We had the same enthusiasm for films and passed much of the journey to Vienna talking about our favourites. Doctor Hanfstaengl loved Griffith as much as I did but thought the Jewish elements of De Mille’s work let it down.
I invited him to join me in my compartment. We spent the rest of the long journey in happy conversation. I must admit, I was glad to be away from the world of politics and armaments for a while. Doctor Hanfstaengl was a welcome change. Everything interested him. He loved music and the arts and travelled widely. He had seen G. B. Shaw perform on the London stage. Shaw was not to be missed. Hanfstaengl was also a great fan of the British playwright Ben Traven and had enjoyed all the Whitechapel farces.
After one change we spent an uneventful and pleasant journey, arriving in Vienna at about lunchtime. Doctor Hanfstaengl asked if I knew the city. When I said I did not he eagerly elected to show me the sights. We had a couple of days here, he said. He must perform a few minor chores but was otherwise entirely at my disposal. What did I feel like doing? We had rooms already booked at the Ritz on Kärntnerstrasse. Not, he added, that it was the Ritz any more. He hoped he could remember the new name.
Once my rather large assortment of trunks had been loaded, Hanfstaengl got us a taxi and asked for the Ritz. The driver knew it well. ‘It’s called the Hotel Krantz now.’ He drove with relaxed abandon. Happily, Viennese traffic did not move with the crazed disorder of Rome’s. The journey from the station was reasonably sedate. The grand buildings of this old imperial capital had been allowed to mellow gracefully among a wealth of shrubs and flowering trees. The city had an air of dignified, slightly shabby tranquillity. We drove along wide boulevards dreaming in the sunshine of late spring. The cafes were already full, with tables so close together on the pavements it sometimes seemed people sat at one long trestle. Everything was in blossom. I was reminded of my own Kreschchatik in Kiev, when clouds of petals drifted against the pale summer sky. But Vienna’s ambience was more like Odessa’s. The Viennese possessed a casual, easy quality, which hardly seemed to go with their rather formal and old-fashioned clothes. Doctor Hanfstaengl pointed out various municipal sights, including the Hotel Sacher where I had once dreamed of dancing with Mrs Cornelius. That pleasure would have to be put off for a while. While imposing, the Hotel Krantz, with its red and white decor, was rather comfortable. Doctor Hanfstaengl was enthusiastically welcomed by the manager. We each had a quiet suite overlooking the garden , and if any particular service was required, we had only to ask.
Hanfstaengl apologised to me. He had some urgent business in the Praterstrasse and would be back as soon as he could. Meanwhile, why didn’t I take a stroll and enjoy the city. ‘She hasn’t lost all her magic.’
After a piece of adequate veal and some strange-tasting coffee I bathed and changed into my new lavender suit. Perhaps a little modern for Vienna, it would give them a chance to see what the beau monde was wearing in Rome. I attracted a certain amount of admiring attention from ladies and jealous sneers from their escorts as I strolled along the Falfnerstrasse admiring window displays and marvelling at some of the confections on display. It felt wonderful to be alone for a while. For all the new Italy’s vigours and virtues, I had known little time for contemplation or tranquillity there.
Vienna proved a perfect location for a leisurely and solitary promenade. I might almost have been in Paris. The city had a pre-war ambience so endearing it sometimes brought tears to my eyes as I remembered more innocent days.
I reached an intersection and was searching for a reference point to be sure that I could find my way home, when a tram came jangling around a corner and almost knocked me over. I jumped back and suddenly, standing beside me, was Fiorello da Bazzanno in a wide-brimmed hat and a raincoat with an upturned collar. The worst of his bruising had gone, but he still looked as if he had suffered a serious accident. His pain did not stop his amusement at my surprise. He put his hand out. ‘It’s safe enough to shake it here, Max.’
I had no wish to snub the man, who had been a good friend in the past, so I suggested we sit down at a nearby cafe. I ordered some elaborate concoction, half-coffee, half-confectionery, for us both and told him I had believed him to be in Switzerland by now.
He smiled a little unhappily. ‘They turned me back at the border,’ he said. ‘I think they were told to. I’m only here on sufferance. If I can’t get into Switzerland then Laura will have to meet me somewhere else. Maybe Prague. My German friend Strasser lives there now. He’s Gregor’s brother, a real socialist. And then, I suppose, Argentina. Where all exiled Italians go. Or America. Though with my political record, I have a feeling they won’t be pleased to see me.’
Wasn’t it extraordinary, I said, how rapidly things changed! When he met me I was all but penniless. Now the boot was on the other foot. My resentment of him melted. I took some large-denomination notes from my wallet and inconspicuously folded the money into his hand. It was the least I could do for the man who had been instrumental in my new elevation.
‘It’s a turning world, Max.’ He thanked me for the money. ‘And I’m not sure I deserve anything less than this. It’s all very well to talk about the poetry of violence. It’s another thing to experience it. I still believe in Il Duce’s ideals, but not many of his people do any more. He’s out of touch with us. He’s become too involved in power for its own sake.’
I repeated Major Nye’s perception that all power corrupts. ‘Yet I cannot believe Il Duce himself is corruptible.’
‘Not in any ordinary sense, maybe.’ Fiorello sipped his coffee. His lips were almost down to their normal size. He still looked like a horse who had escaped a serious encounter with a slaughterhouse. ‘But this wasn’t done by Reds, Max, whatever you think. Fascists did it. Remember my mentioning Matteotti? A piece of accidental butchery. But now we are dealing with systematic terror. They’ve been doing a lot of it lately. They’ve crossed a line. I now believe every word Laura said. I just couldn’t lose my faith in Mussolini. He united the country. He has done so much for us. The Blackshirts were the inheritors of Garibaldi’s Redshirts — men and women of simple nobility who wanted only to see justice done. We called on that spirit, and the people responded. Today the industrialists are still in place, and the people are worse off. It will be the same with the Brownshirts. Money talks in the end. And there’s plenty of it about to defend capitalist interests by any ruthless means. The March on Rome was for common justice. Do we have it? Do we, Max?’ In Austria, he had clearly reverted to his old anti-capitalist illusions.
He was close to weeping when I left him outside the cafe and returned to my hotel. In spite of the great sympathy I felt for him, he had to be suffering from serious paranoia, doubtless brought on by his ordeal. Only many years later would I see that there had been an element of truth in his madness.
Doctor Hanfstaengl himself was in a rather grimmer mood. He had run up against some unexpected difficulties. It would all be sorted out soon. We would have to take the early train to Munich in the morning. He hoped I would not mind cutting the trip short. Things were changing all the time in Germany. The party needed him back. My purpose in leaving Rome was to visit Germany, I said. The sooner we arrived there the happier I would be. Unless you have an excessive liking for waltzes, cream cakes and caterwauling modern music, Vienna has little to offer the discerning traveller.