that tricky. I'm his strength and he knows it. I keep his feet on the ground. Without the SA, the parliamentary party's
nothing. We're the muscle and they're the brains. I've never pretended to be anything else.'

He frowned for a moment and dug hard at a thumbnail, trying to clean it. His hands were not entirely knotted with arthritis and were still one of his best features. A sculptor's hands, strong and sensitive. No stranger would guess his daily pain. Scarcely a bone in his body had not been broken during and immediately after the War.

‘That's how I function and how I want to function. As a simple soldier. Once Alfy's brought the SA into the Reichswehr, all tension will be over. We'll have a people's army with people's officers. Alf's got to keep the generals sweet, but my men have been promised jobs and are getting impatient. They need proper army discipline. Alf will play the plutocrats at their own game. When the time comes their heads will roll. At heart he's still one of us. It's not him I'm worried about.' And then as if he had said too much, he closed his mouth so tightly that his lips whitened and made the scars over his nose and cheek look like the valleys of the moon. ‘He won't kill you, Mashi. I'll see to that.' That was the end to our conversation. He smoothed his moustache like a grooming cat then, drawing on his gloves, fell into a half-sleeping silence.

Was he speaking the truth? Or had he merely succeeded in binding me further to him? Without his patronage, I was in danger. Or so I must believe until I learned otherwise. I did not have the courage to ask Röhm how he knew the extremes of Hitler's behaviour.

The morning was still dark when we stopped at Röhm's favourite roadside café for breakfast. Strasser preferred to wait in the car rather than go into that typical steamy Bavarian working-man's place, stinking of boiled sausages and strong coffee, and full of burly, ruddy fellows in blue overalls and heavy work shirts. I felt a little threatened by their closeness and their curiosity, but Röhm was clearly at home, joking and hand-slapping his way up to the counter to order our food while I sat in the booth nearest the door. I could still smell shit. I had no liking for the place. Its masculine philistinism was tangible. Two or three SA lads sat together at a table, but they had their backs to us. Röhm seemed relieved when they walked out without recognising him.