An Evening at Home
Of course she had not changed. She was still my angel. Only Mussolini gave off that almost supernatural wave of animal magnetism. My eyes as full as my heart, I bowed, embracing her hand, kissing it. “My dear Mrs Cornelius.”
“You orlways was a smarmy bugger, Ivan?” She was amiable as ever. “Still, I must admit it’s good ter see a familiar face. Got yerself somefink official an’ steady,I see, workin’ fer th’ corporation. I don’t blame yer. I’m done for in ther talkies it’s me accent, so I took up with ther Baron over there,” she indicated a stooped shadow in a wig, “’oo was good enough ter ‘elp me back on me feet, but I’m thinkin’ of goin’ inter cabaret, maybe in Berlin. It’s orl wide open fer English artistes, I’m told. ‘Ave yer met—” She turned to address the enormous beaming German, who was clearly enraptured by her, an infatuated zeppelin.
“’Ermann, is it?”
He bowed, clicked his heels and shook hands again. He did not recollect me. I supposed we all looked the same to him in our black uniforms. Although not quite as tall as he seemed from his photographs, Herman Goering was considerably wider. He spoke now in confident, but not very good English.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, professor. We have heard much of your achievements in Germany.”
To my discomfort I was beginning to realise that I had attracted the attention of various governments’ secret services. The newspaper pictures had done exactly what Mussolini had said they would do—whet the curiosity of the other powers and put them off balance. Slipping easily into German I made small talk with the man. He was grateful and commented on the excellence of my vocabulary. I told him that I had worked with Germans in the Ukraine, during the Civil War, when we were all trying to get rid of the Reds. This interested him. He had assumed I was an American, he said. “Naturalised,” I told him, “but before then I had direct experience of the Bolshevik terror.”
“You’re bein’ borin’ boys,” chided Mrs Cornelius, smiling up at the bulky emissary, who was there, I would learn, directly on Hitler’s orders. As Mussolini had done, Goering’s job was to attempt a raprochement between the Nazis and the Pope. It was as well I did not know this at the time or I would have spoken my mind. One of the worst things Mussolini and Hitler did was to reach accomodation with the Catholics who did as much to sabotage their efforts as they helped. “You tol’ me, ‘Ermann, you woz lookin’ fer a party ter go ter afterwards.”
The man was well-bred and immediately dropped the subject of politics, saying only to me: “We must talk again. We have a great respect for the scientific tradition in Germany.”
Jokingly, I said there were a few too many Jews running the scientific establishments there for my taste. He hesitated at this, doubtless because he was here on a diplomatic mission, then laughed heartily. “Very good!” He said. “Very good, professor! I think you and I will get on well. You must come and see us in Germany once the Nazi experiment is thoroughly under way. Great things are happening. The Duce’s inspiration, Adolf Hitler’s genius and German know-how will transform the country and, in time, the entire world.”
Although his expression was usually fixed in a jovial smile, he seemed unable to relax. Mrs Cornelius nudged him. “What does it take ter make a kraut let his hair down?” she asked me, winking. Again he was hugely apologetic. He was here on official business and clearly found it difficult to move from one mode to the other. “Wot abart this party, then?” She dropped her voice. “Yore just the chap, Ivan. ‘Erman wants ter know if there’s anywhere they do the ‘okey-cokey rahnd ‘ere,” and she put a finger to her perfect nose.
I was confused by all these turns of events and pulled my card from my inside pocket, scribbling an address on the blank side. It was where I hoped to meet Mandy Butter later. “I might be there myself,” I said. “Mention my name.” I winked back. At which point, to my absolute horror, a figure in a uniform which would have seemed garish on the stage of the Vienna Comic Opera, taller than Captain Goering by almost a head but threatening to rival him in corpulence, moving with what I can only describe as a kind of monumental mince, cracked its jackboots together, offered the Fascist salute and regarded me through rheumy, affectionate eyes which failed to hide the signs of a thousand disappointments. He uttered a wide, ghastly grin. “Good evening, Herr Captain,” he said to Goering, whose expression of distaste was undisguised, “Maxim, dear. Did I hear somebody talk about a party?”
Mrs Cornelius betrayed us then. She was a far more generous soul than I, but she did not know the newcomer. I think, too, she did not wish to travel alone in a taxi with Goering. “I’m sure we’re orl welcome,” she said. “Yore wiv the German party, too, aren’t yer? We’ll go tergevver!”
