His secretary assured him that I would be properly looked after. But it was really very urgent that he see Chief of Staff Röhm, who required a simple answer to his questions but was growing very impatient for it.
‘Very impatient indeed...’ The accent was cultured Bavarian with that slightly brutal intonation many these days affected. The voice was quiet, pleasant, a little sardonic. In the frame of the connecting door, his military cap pushed back on a massive, close-shaven head so scarred and patched that every battle of the twentieth century might have been fought across it, his unbuttoned jacket casually revealing an Iron Cross ribbon, stood a high-ranking officer. He had a powerful presence, though he was by no means handsome. A bullet had taken away part of his nose, shrapnel had scarred his face, yet I detected something indefinably noble in the man. He reminded me of a character I had myself played in The Prisoner of Zenda, the devil-may-care Fritz von Talenheim, a soldier who dedicated life, soul and honour to his nation’s well-being. In his beautifully cut Sturmabteilung uniform, this officer had some of the same quality I had observed among even the most brutal Cossacks — the instinctive grace of a man of action. A true contemporary condottiere!
He did not salute but put his hand towards me in an almost balletic gesture, meeting my steady gaze with his own. I wished him Guten Tag. In his typical Bavarian style, he answered, ’Grüss Gott.’ A sardonic twist to his smile was belied by the warmth of his eyes. I sensed the coiled, casually checked energy of a man used to taking decisive action, a natural commander. While some of his colleagues might need confirmation of their power and surround themselves with the symbols of their authority, this man was absolutely self-assured, without artifice of any kind, save his good manners. Bringing his heels together with a click, he took my hand, almost as if to kiss it, then shook it firmly. ‘Röhm,’ he said. His fingers were strong but felt like satin. A spark of pure electricity passed between us. Mutual respect. Doctor Hanfstaengl made some unheard introduction explaining I was in Il Duce’s confidence.
Used as I was to the company of great leaders, I was utterly overawed by this man. His photographs did not do him credit. I knew little of German politics, but even in Italian circles Röhm was discussed. He was the army captain who put down the communist uprisings in Munich. With his Freikorps he resisted the Red Flood, stockpiling huge amounts of arms and military equipment all over southern Germany. A close friend of Hitler since those days, he was the only man the Führer still called ‘du’ and he responded in kind. A deep, old bond of blood existed between the two men. Röhm had created the SA to defend Hitler against physical threat from his political enemies. Driven from the country after the failure of the Beer Hall Putsch, he sought asylum in the Bolivian Army. Then, with the SA in open revolt, he had been recalled by Hitler. Within months Röhm had turned the SA into a disciplined Spartan army of five hundred thousand men. It would soon become almost five million. They said that Röhm, who still insisted on keeping his old army rank of Captain, held the key to Germany’s fate. If he desired civil war, he would have it. And if there was civil war, Röhm would emerge as the victor. They called him ‘the kingmaker’ - the modern Simon de Montfort. It was lucky for Hitler that Röhm was a loyal friend, content to be his first General, his Stabschef, rather than Chancellor.
I already knew of Röhm as a dedicated visionary. He foresaw a well-ordered state run on army principles and with army discipline, slave neither to labour nor capital. This vision made him join Hitler to found the National Socialist movement. He loved politics. But he loved justice more. He loved justice the way another man loves drink. He was prepared to make any sacrifice and take any action to achieve it.
With the unforced charm of the true German professional soldier, this legendary ‘alte Kämpfer’, this ‘old fighter’, bowed and clicked his heels. He spoke softly, almost shyly, with great charm and courtesy. I was reminded of Erich von Stroheim in his more avuncular moments. He would be delighted, he said, to get together, perhaps some evening? He was a great admirer of Mussolini and a student of Italian history. He felt it a privilege to meet one so close to Il Duce. His searching eyes continued to meet mine. I said that I would be honoured. His fame had reached Rome.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, turning away, ‘I hope I’ll have at least a little mystery left for you! Grüss Gott, Mr Peters. I will keep an eye out for one of your films! I am something of a cinema connoisseur.’
Putzi snorted quite suddenly and told Röhm to ‘stop that at once!’ Chuckling he walked with him back to his office to deal with whatever problem had arisen. Again it was obvious that Hanfstaengl was something more than an occasional journalist of wealthy background. There could be few men who were able to joke on an equal footing with the great Ernst Röhm!
I had been highly impressed by the ‘Father of the Storm Troopers’. In Italy they believed he must be a brute. His pictures suggested it. But now that I had met him it was very easy to see how he was able to keep control of such a vast militia and why every single one of his men would have died for him as, I suspect, they would never have died for Hitler.
When Hanfstaengl came back he was smiling. ‘You made an enormous impression on our dashing “people’s soldier”. He wanted to hear all about you.’
‘Men of action have a certain affinity,’ I said, ‘which transcends national boundaries. I had exactly the same experience with Mussolini. I, too, was also favourably impressed.’
‘I’ll let him know,’ said Putzi.
Even then I already had a sense of the historic significance of that brief meeting At the time I was simply elated to have met another equal. How rare it is to find a peer to whom one has to explain nothing. Our meeting was destined.
And yet, for all my intimations, I could not have imagined the fantastic consequences that would result from my bumping into Röhm at the Brown House on that early-June afternoon. They were consequences whose resolution would do nothing less than decide the future of Germany, change the course of history, determine the nature of the century, and perhaps give us a fresh perspective on the complex nature of Man.
Ernst Röhm was not the only famous personality I met in that first week. A constant coming and going of party people went on, chiefly between Munich and Berlin. Most were too busy to play host to a visitor like myself. I did not blame them. I decided to seek out some female entertainment, a girl who could also show me the city. I was not, however, immediately lucky. I had failed to reckon with the conservative Bavarian’s disapproval of my summer suits! Some of the Nazis I met were downright rude. It became impossible to introduce oneself to girls of the better type. But I persevered.
Putzi remained only long enough to take me to his opulent house and introduce me to his slender, pale gold wife. He was engaged on some business with various American and English newspapers wanting interviews in Berlin with the Führer. Frau Hanfstaengl, although very welcoming, was rarely at home but made charity visits, chiefly to wounded SA veterans. I heard that Seryozha (‘Captain Hoch’) was on ‘permanent alert’ along with many other SA officers. I was reassured that I would not bump into him unexpectedly. I now realised I had been unduly alarmed about meeting the Baroness. She would not know my new name or where I was staying. She had enough malice in her to scheme my downfall, but I would be back in Italy before she had the slightest chance of tracking me down.
I had hoped to see more of Captain Göring. I now learned he scarcely ever took his place in the Reichstag. He was being required more and more to choose between his Führer and his sick wife. The other Nazi deputies were equally wrapped up in the dynamic concerns of the day. I never met Goebbels, who rarely left Berlin. The ‘Dwarf with a Devil’s Brain’, as his enemies called him, was thoroughly absorbed in the complex strategy of national politics.