The Vengeance of Rome (74 page)

I was due to make a radio broadcast that day, in which I would say how the values of the pagan Red man were those many of us would do well to examine. It was late October 1933, with the festival behind us and that wonderful sense of unity and purpose everywhere. What a shame she could not enjoy it. Could it be true, as Kitty insisted, that life was more dangerous for the nonconformist in Berlin these days? Yet many of the National Socialists were themselves of a bohemian disposition. Surely they would not turn so readily on their own! Unfortunately I was completely misguided. I had not yet realised how these Nietzscheans who boasted of releasing a healthy, unrepressed beast back into the mainstream of German life, were not merely repressing their own earlier urges, but actually repressing those who reminded them of what they had once celebrated. The Spartan's love for Sparta had made that city state stronger than any other. The idea of a pure mind in a pure body, of the love of brother for brother, had bonded Sparta into a single steel-hard weapon enabling her steadfastly to resist all threats to her territory. Those were Hitler's ideals, as well as Röhm's. Röhm
had found Hitler an ignorant, frightened corporal and had given him the inspiration, the rhetoric and the focused anger which brought him to his present pinnacle. Röhm remained the true founder of National Socialism. He, along with Strasser, cared more for his ideals than he cared for power. How was I to know in those glorious first weeks of the revolution that this would prove their undoing in the struggle Hitler was already fomenting between his followers as limitless power fell into their wondering hands?

A day or two after the episode with Kitty, Reid and I were on the Munich sound stage, doing some dialogue scenes for
Apache Gold
and
The Legend of Silverlake
which like all the Frisch films were made back to back, thus affording considerable savings. Desmond Reid was no enthusiast for Hitler. A socialist of the nationalist ilk, he was perfectly happy to call himself a Mosleyite. Sir Oswald Mosley, the debonair young star of the Labour Party, disenchanted with that movement's liberal relativism, had formed his own
fascisti
. Modelled on Mussolini's, his party placed stronger emphasis on the Jewish threat, the secret empire of Jewry as he put it. Reid claimed his countryman displayed the usual prudent middle road taken by the United Kingdom since its formation, incorporating the best of the Fascist ideas into their own system.

Reid was critical of Hitler's control. He was hobbling Röhm. Reid argued that if Röhm was allowed to incorporate his men into the Reichswehr, as he had planned, the SA would achieve full military status and allow Röhm to rejoin the army, which I knew, and Reid guessed, was his dearest wish. He could then consolidate not only his power but his comrade Adolf Hitler's power.

Reid was right. Although in many ways unconventional, Röhm loved the status and meaning which the regular army gave a soldier in Germany. Though an accomplished pianist with a fine singing voice and a good turn of phrase as his rather odd autobiography attests, he trusted none of his gifts. History has taken him at his word. Because he neither served in the Second World War nor took part in the extermination of prisoners, his story is not disputed. The Nazi calumny remains and is believed by all sides. Röhm claimed to be a brute and, of course, sometimes behaved like one. But I knew the brute was a frustrated spirit longing for reconciliation.

In spite of both Chaney and Seryozha being absent from them, the ‘Western' films continued to be successful in Germany and achieved some distribution in the British Empire, but the response of American theatre operators was largely negative. For them the real Western was dead. The public was only interested in crooning cowboys from Radio City. We
attempted to add music to one of our films, where Mr Mix's talents on the banjo were utilised for a barn dance scene in which Gloria Cornish joins Desmond Reid in a duet somewhat spoiled by Reid's inability to remain in key.
Apache Love Song
was not our most successful picture and the attempt was never made again. My own title number was cut completely. In spite of this setback, which meant the film had to be recalled and the musical scenes removed from it, we continued to produce profitable photoplays for the European market and became particularly popular in Italy where I hoped Il Duce was watching and realising what a mistake he had made in believing my enemies. I cannot help remembering when I hear of the success of the so-called ‘Spaghetti Westerns' how much the Italians owe to our ‘Winnetou' pictures.

I now had my own car, a little Renault tourer in sporty red and cream. I would drive out to the lakes and mountains at weekends, almost always with a different girl. Sometimes Kitty would come with me. Sometimes she would join whomever I was with. The Bavarian resorts were looking prosperous again. I was able to stay at the best lodges and hotels, with magnificent views of crags and water. I was recognised wherever I went, and no comment was made about my friends, who always had separate rooms. I felt something optimistic and positive in the air which even Kitty had to admit was real. Germany had taken a deep breath, got her house in order and settled down again into familiar life. Poverty lay behind her. Prosperity lay ahead. Now we know it was perhaps a fool's paradise, but was it Germany's fault that Hitler broke his promise to her?

While I enjoyed my new lifestyle, I continued to feel uneasy, even guilty, sometimes convinced I was being watched and my apartment being secretly searched while I was away filming. I wrote several notes to Ministerpräsident Göring, mentioning our meetings in Rome, dropping Mrs Cornelius's name until I realised this was probably not sensible. I heard nothing. I even risked a note to Röhm. I knew it was stupid and expected no response. Doubtless for my sake as well as his own, he had stopped seeing me altogether since I moved to Wurzerstrasse. I was still no further forward in fulfilling my life plan. Certainly the career of a film star was a good one, and there were harder ways to earn a living, but I have always been driven by my genius, my need to bring my dreams to life, enriching the world with a thousand solutions to its problems.

The only high-ranking Nazi I saw apart from poor Putzi was Baldur von Schirach. He remained a good friend, though he, too, was constantly whisking around the country these days. He had made photostats of all my
plans, which I still kept in my carpet bag at Corneliusstrasse together with my Cossack pistols. Most of my things remained there hidden in a false wall within a cupboard. Although I had a superb new apartment, I realised I felt safer in that ordinary environment near the food market, so familiar from my youth. I was convinced my treasures would be more secure there. Somehow I had hung on to them through all my ups and downs and was even a little superstitious about the pistols.

I now felt foolish for having trusted Mussolini with so many ideas and leaving him with copies of my designs. Was my decision to trust Göring equally misguided? I have grown tired of the sound of my own voice complaining of the inventions Mussolini either claimed for himself or claimed to have inspired. I was stupid to have left them with him.

Von Schirach had been talking to some of General Petlyura's old colleagues. They confirmed, of course, that the Violet Ray had worked and would have driven the Reds back were it not for the power failure. Without my even asking he had offered this information to Göring, who might soon be getting in touch with me, he hoped. Meanwhile, I sped about Bavaria's twisting lanes in my smart roadster with a bevy of neurasthenic jazz babies on my arms and respectful recognition wherever I stopped. Little Zoyea would also accompany us sometimes since she loved riding in motor cars. Occasionally Kitty and I were mistaken for a married couple and Zoyea a daughter by a previous marriage. Often the easiest thing was simply to allow such a harmless deception. When, however, I discovered that Kitty had been tempting Zoyea to try her drugs, I was not amused. Kitty refused to believe that our relationship was innocent. She expressed an attraction for the little Italian dancer and told me she knew what I had planned. After that I did my best to keep them apart.

For some reason
The Legend of Silverlake
was accepted by the American distributors, which meant that I had even more work. UfA told me I might branch out from my make-up rôles and get a starring part as an airship commander in a planned movie called
Raid on London
. I longed to play a white man again. Doctor Hugenberg was completely absorbed in political life. Mrs Cornelius guessed there was some sort of power struggle between the former Nationalist Monarchists and the NSDAP. Goebbels was greedy for control of UfA, whose media had so successfully helped the Nazis to power. Hugenberg, of course, was resisting him. Meanwhile, in our own little backwater, we continued to show a profit and were never interfered with.

While Mrs Cornelius had an emotional stake in Doctor Hugenberg's career, the rest of us did not. It scarcely mattered to me who produced our
films. They were not politically sensitive and echoed the fundamental idealism of those in power.

In interviews, following the guidelines laid down by the company, I explained how I had been born in Mississippi, attended the University of St Petersburg, Florida, and as a young flyer volunteered for the White cause, fighting Bolsheviks in the air and at the front line, helping significantly in the defence of Kiev until driven back to Odessa where I was forced to take ship in the general exodus. Ever since then I had spent my time fighting Bolshevism. Like so many I found it a relief to know that Germany now had a shield against the East. Like Winnetou's Apache war-shield, the Nazis defended my homeland from invasion wherever it threatened, from within or without!

My truncated biography said that after some time in Paris working on an aviation project, I returned to America where I was involved in various political and engineering projects of national importance until being lured away by Hollywood, originally as a stunt flyer. Feeling that stardom was shallow, I had spent some time in the Middle East, exploring the wisdom of ancient peoples. For a while I had been forcibly inducted into Islam. For several years I had led the life of a modern hermit, roving the desert with nothing but my animals, my notebooks, a few necessary possessions and only God to talk to. Returning to civilisation, I served with Mussolini before answering the call of the new Germany, of Adolf Hitler, to come and work for them. I was, I admitted, a great admirer of the NSDAP and our leader-guide. I applauded the spirit of optimism I detected everywhere I went. I prayed that America's descent into decadence would be halted by the rise of similarly strong leaders and by our public absorbing the ideals and aspirations exemplified by the UfA movies, themselves a continuation of the spirit of the great Karl May.

I was, I knew, a real asset to the studio. Children in particular loved me, and I still received many fan letters from the public. I was therefore astonished when, in March 1934, only a few days after we had completed the sound work on
Apache Territory
, I received a letter at my apartment telling me that my contract as Cochise, the Apache Prince, would not be renewed and that a German national had been picked to play the rôle in my place! There was no mention of the airship part. Telephone calls to Mrs Cornelius and Desmond Reid informed me that they had not been replaced by German nationals. Reid seemed cool, and I wondered if he had been involved in my replacement. But Mrs Cornelius was outraged. She would talk to Huggy Bear at the first opportunity. The only other member of the
regular cast to receive a similar letter had been Myra Friedmann, who had played my romantic lead. And she, of course, was a German!

I was baffled.

When I contacted the studio I was met with embarrassment and obfuscation. It had something to do with the new Nazi laws, I was told. Doctor Hugenberg had been forced to comply. Everyone felt I had made a wonderful Cochise and nobody could ever really replace me. But the reason for my dismissal remained mysterious. Clearly Mrs Cornelius and Reid, being English, were acceptable. Comic darkies were still in fashion, but Spaniards, Americans, Italians and other riff-raff were no longer needed! Myra called me in tears. She had been dismissed, she told me, because she was Jewish. She wanted to come to my flat and commiserate. I said she was welcome as soon as it was convenient. But really, I did not need her weeping on my shoulder. We had never been close friends.

Happily, I had not spent all my money and was not destitute. On the afternoon of the day I received my letter, I was already leaving messages for Schirach. I needed to meet Göring at once and impress him with what I could do for the new Germany. I was afraid I might be deported. I had no wish to return to Italy or, indeed, to France. Neither could I easily go back to America. I realised that I had been leading a dream life. In some ways I had been lured by the temptations of Satan down the wrong path. I think I knew instinctively that this was God's benign interference as He strove to put me back on my destined road.

I talked this over with Kitty. She was sure the public would soon demand my return. Meanwhile, Prince Freddy had expressed a longing to see me again. I arranged to visit him the following week.

Mrs Cornelius had dinner with me that evening. She was extremely upset. She had not yet discovered the real reason for my dismissal. It was not, she said, as if the part required a Henry Irving. None of the Nazis thought I was Jewish. Many Aryans looked a damned sight more Jewish than I did. The trouble was that she had very little access to Doctor Hugenberg at the moment. ‘‘E feels the Nazis ‘ave cheated ‘im, gorn back on their promises an' that. Well, I coulda told ‘im abart politicians, Ivan. Eh?' She chuckled reminiscently. I think she still carried a torch for Trotsky.

I now know she had a presentiment. She became serious for a moment. ‘Too much death, Ive. It's beginnin' ter get a bit niffy ‘rahnd ‘ere. Maybe this is ther writin' on ther wall. Time ter be movin' on …'