Unfortunately I did not have time to visit the famous blue Danube. I saw only the brown one.
I am not a natural early riser, so Putzi Hanfstaengl had to wake me up and virtually put me in the shower before I was able to dress myself and make sure all my bags were taken down. I had hoped to spend some time with Mrs Cornelius, but Hugenberg was not part of the Nazi movement. He had no need to cut his visit short. Through misty streets Hanfstaengl and I took a cab to the station and arrived just in time to gain our compartment before the train left. This time there was another passenger, a rather sallow cleric who did not like our looks and aimed his pointed nose into his little devotional even as we entered. We were to have breakfast on the train, but I excused myself and went to the toilet to take a soupçon of the excellent ‘snow’ Seryozha had given me. He seemed to possess the stuff in unlimited quantities. At one point I suspected he had smuggled in at least a kilogram. He was always secretive about his suppliers.
Putzi had made himself comfortable when I got back. He knew the priest resented our presence and cheerfully ignored him.
I flung myself into the luxury of the seats, stretched and yawned. We used English, which further irritated our fellow passenger.
Putzi and I were discussing the merits of French and Austrian operettas when I heard a woman exclaim from the corridor. I looked up. She was already passing but I noted something familiar about her broad, tall figure in its conservative black silk costume. She turned, as if to confirm something, and I recognised her at once. My old mistress, Baroness Leda von Ruckstühl, with whom I had escaped from Odessa. I had left her in Constantinople. I must admit, I had hoped never to see her again!
She came back, of course. She was smiling with a kind of bewildered malice. She drew open the door in a single powerful movement, standing over me like some avenging Valkyrie, an armoury of layered cosmetics and floral oils. I took control of myself. With puzzlement in my eyes, I rose. ‘Madame?’ Happily I still wore my imperial. I was experiencing one of those moments I have described before, when all elements of past, present and future seem to rush together.
‘I thought you were dead, Prince Pyatnitski,’ she said. ‘In America, I heard, after the Paris scandal.’
I felt physically sick but somehow I retained my self-possession. ‘Forgive me,’ I bowed, ‘but I do not believe I have had the pleasure . . .’
‘You are Prince Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski,’ she said in Russian. ‘The father of my son.’
‘My dear lady,’ I replied in English, ‘I am unfortunately a mere commoner, a humble American actor, no less. While I am flattered by this elevation, I fear you have me confused for another.’
She frowned. I could see I had not convinced her. It would be extremely embarrassing for me if she revealed our past. She knew far more about me than I liked and evidently still resented me. She was not above making the most fantastic claims. Her interest in me had been more intense than I supposed. She had gone to the trouble of tracking down misleading stories about me in the French press. She probably had a dossier as thorough as Brodmann’s!
I had no other choice. I had to continue with my bluff. Putzi Hanfstaengl was amused by the scene. He had not taken very much of it in. He could tell the lady was angry and that I was embarrassed.
She did not move.
‘You have mistaken me for Some other gentleman,’ I said again. I made to open the door for her, but she pushed past me and went up the corridor without a further word.
‘Phew!’ said Putzi with something which passed for a leer, ‘a mighty angry doll, what? You’re a bit of a devil on the quiet, eh? What did she call you?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s an odd thing. I played the part of a Russian nobleman more than once. I believe you mentioned enjoying Red Queen, White Queen. She seems to think that I am one of my screen characters. Poor creature. It’s a familiar delusion. As a public figure one becomes used to such encounters. I must have had a dozen in the past year alone.’
Putzi nodded. ‘Something very similar happens to Hitler. Women wet their knickers for him and have the most incredible daydreams about him. Some of them even think the dreams are real. And the ideas they get! It makes you shudder what some of those women want to have done to them! Do you get letters also?’
‘They are no longer forwarded to me,’ I said. ‘At my request.’
Hanfstaengl winked again. It was a grotesque twisting of the face which made him look for a moment as if he were suffering a difficult bowel movement. ’They say Il Duce answers all his letters personally.’
I smiled at this but would neither confirm nor deny the story. It suited Mussolini, I know, to have his masculinity vaunted in this way. Not a red-blooded Italian man or woman failed to wish him well in the fulfilment of his healthy animal appetites. Few leading National Socialists possessed this natural virility, one of many fundamental differences between the Italian fascisti and their imitators.
Putzi Hanfstaengl said no more about the Baroness. She did not bother me again. I saw her only once more during a minor delay on the line a mile or so from the border. The train stopped. We were told we could disembark and walk about, if we wished. I decided to smoke a cigarette in the open air. As I paced the narrow area of grass between track and fence I saw a stunning young woman look up from picking yellow daisies. She had that rich, pale hair, almost transparent skin and luscious blushing red lips of the typical South Russian beauty. Her slender figure might have belonged to a leading mannequin. Hatless, she wore a dress of grey linen with a matching jacket. Her only jewellery was a string of pearls. Her hair was waved in the latest fashion. From her clothes she was clearly a Berliner. Convinced we had met before, I approached her. Then she looked back at a woman who called to her as she descended from the train — the Baroness von Ruckstühl. I remembered then who the girl must be. She was Kitty, the child I had originally courted when seeking the attentions of her mother. She had grown even more beautiful. I stepped into the train’s shadow.
One experiences a particular frisson on seeing a woman one knew as a child, especially if she is as striking as Kitty von Ruckstühl. Running towards her was a dark little boy, perhaps the result of his mother’s union with a Turk. After I had gone the Baroness had obviously discovered another protector. A powerful Constantinople businessman no doubt found her title useful. The connection between Germany and Turkey was always strong. How had she turned up on the Munich train? I hoped she was making connections to some other city and that I was seeing the last of her. I was sorry we had parted on less than perfect terms. I would have appreciated an introduction to Kitty again.
We arrived in Munich on the following Friday. I found myself admiring the wonderful architecture with its variety of Baroque flourishes. I had never before experienced such peculiar charm in a city. Munich was all pink and gold. She reminded me not of my real childhood, but of my childhood storybooks, my happiest dreams. Even when there was a delay while they searched for my trunks at the station, the city continued to delight me. Some of my luggage had been sent on but other pieces were not with the train. I was only mildly put out. I had not expected to be so entranced by Munich’s ambience. In spite of all I had heard of political instability, near-civil war, military putsches and Bolshevik takeovers, in spite of its reputation as the heart-city of revolution, Munich possessed a wonderful air of unchanging security. The luggage remained absent. The fawning stationmaster was called and duly apologised. He would take my address and have my trunks delivered by the following morning. Could the trunks have been held up at customs, perhaps? The border people were so difficult these days. It was unlikely, I said. Although I feigned impatience, I was not particularly upset. The city was absorbing me already. Some cities feel immediately familiar. I told the stationmaster I would be obliged to him for any assistance he could give. Most of what I needed was in the luggage which accompanied me.