The Vengeance of Rome (78 page)

Their paperwork done, I was escorted along another passage until we reached a door with the enamelled number 47 screwed to it. The guard unlocked this and flung it open. ‘
Grüss Gott
, gentlemen! You have a new roommate.' His voice was charged with aggressive sarcasm. ‘Out you come. At attention, if you please!'

Three men came blinking into the bright, electric light of the corridor.

My first impression was that I was to be thrown in with the worst kind of desperadoes. They were unshaven, pale-looking creatures who wore a motley collection of clothing and had dirty, dishevelled hair. What were they? Thieves? Forgers? Kidnappers?

‘Very well. Back in you go!'

I followed them into the dimness, natural light falling through the
single, high, barred window of the cell. I regarded them uneasily in case they attacked me. Four bunks were stacked in pairs on either side of us. A WC stood between the bunks. Graffiti on the walls. A stink of urine and sweat.

‘You've missed lunch,' said the youngest man with some satisfaction, as the door was swung shut behind me. I heard bolts being rammed home and knew a moment's panic.

‘You haven't missed much. Lunch is best avoided.' The tallest of the prisoners came forward, extending his hand. ‘Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to purgatory. Are you a transfer?' At my questioning frown, his smile broadened. ‘Have you been in the lions' pit before, or are you a new boy?'

I was surprised by his confident, educated tone. I thought at first I had been confined with some kind of crooked salesman but as I grew used to the murky early-afternoon light I saw that all three of my fellow prisoners wore the good-quality clothes of upper-class Germans.

The man who greeted me shook my hand. ‘Good afternoon. Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, at your service.' He had the easy grace and refined good looks once associated with the best sort of Austrian nobleman, exactly what he was. The other two prisoners were Doctor Bach, a prominent Munich businessman, and Herr Helander, a Swedish journalist. Doctor Bach soon returned to his bunk, on which were stacked all kinds of foodstuffs, paper parcels and suitcases. In an attitude of despair, he stared around at packets of dates, chocolates, fruit, chicken, several different kinds of sausages, thermos flasks of soup, tea and coffee, bread, cakes and pickles. Many of them still in their commercial wrappers, the foodstuffs made his bunk look like a stall in the covered market. Even the open suitcases appeared to be full of food. He had been brought here from a single cell yesterday, he said, and was expecting to leave at any time. His wife had brought the provisions that morning. For all his edible wealth, Doctor Bach was the least cheerful of the three. He had expected to be gone from the cell by now. The day before, when being transferred, he had been told he would be leaving that morning. He had mistaken my arrival for the guards coming with his release. Now, his expectations dashed, his tiny black eyes filled with tears.

Helander had no such expectations. He was a photojournalist who had been in Ettstrasse since early March and, like Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf, had contributed to the Catholic press, though he had never attacked the Nazis directly. Admittedly his pictures for
Paris Match
had not been entirely flattering. Born in Malmö, he had lived in Munich for years,
and his wife was from Munich. He was a little cynical. Without aristocratic connections, he was less likely to be released. He apologised for his present low spirits. Because the arresting officers had found some of his French publications, he believed he might very likely die here, unless he was first transferred to Stadelheim or Dachau. Stadelheim was the Munich prison where Hitler had been incarcerated after his failed putsch before being transferred to Landsberg, where he wrote most of
Mein Kampf
. Dachau was a brand new facility, a modern work camp designed to house hundreds of social outcasts, including communists and anarchists who had acted in some way, either in word or deed, against the interests of the German nation. I had seen an article about it in the
VB
. In rather austere but clean surroundings, men would be expected to serve their time and return, invigorated, to the job of restoring Germany to her place as a power among nations. The camp had been on the newsreels.

I could not imagine I was bound for Stadelheim, let alone Dachau. I told my new companions that I was innocent of any crime. I had left my home early this morning with two policemen to report a burglary. All I could think at the moment was that I was a victim of a bureaucratic accident and would be released after a short hearing. I was not even a German.

At this Count Pottendorf laughed. ‘I am an Austrian national, and my arrest was completely illegal. But I have been in Ettstrasse for several weeks and have yet to receive a hearing. We are all innocent of any crime, Professor Peters, I assure you. That is not why we are here!'

He confirmed what my warning instincts had already told me. In the general sweep of the country for those who threatened the well-being of the state, the Nazis had already arrested hundreds, perhaps thousands, many of whom had committed no crime and some of whom simply had the misfortune to bear names similar to those of socialists and others who had set themselves against all decency. We were victims of a huge, mad bureaucracy. The larger the bureaucracy, the bigger the mistakes it made. With the possible exception of Doctor Bach, who might well have run sweatshops, since he was a mass producer of clothing, it appeared we should all rightfully be in our own homes.

Looking as if he might suffer a heart attack at any moment, the portly Doctor Bach put his head in his hands. Herr Helander, a thin, lugubrious young man, whose pale face and hair gave him a washed-out appearance, went to comfort him. ‘Cheer up, old chap. You'll be out of here by tomorrow.'

‘That's what you keep saying. It's obvious why you are here. You were foolish enough to goad Herr Hitler in print. But I have done nothing. The
only reason I am in this place is because I am a Jew. You know what these Nazis have been up to! And all you two did in your articles was to incense them even further! What good have you done for the likes of me?'

Helander and Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf were quick to reassure him. There was probably a journalist or socialist called Bach. Several composers, after all, bore that name. Many prisoners had been released when a mix-up between them and others with similar names was discovered. It was just a matter of time before Bach would be back with Frau Bach. Meanwhile, said von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf cheerfully, what point was there in letting all this good food go to rot?

Reminded of his manners, Doctor Bach mopped his head with a large, grubby handkerchief and asked us to help ourselves from his provisions. He and Frau Bach were not Orthodox, indeed they were completely secular, and the food was not kosher. As Helander and Pottendorf tucked in, I ate a little bread and sausage and felt somewhat more human. I was determined to get out of Ettstrasse before I began to degenerate like my companions. How quickly we lost the appearance which commanded the world's respect. At this thought, I removed my overcoat, since it had grown a little warm, and folded it carefully. I placed it on the bottom right-hand bunk, to which I had been assigned. There being no other reading matter, I accepted the offer of Doctor Bach's
Völkischer Beobachter
. The paper was full of triumph. Several threats to the security of the homeland had been narrowly averted in the twenty-four hours before going to press. Jewish communist interests were being attacked and suppressed. ‘You see what I mean?' said Doctor Bach with gloomy satisfaction as I read the front page.

Helander and Pottendorf were keen chess players and whiled away their time with mental games. I had always been impressed by this ability to visualise the whole board in play. They entertained me and took my mind off my own troubles as I waited to hear that I was free. The afternoon wore on slowly. Soon the sun began to set and I gave up much hope of being released that day.

When we came to talk, Pottendorf mentioned how his wife had returned to Vienna to work for his release there. At this Helander's brow clouded. His own wife had just been arrested, he said. No doubt she had been asking too many questions of the political police. However, she had been able to contact a lawyer, who assured her that she would see her husband within a few days.

‘And, for once, the lawyer was right.' Helander smiled sardonically. ‘Last time we were allowed out for twenty minutes in the exercise yard, I glimpsed
her waving to me from the women's section. I paid Schwenk, the best of the guards here, and he got a message to her. She's not been badly treated. His guess is that she annoyed them so much and proved such an embarrassment they locked her up. It's just a warning, Schwenk thinks. He doesn't expect her to be in for more than a few days.'

I asked him how long he had been here. A month, he said. He was sure that he and his wife would be released at the same time before Christmas. He knew her parents must be worried sick.

Still slumped on his bunk, surrounded by his array of food parcels, Doctor Bach snuffled and moaned. He doubted very much if his little girl would be seeing her daddy at Christmas. Pottendorf sat beside him and again attempted to comfort him. ‘Come along, old chap. We're all in the same boat. It doesn't do to lose hope. Have a chocolate.'

Bach said miserably that while we were doubtless all in the same boat, some of us were first-class passengers and some were not. He had begun to chew inconsolably on a caramel when a warder shouted something at us and swung open the door. We were allowed to fetch water from the communal sink, and I was issued with two rough blankets. When I again tried to ask when I could expect to be released, the warder repeated that he was not party to the decisions of the bigwigs. Supper, brought round by a trusty, was unappealing, so that evening we dined off Doctor Bach's bounty. He could barely bring himself to eat a thing.

The four of us played cards until midnight when the light in the cell was switched off. As soon as he was in bed, Doctor Bach began to sniffle again. We were all as sympathetic as we could be in the circumstances. Again Pottendorf assured him he would soon be free, but Bach grizzled into his pillow for half an hour before his enormous snores filled the cell, finally subsiding into a kind of wet whiffling noise which in turn became a rhythmic sigh.

Distrusting the blankets' cleanliness, I lay down in my clothes praying to the gods of good luck that I would be free by morning. In case my clothes should at some time be taken from me, I hid my cocoa in my mattress. I took only a little as soon as I was convinced everyone else was asleep. I wasn't sure I could take more than one night of this company. Apart from Pottendorf, I had nothing in common with these people. I was far too valuable to the Reich. The Nazis were practical people. They would not waste human resources. A few journalists and businessmen more or less would not be missed. But they needed scientists if their dreams of a revived, purified Germany were to be realised. Göring was bound to respond to my message.

The bells of the nearby cathedral tolled the quarters. I found them more comforting than intrusive. In the early hours of the morning, however, when all the others slept and the only sounds were the distant moans of the disturbed mental deficients in the special block, I had a sudden sink and was forced to draw on my precious store of
sneg
before I again relaxed. My mind sharpened, I tried to go over what I had learned. I concluded a mistake had been made. Röhm would not want me in here. Neither would Hitler. If my involvement in the Tegernsee plot were discovered I would be quietly murdered, I was sure. I also dismissed the involvement of Brodmann, my Bolshevik nemesis, or Prince Freddy. My best bet was to try to contact Hanfstaengl. Although he had claimed to have been inundated with pleas for help, I was sure he would go out of his way for me.

At six o'clock we were awakened by the warders banging on our doors, warning us to ready ourselves for our ablutions and breakfast. The prison servant, a mournful old slattern in a long overall, came in to clean the cell, splashing her bucket of disinfectant about so that we gagged on the smell. We were then forced to assemble outside with our bowls while some kind of awful soup was slopped into them by a shifty trusty whose long moustache bore witness to a score of his own meals. Happily, Doctor Bach's provisions were still edible, and we ate more sausage and bread, washing it down with the remains of his tea and the thin coffee issued to us.

I told Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf that he must, like me, feel unhappy about being confined with common criminals but he reassured me. ‘The whole damned building is packed with politicals. Every day they take a few away, often to Stadelheim or Dachau, and every day they bring still more in.'

At about nine o'clock a warder flung the door open and ordered us all into the corridor. We were marched in military order and forced to stand to attention while he checked names on a clipboard.

This ritual ended, the warder pointed at our Jewish colleague. ‘Heinrich Bach. You are to remain outside. You others will return to the cell.'

With the door closed behind us, we speculated on the reason for Bach being taken away. We could hear his questioning whine in the corridor until his voice faded, and another door clanged behind him.

Count von Zinzendorf und Pottendorf thoughtfully placed the remains of Bach's provisions into his own smart, leather suitcase. He was an old prison hand now, he said, with an apologetic grin. Bach had been using his overcoat as a blanket, and this Pottendorf straightened, plumping the straw pillow and smoothing it. The rest of the food he replaced in Bach's
cases, which he settled upon his own bunk. He did not tell us why he was doing this, but since he was the oldest inhabitant of No. 47, we assumed he knew what he was about.

His business finished, he sat down again, crossed his legs and offered us all one of his fat Turkish cigarettes. Helander and I accepted gratefully. As we smoked the richly scented tobacco, Pottendorf explained his actions.