THIRTEEN

On the way to the Villa Torlonia Mussolini seemed a little gruff. I wondered if he felt embarrassed by his earlier enthusiasm. But he remained friendly enough. The big limousine took us through the busy streets of lunchtime Rome. We travelled with an almost supernatural smoothness. We stopped at a traffic light and were again surrounded by our motorcycle escort. My chief cleared his throat and moved his mouth in that almost comical way so many found endearing. ‘My boys are great lads,’ he said. ‘I allow them no special privileges. The same demands are made on them as on all Italian children. We are raising them as decent, gentlemanly Fascists. I take no credit at all. My wife is the best in the world. She tells me, “You stay out of my kitchen, and I’ll stay out of your politics.” She’s from a very political family. You heard about my daughter’s wedding! Never again! She’s in Shanghai now. Very happy. Thank God I needn’t go through all that with the boys. We have a cinema in the house. The boys are flying-mad, too. I told you they’re great fans of “Ace” Peters? They’ve watched all your films. White Aces, The Flying Buckaroo. They’d be enchanted if you’d tell them a bit about your film days.’ He shrugged, almost apologising. ‘I told them I knew you. They made me promise they could meet you. I hope you don’t mind, Professor Peters. Perhaps an autograph as well? They’ve been studying very hard. If it would not embarrass you too much . . .’

‘On the contrary, Chief.’ I was honoured. Almost no one was allowed into the Mussolini family sanctum. This invitation demonstrated how I was truly valued by Il Duce. I was relieved to hear, moreover, that the reason for the privilege was something as wholesome and simple as a papa’s promise to his sons!

At last we had negotiated the great press of Roman traffic and arrived at the gates of the Villa Torlonia. It was my second visit, of course. Now I could see the security police everywhere. The wide street was deserted. Ordinary Italians avoided it, together with the nearby cafes, in case they should be arrested as suspected assassins. I understood the identity of the shadows I had seen in the grounds. We went through a couple of anterooms until we entered a pleasant, spacious room with windows looking out on to the garden and the lake beyond. A large table had been set with a white cloth. On it were the usual breads and condiments found on any comfortable Italian board. The linen, cutlery and tableware were of good quality but not at all pretentious. From nearby came the smell of cooking. Mussolini called a greeting and suddenly the place filled.

First came two boys of about eight and eleven in their black-shirt school uniforms, a little dishevelled. Following them was a stocky woman with a wide, cheerful face, her brown hair drawn back in a tight bun, a linen apron covering her cotton print dress. After them entered another pleasant young woman whom I took to be a secretary or governess. She had charge of two younger children. She was followed by a black-clad maid carrying a large tureen and another carrying plates.

When everyone was around the table, having greeted Il Duce affectionately much as they would greet the head of any respectable household, they stood by their places looking expectantly in my direction. After a pregnant pause, for the Chief was incapable of any action without an element of drama, I was introduced.

The servants curtsied. Mrs Mussolini came up to me, grasped me in her powerful, motherly hands and kissed me on both cheeks. I looked as handsome off the screen as on it, she said approvingly, and sat me down between herself and her sons, who eagerly asked me questions about my stunts. Not since Morocco had I found such an adoring audience. I must admit I rose to the flattery, describing all the people I had known in Hollywood, telling them of amazing feats and impossible escapes. Laurel and Hardy (whom they loved almost as much as me)? Laurel remained an Englishman. Hardy was shy. I described the daring of Tom Mix and Hoot Gibson and confirmed the angelic beauty and off-screen generosity of Clara Bow. Meanwhile Rachele Mussolini helped us to the soup, first me, then her husband and then the others. I enjoyed her sturdy minestrone made without wine and served with excellent fresh bread. Signora Mussolini assured me she had baked the loaf that morning.

I might have been visiting a prosperous farmer and his family in the Romagna, the scene was so comfortingly ordinary. Mussolini’s instincts were perfect. Here was the reality to which he returned for supper before spending the evening with his family. He did this as often as possible. Only towards the end, I heard, did he forsake these habits. By then he had become enamoured of Hitler and of Clara Petacci. His wife, she would remind me when we met that one time after the War when I went with Mrs Cornelius to Italy on a package holiday, had warned him against both. These enthusiasms were to conspire in his downfall. She was to write a touching memoir of her husband. Rachele was well aware of her value to him. She loved Mussolini with that deliberate lack of criticism her culture had trained her to prize as a virtue. And Rachele had his ear on almost any question. They made, he sometimes said proudly, a perfect fighting unit, like any Romagnan peasant couple used to the hardships of existence and the realities of survival.

She was a good-humoured woman with a happy smile. Far from being the philistine peasant of popular gossip, she was dignified, well educated and, when occasion demanded, grave. She kept her feet firmly on the ground. Hardly anyone from the Romagna region was not a socialist and an anti-cleric. Like parts of modern County Durham and Northumberland. Today whole villages are communist. But she was no more a bigot than if she had come from a particularly devout part of the country. Like her husband, she formed her own opinions and had good reasons for maintaining them.

As if I was a long-lost nephew, she took to me in a matronly way. Perhaps I filled an emotional void for her. The Mussolinis had recently lost Il Duce’s brother Arnaldo who had died of a broken heart on the death of his son Sandrino from leukaemia.

Finishing his meal rapidly, my Chief leaned back with a groan, which he tried to suppress. His wife ignored him, as if she was used to him. He winced, then grinned at me. ‘Indigestion,’ he said.

‘He’s a slave to it,’ she confirmed disapprovingly as the plates were gathered up. In fact, La Sarfatti told me, he had a serious ulcer. It had ruptured on the night he heard Matteotti had been murdered.

Mussolini stood up. ‘Meetings with ambassadors this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Come on, Professor. I’ll give you a lift back to the Villa Valentino.’

The boys begged me to stay longer.

Mussolini laughed at this. ‘Don’t you have school this afternoon?’

They begged me to come back in the evening. Bruno in particular had questions about stunt flying and Vittorio wanted to know how you got to act in films.

Signora Mussolini took charge of her sons. Perhaps I might like to come back some evening? She would make me a decent supper and we could watch some films. Her husband seemed perfectly content with this arrangement and so we left. I had enjoyed the visit. For me it was such a relief to be a guest in an ordinary household. Signora Mussolini had taken me under her wing, just as my old Aunt Genia had done years before in Odessa. I envied Il Duce his security. I was to pay several visits to the Villa Torlonia that year. They remain my happiest memories of Rome, in spite of the success I enjoyed there. I watched movies with Mrs Mussolini and I told her boys stories of my flying exploits. They called me ‘Uncle Max’ and she was pleased. Since Mussolini’s brother had died, she admitted, there had been an aching absence. She knew my work must be exhausting and was so grateful I could find time to spend with them. I would always, she said, be a welcome guest. I found it a great relief to know I had somewhere I could relax.

Many lack the character to carry the burdens of public life. The small pleasures of privacy, those intimate moments in obscure cafes, visits to galleries and entertainments, begin to turn into public appearances. And, of course, one’s personal life is subject to all manner of minor and irritating constraints.

We special ministers were not required to wear our uniforms at all times, but Il Duce made it clear how our public image was of paramount importance. As long as that was properly maintained, so was the state. Admittedly the Italian, English and American press was not unkind to us and one’s more intimate secrets were never aired - at least while one remained in office.

A case in point was poor, honest Augusto Turati, whom I met once or twice in the days before he was so thoroughly disgraced. He was a notorious pederast and paedophile, though an excellent and honest party secretary. While he continued to perform his public duties properly, such matters were never put before the people. However, when, shortly before my own appointment, Turati rather foolishly criticised the party as corrupt, he was replaced.

Everything came out then, of course. Mussolini, who had turned a blind eye to his friend’s escapades, was shocked at the details presented to him by the OVFLA, his special police department concerned with internal affairs. He never spoke of Turati again.

Il Duce himself was highly tolerant of human foibles, though he had few of his own. His view very properly was that while a man served the public effectively, there was no need to dig up the dirt. ‘After all,’ he would say, ‘there are few of us who haven’t something in our past which could be interpreted unfavourably.’ If this attitude led to certain party members occasionally taking advantage of their positions, it also meant that public confidence was maintained. Franklin Roosevelt said we had nothing to fear but fear itself. To a nation, said Benito Mussolini, morale was more important than money. Both agreed that image and prestige were far more valuable than gold reserves.

‘Gold is a fantasy,’ my friend would say, as we played upon our desert battlegrounds. ‘It has no more intrinsic value than this.’ And his stubby, powerful fingers would claw up a mound of sand from the table, dribbling it back over the ruins we had just made of a well-defended fort.

‘We give it power. It has none of its own. What makes gold and diamonds valuable are their artificial scarcity. The British and the Dutch, together with the Americans, control most of that trade, which gives them their power in the world. Alone, these minerals can feed no one, kill no one, help no one. They are a fantasy. Their worth is in their beauty. Yet nations destroy one another for gold. So if mankind is willing to struggle and die for one fantasy, why not another? America’s greatest asset is not in her raw materials, but in her exports of fantasy across the globe.

‘Without Hollywood, America would be like Canada. Nothing. Fabulation is America’s greatest skill. It comes from having so many mad religious visionaries settled there. These people who accuse me of drawing an inaccurate picture of Italy are merely those whose own fantasies are at odds with mine. What is an “inaccurate picture”? Is the Wild West an inaccurate picture? No, it is an idealised vision. Similarly I describe the best we can become as a nation. After all, how much of a line is there between “idealism” and “fantasy”? What we are interested in, Professor, is the power of the human will to create reality.’

A common theme in those days. Mussolini expressed it well. I realised how pathetic El Glaoui’s provincial dreams had been. Mussolini promised me I would soon have the engineering and material resources of the entire Italian Empire at my disposal. Meanwhile, we needed to shroud our plans in secrecy. Much as I wanted to shout my successes from the rooftops, I understood this. My oath to Il Duce put my life in his service. Here was a leader I could trust, whose intelligence, experience and vision made him my equal.

In common with some of the old squadristi, I grew a handsome beard. This gave me a fierce, aquiline appearance, like an engraving of one of my Cossack ancestors. It suited my new aggressive enthusiasm. Maddy said I looked like her pioneer ancestor, ‘Black Bob’ Butter, who had founded the family fortune. But I think she had an otherwise rather ambiguous reaction to what she called my ‘whiskers’. I was in two minds about keeping them until Mussolini himself complimented me on them.

Some three times a week, if he was in Rome, Il Duce came to see me at my offices. Guards would be positioned at the great double doors, with their carvings of warring centaurs and satyrs. Then we would discuss where we had left off, how we had won the last of our battles, what problems we had discovered, and so on. Now two Land Leviathans stood some two feet high on the game table, facing batteries of guns and larger numbers of troops, as we tried out increasingly complicated strategies. Upon arrival, my chief would unbutton his tunic — he called it ‘loosening my stays’ - and take a small cup of coffee. Then he would give his entire concentration to the matter in hand. I noticed with no great surprise, since Italy had been an ally of Britain in the Great War, he preferred to fill the enemy positions with German soldiers.

The amount of time I spent with Il Duce created a certain jealousy towards me. Some of his people felt overlooked. Notoriously, Il Duce was growing remote from his old friends, those who had been with him from the beginning. I heard this constant, if not very audible, grumble from among the ras, squadristi and gerarchia of the old guard, who had won the revolution but failed to absorb their leader’s lessons in statecraft. I heard similar complaints from several members of the Fascist Grand Council of which our Chief was head. If the American Revolution had been the work of a group of lawyers creating a land fit for lawyers to flourish in, then the Italian rebirth was chiefly in the hands of men who, like Mussolini himself, had been writers, publicists and journalists and who wished to create a nation where the writer was paramount. Their interest was not the day-to-day practical running of state affairs. They wished to maintain the morale of the country, in keeping the goals, as well as the achievements, of Fascism to the fore.

‘We must all march forward singing,’ said Turati, two days before his disgrace.

Mussolini did not want to hear such thoughts. He was forever repeating his view that while Italians thought of themselves as a nation of wine-loving opera singers they would never compete with the austerely successful Teutons, who, of course, had successfully conquered Italy after the Roman Empire withdrew to the East.

I think Turati’s reference to song was a mistake. I had attended one or two of his little parties. He was not an evil man. I believe he meant well for Italy. But, as Mussolini put it to me, ‘If you shove your fist up a little boy’s arse, the next hand you shake will smell of shit.’ By which Il Duce meant, I suppose, that inner corruption, which has nothing to do with sexual preferences or the enjoyment of the world’s other many pleasures, is more important than outer. He did not object to Turati’s symptoms of what Il Duce always called ‘the German sickness’, but the rule was, as Lord Joyce once said to me in the years when he was a simple commoner rather than a broadcaster, never to upset the ladies or frighten the horses. A rule the British would do well to remember, since they are no better than the others these days with their miserable kowtowing to every dusky ex-colonial who decides to castigate them in print. They were once the most successful Teutons in the world. Now, of course, we have the Americans.

Except when we were experimenting with our models or when on a whim he would occasionally decide to take me for a drive at the wheel of his huge Mercedes-Benz, zooming through the streets of Rome late at night, when little attention needed to be paid to lights or signs, Il Duce remained a very private man. He even checked himself from revealing that infectiously broad and charming smile. He habitually pushed his lower lip forward, firming his jaw against the cares of state, striking a deliberately belligerent pose by drawing his brows together in an almost comical scowl. The Bolshevist cartoonists loved to parody these expressions. Yet it was a conscious mask assumed for public appearances or for when he met a fellow Head of State. He could not afford to appear weak or indecisive. He was, after all, a superman. Our job was to support him in whatever positive ways we could. Therefore, to present another image of Il Duce was an act of national sabotage.

Turati had been one of the first to realise the importance of what came to be called ducisimo in promoting a national identity. Mussolini’s favourite theme, that Italians would only be respected abroad when they lost their image as a nation of maftosi and gigoli, made considerable sense. If other people see you as weak and foolish, there is a strong chance you will come to see yourself in this way. I have observed husbands, convinced by their wives that they are of a certain character, begin to behave accordingly. Women, of course, are masters of this sort of thing.

For this reason Mussolini treated Italians to a constant litany of Italian successes — in the Arts, the Sciences, the Humanities. All agreed that Italy led the world in style, for instance. It was imitated everywhere. No longer a nation of opera singers, but of the great condottieri, said Mussolini.

‘And this, Professore,’ he added, laying a firm hand upon my massive piece, ‘is what in the end impresses the world. Spectacular weaponry! Imagine the astonishment of the world when our futurist arsenal is revealed! The threat of war, Professor, brings many a great power to her senses. With machines like this we shall restore our African and our Eastern Empire without losing a single Italian life!’

The idea of war was still unpopular in Italy. Mussolini knew that if gains could be made with minimum losses his prestige would be even higher. His prestige and Italy’s prestige were indistinguishable and interdependent. For this reason we worked in secrecy. A few hints of our project were released to the press. I was not named, save as a famous American inventor advising Il Duce in his great plans. We were designing a homeland defence system which would be second to none. That system would make the Maginot Line seem old-fashioned and hopelessly ineffective. All European countries in those days were prepared for another war. Few had the heart for it. Mussolini argued that war was identified with the bloody folly of the trenches. He reminded me that British tanks first broke that appalling stalemate. The modern equivalent of flying cavalry, the tank, together with the fighting aeroplane, changed the rules of warfare.

The months went by. I enjoyed a status I had never known before. I had won respect, power, approval, the company of international men of affairs. I was party to all the political secrets of Europe. I knew only one small frustration. I should have anticipated it when dealing with a man of so many responsibilities. Il Duce would not let me know when we would be ready to put the prototype into production. Whenever I asked, he would offer me some reason for delaying. Then he would turn the conversation to some other invention of mine and insist that a model be commissioned. Thus the surrounding panelling of the boardroom’s walls was soon supporting shelves containing massive models of all my inventions. One of these was my long-range bombing aeroplane, the so-called ‘Flying Wing’, which contained much more extra fuel than ordinary aircraft. Although we were not yet giving employment to Italy’s engineers and steelworkers, we were making her toymakers rich.

Factories were not yet tooled up to produce the Land Leviathan’s full-size prototype, but over the next months our people brought to life a whole series of designs. I felt the euphoria I had known when I had worked on films, though ultimately, of course, we aimed to produce reality rather than illusion. I was disappointed Il Duce showed little interest in my more domestic inventions, such as the Radio Oven, but glad he remained enthusiastic about the rest, a product of what he insisted on praising as my ‘Fascist sensibility’.

‘These machines, Professor, are the expression in steel and cordite of our Fascist ability to crush all opposition in a single efficient action.’

He would walk up and down our long model room studying a multi-engined flying boat here, a dynamite engine there, a jointed aircraft carrier, a superfast mobile gun and so on. Set against suitable backgrounds, the models created an astonishing impression of reality.

To my intense relief even Margherita Sarfatti was banned from this inner sanctum to which only my Chief and myself were privy. Here Il Duce could let his hair down (figuratively, since he was going grey and was forced to shave his head). He could forget the cares of state. I was flattered that he wished to spend so much time with me. I sometimes wondered what my company offered him. I knew nothing then, of course, about his plans for the rapid expansion of Italian influence into Africa and the Balkans.

Although he loved to speak in terms of war — the war for wheat, the war against crime, the war on terror, the war against alcoholism and so on — Mussolini’s nature did not lean much towards Mars. He enjoyed the game of it but had very little stomach for actual violence. He was probably never happier than when he stabbed the buttons of his radio-control, making my great War Ziggurat fire this way and that, rolling over infantry divisions, squadrons of cavalry, tanks, anti-aircraft guns, planes, forts and palm groves with mighty dignity. Sometimes Mussolini seemed a rather shy, almost timid person. When his defences were down he would ask quite naive questions with a direct, schoolboy innocence which made me admire and like him all the more.

I have heard it said that Fascism is not an ideology but a conflict of ideologies. If that were true, perhaps Mussolini mirrored that conflict just as much as he resolved it. While he controlled himself, he held Italy, with all her own inner conflicts, together. When his conflicts got the better of him, he was forced to make draconian decisions rather than find compromise. Then his power left him. Then Italy was lost.

Only when Mussolini was thoroughly decisive was Italy badly served. Perhaps this sounds like treachery against a man I still treasure as a friend. Yet it was Mussolini’s powers of compromise which enabled him to represent the Italian people and allow Italy to survive, just as my own similar powers have led to my own survival. One is neither a hypocrite nor a liar if one is by nature a diplomat.

In spite of his firm and necessary aggressiveness at the negotiating table, the Dictator always left doors open for alternatives. Tom Morgan believes that Hitler closed those doors for Mussolini and so initiated Italy’s downfall. Franco, says Tom, had far more sense and kept Spain stable until the present day. Tom bought a house in Spain, which is very pro-American, but he often visits my shop when over here to see his doctor in Harley Street. At least he and I still have our admiration for Il Duce in common. I, of course, understood Mussolini a little better than Morgan. Indeed, one thing Margherita Sarfatti, who perhaps knew her lover better than anyone, said to me was that I brought the man she had admired and respected back to life.

Sarfatti never told me much about her intimate episode with our friend. Yet sometimes, in the middle of making love to Maddy Butter, I would be seized by a chilling thought: could Mussolini and Margherita be discussing me? Might Margherita inadvertently reveal something to alert her protector to the truth? Nothing I could say would be believed by Mussolini. He would see me as her seducer (rather than her whore!). Disgrace would be the least I had to fear! For all his sensitivity, Il Duce was an Italian first. I was well aware how fiercely Italians defended their honour. This caused me to lose a certain spontaneity. Maddy began to complain that I had no time for her. When I explained how I was wearied by cares of state, she seemed satisfied, but some of her old, easy gaiety was lost in those heady first months.

Unfortunately, Margherita still found time for me. I think she was one of those people who feel obliged to keep all lovers, old and new, under their control. When she was in Rome I was often her escort in public, sometimes with Maddy as well, attending an opening of garish modernist art or sharing a box at some screeching contemporary opera. Maddy always complained of the smell. I was tempted to tell her she didn’t know the half of it. I was not at that time Margherita’s only lover, for her ardour, if not her peculiarity, had cooled a little, which was just as well, since I had developed bad headaches in the days when Il Duce was particularly energetic and demanding of my involvement.

One day in the restaurant where I usually met her, Margherita showed me the French and Swiss newspapers. To my amazement they had published shadowy pictures of my Land Leviathan, claiming they had been taken on secret manoeuvres in Libya. I was shocked. I had no doubt the pictures were of my models. They were so poorly reproduced, however, that they could have been the real thing if one did not know better. When I first looked I assumed for a moment that Mussolini had ordered a Leviathan built in secret. But certain features revealed both machines as the models we had installed in the Villa Valentino. The story, of course, was preposterous. Not a nut or bolt of the real thing had yet been made. Even at a most optimistic estimate, the project would take years to complete.

When I got to my office I immediately began enquiries to find out how a photographer could have sneaked through to a room only my staff was allowed to enter under the toughest security. They knew nothing. I was sceptical. I suspected some sort of Bolshevist plot. Brodmann, or even our own OVRA, kept files on everyone and might have spies in my people’s ranks. The photographs had been hastily taken and were not of professional quality. Any Brownie could have been used! I wrote a quick personal note to Il Duce saying I was baffled by this leak.

I waited in some nervousness to hear back from him. He might see this as an indication of disloyalty or un-Fascist laxity on my part. He could strip me of my rank, perhaps even expel me from Italy and consign my inventions to oblivion. Or claim them as his own.

Two days later I heard a familiar sound outside. The Fascist squadristi positioned themselves on both sides of doors flung open to admit the Dictator himself. I expected his expression to be stormy. But he was grinning in his familiar way as the doors closed and we were alone. My stomach turning over, I rose and saluted. He waved me back to my seat with an affable hand, unbuttoning his uniform jacket and loosening his belt.

‘Professore, you are worrying about nothing!’

He picked up one of the newspaper cuttings from my desk. ‘Who could tell anything from this? Does it matter how those photos came to be in the foreign press? Enough that they are believed. The newspapers are doing our work for us! Don’t you see it? Even before we have built our first machine, the world is alarmed, wondering where, how, what — when? Eh? Meanwhile, the machines will soon be in production and those who believe the pictures to be fakes will be shown to be fools, so we win on every level.’

Il Duce had a knack of calming my worst fears. ‘Professore, you are living in the Dark Ages. This is the world of modern communications when the truth can be tailored according to need. Let’s say someone on your staff required a little pocket money and gave the press these pictures. It has done no harm. Of course, you will make sure it doesn’t happen again. But as long as the world is mystified, we are strong.’

My relief was considerable. I would keep my job! Mussolini continued. I must think of him as the star of a cinema film, he told me. The whole art of the film is to suspend disbelief, win authority for the director without being obvious. The director does not succeed by drawing attention to himself or his own skills. He draws attention to his star, his script, his sets.

‘Now since in this case I am both director and star, I have to make careful distinctions. I have to delegate, of course. I have to rely on experts. You, Professor Peters, are one of my experts. As your admission to the Fascist Inner Council shows, your worth is thoroughly recognised. Once our machines are in full production you will get all credit for your work. We shall put your name on everything. The Peters Land Cruiser. The Peters Long Range Flying Boat. The Peters Jointed Aircraft Carrier. Meanwhile, the state requires that Mussolini’s is the only name associated with our projects. Now that there has been a little scandal, we can reveal a few other details, perhaps let another vague photo or two be published. These will serve to keep the world guessing. Of course I understand your concern and appreciate your position, which is why the Popolo d’ltalia has asked to run a series of interviews with you, concentrating on your many achievements in America. As we speak, the Italian Academy is considering inviting you to join its distinguished company. I learned today, and this is strictly between us, that you are to receive the Fascist Eagle First Class. Your efforts are not going unrewarded. Your salary, I understand, is also to rise in accordance with your new position.’

But none of these honours, none of these rewards meant as much to me as knowing that Il Duce was not displeased with me. I was close to tears.

‘My Duce,’ I said, ‘I live to serve you and the Italian nation.’

That was all he needed to hear. Again his manly lips split into a boyish grin, his massive hands spread wide. If the desk had not been between us, I know he would have embraced me.

‘Come,’ he said, heading for the door into our ‘secret’ room. ‘Let’s have a look at the monsters which are making the French and the Swiss wet their knickers.’ And we were again at play.

I speak, of course, with a certain levity. I came to understand how my Chief used these exercises for many purposes. First, they relaxed him. Far more than the women who were brought every afternoon to his office, our machines of the future took his mind off the cares of the present. He could lose himself in his dream. Second, they enabled him to plan. His instincts were perfect at this time. As far as the world was concerned our weapons were so terrible, so effective, the chances of them being used were slim. My Land Leviathan would guard the boundaries of the New Roman Empire. My huge Flying Wings would carry passengers as easily as bombs. My jointed floating Aircraft Battle Stations could be always ready to launch my superfast skyfleet into the skies. Such weapons meant peace, not war - a peaceful, secure Italy, firmly established within her natural imperial borders, threatening no one and unthreatenable. That was all the average Italian longed for. Look at Things to Come, which Korda made in 1936, if you want see a vision of the clean, predictable, decent future we hoped to achieve. In that wonderful film, which also owed something to my ideas, men of refined education and of the very best character take charge of the world and put it right. This was all Fascism wished for. Yet I do not believe H. G. Wells ever claimed to be a Fascist.

Only when Mussolini, pressured by other powers, brought his plans forward did things begin to go wrong. Where once whole towns had swarmed to cheer him, soon he was lucky to find the stationmaster still on duty when his train came in. The same happened to Hitler. Their people put them in power because they wanted the secure stability of peace, not the uncertainties and privations of war. If Hitler and Mussolini had not set their feet on that inescapable course — admittedly because they were terrified of Stalin — the world would be a very different place today. There would have been no abolition of National Service, for instance, and therefore no hippies. My cities would rise into the skies. My city would be called Roma and she would bring Law, Justice, Order and Probity to the world. My ship is called Byzantium, the spiritual heart of our faith and our idealism. My ship is called Leviathan. She crushes the cities of the enemy. She swallows them. She shits them. They are called Carthage. They are called Jerusalem. Meyn Schiff ist The Sword. She flies in defence of all that is holy, all that is noble, all our history. Meyn Schiff ist Der Heym. Meyn Schiff ist Der Heym.

Sometimes when overtired I felt I was involved in a vast Hollywood epic in which the star really was Mussolini and in which the people of Italy played the extras. Much of his work was designed to create the illusion. He believed the reality would follow.

Cynics have said there were resources only for the illusion, none for the reality. I know better. If Mussolini had stuck to his true course and been a little stricter with some of his antagonists, such as the Jews and the Catholics, he or his son would be in power today. He was foolish to be so accommodating to Hitler. I speak as a neutral, judging Hitler neither way, but there was an element of instability in the Führer’s make-up I never detected in Il Duce. Hitler was misadvised from the outset. If he had known what was going on in his own higher echelons he would have made a cleansing of the stables much sooner. As it was, he cleansed the wrong stables of the wrong elements. Röhm was a rough diamond, but he was heart and soul for the Nazi cause.

Margherita Sarfatti believed sincerely that if she had been beside him, Il Duce would not have made the mistakes he did. Yet others believe she was his worst mistake!

The Albanians have a saying: There are three things you should never trust. A dead viper, a wounded boar and a Jew turned Catholic.

Margherita argued that the worst mistake her lover made was to achieve reconciliation with the Vatican. Once he let the Jesuits back into the corridors of power, Italy was lost. In spite of her opinion, Margherita, of course, took the expedient of converting while the ink was still wet on the agreement. Signora Mussolini, it was said, never accepted the Church. Her Romagnan relatives must have wept when they learned about the pact. They felt betrayed. The worst crime Mussolini ever committed — again at the instigation of the Roman bishops - was the attempted Catholicisation of conquered territories which had been Orthodox for centuries! That is no way to win friends. Mussolini lost many friends in the Balkans. Those who say he was responsible for the murder of King Alexander of Yugoslavia cannot know history! That territory was a battleground for centuries. Christians fought Moslems, Serbs fought Croats, fascists fought communists. They know nothing else but contention.

Many claim nationalism to be an essential element of fascism and so it is. That is why there are so few international fascist organisations in comparison to the communists. But Italy’s form of nationalism and Spain’s form of nationalism are very different, say, to the kind of small-minded nationalism one hears so often in the UK. I cannot tell you the number of times I have been insulted. ‘Jew’ is their favourite, of course, but there are many others. I tell them my blood is pure. It is Slavic blood, Russian blood, the finest blood in the world. The only blood, I point out, which Hitler feared. Save for his own, of course.

To be honest, I was not over-employed as Il Duce’s Minister for Overseas Development. I arrived at eleven, knowing the Duce to be a late riser, and lunched nearby from two until four. In case Mussolini should require me, I was never very far away from the office. Similar routines were followed by all the other ministers and officials. The rest of my time was spent occasionally servicing La Sarfatti, taking tea with Maddy, chatting on the telephone with acquaintances and so on. Occasionally I would give an interview to the foreign or domestic press.

Some of Italy’s most prestigious magazines ran long articles on me and my exploits. I still have a few of the cuttings. They tended to be vague about my present position, saying that I was in charge of a number of top-secret projects. I knew, of course, that Brodmann and his friends in Moscow were noting all this. I considered asking the Chief for a bodyguard. However, I would have had to make too many explanations, since he believed me to be a Russian-born American. All the leading Fascists were no doubt targets for Bolshevik assassins. I had to hope that our own OVRA were doing their job behind the scenes. Sometimes I thought that I had noted a car following me and hoped it was only a discreet bodyguard.

What if it were Brodmann, armed with a silent gas-gun, stalking me? I am a man of sanguine patience and sanity. I rarely let such fantasies gain the upper hand, but sometimes the effort to sustain common sense can be considerable.

Official functions actually came to be some of the least boring duties. The whole world came to Italy to see how Mussolini’s Fascism was performing. Once again I was introduced to Marion Davies when she came to Rome with William Randolph Hearst. She did not recognise me in my uniform or my beard. She was a pretty, agreeable woman, a little inclined to gush. ‘When you come to America, Professor,’ she said, ‘you must give me or Mr Hearst a call. If there’s anything you need, just ask. I hope you’ll have time to stay with us at San Simeon.’

I had no particular dislike for the woman, but this was the second time she had issued such empty invitations. I think it was a habit with her. She had no real power of her own, of course. She either forgot to relay these invitations to Hearst or demurred when he objected. I don’t know. That said, Miss Davies was a far better actress than Anita Loos gave her credit for, but much of that talent was probably reserved for private life. She hid behind her blonde curls and long eyelashes like a panther behind a curtain of foliage.

Hearst himself, almost as elephantine as my old backer, the turncoat Hever, simply breathed and grunted at me and uttered some platitudes about America needing a taste of Fascist discipline and so on. Their goodwill was flattering, of course, but they had no real idea of the weight of responsibility we bore. I met Corinne Sweet again and several stars whom I had known as bit players. All were familiar with my films and rather extravagant in their praise. I think some of them were simply astonished that a professor and member of the Italian Academy, a minister of the state, could also have been a successful film actor.

Much of their response was of what I called the ‘talking dog’ variety. That is, they didn’t actually listen to my words. They were merely amazed that an actor could talk at all. My experience made me invaluable at receptions where these actors and actresses were entertained. Maddy and I went to them all. And because we went everywhere, we were invited everywhere else. It became second nature to get home from the office at about six, relax a little with Maddy, change into a fresh uniform, or civilian evening clothes if appropriate, and be off out again to a reception. At one of these I met the poet Pound, a fierce, sickly, unkempt little man with no sense of humour and a tendency to create causes from the most casual material. I also met Marshal Petain, Zaharoff, the armaments king and Sir Anthony Eden, the dapper dandy and famous lover of Princess Margaret. For all that Hitler was an enormous admirer of Mussolini, there were relatively few German visitors in those first months, though this was to change.

I met Karl Nertz and Isolde von Koln, the dancing team, who were part of a visiting troupe. They knew Seryozha, though not well. He was now in Berlin, but they were not sure what he was doing. They had seen him at the fashionable bohemian Café Schmetterling about two days before they left Germany. Full of admiration for what Mussolini was doing, they feared Germany still faced some form of civil war. ‘It is almost inevitable,’ he said. ‘The fighting between the Nazis and the Sozies has become epidemic.’

Mussolini, although he gave a little help to them and the occasional encouraging nod, did not really take the Nazis seriously. He thought they aped the crudest of his ideas. He had not yet been alerted to the dangers of International Zionism. He believed Hitler and all his people were homosexual and always referred to the future Führer as ‘that garrulous little German rouge boy’.

Mussolini was sometimes as susceptible to believing antagonistic propaganda as anyone. The only Nazi he had any time for at all was Göring, whom he described as an officer and a flying hero. They had met briefly, once or twice, I think. Hitler habitually used his friend Göring for diplomatic missions. Göring also knew Margherita. She had helped him buy modern paintings through her various friends in the gallery world. He had also bought a few old masters. She had no great respect for his taste.

Margherita was furious at not being invited to the first big reception attended by Göring and his Nazi entourage. My Chief insisted, with uncharacteristic vehemence, that I come but that Margherita (or Maddy, for that matter) did not. He allowed no excuse. ‘It is a man-to-man affair,’ he explained soberly.

I had planned to go on to a special ‘powder’ party with Maddy that night. Now she would have to go without me. I would try to meet her there later. She, too, was unhappy at being excluded. The function was being very carefully orchestrated, I explained. The Nazis were doing well at the polls. They might be a force to be reckoned with. She was unreconciled. It sounded to her as if Mussolini was muzzling the press. The idea was ludicrous. I pointed out that Tom Morgan would be going, as well as other top reporters, including Billy Grisham.

The reception was in fact a rather large affair. I doubt if many more people could have been crammed into the vast halls of the Villa Trajanos, with its countless galleries and staircases. With the significant exception of Margherita, everyone who was anyone in Rome was there. No wonder she understood herself to be out of favour with Il Duce!

I spent the first hour or two being introduced to one ambassador and his wife after another. Eventually I met Captain Göring himself. He seemed a little detached, chuckling a great deal but in response to nothing in particular. Possibly he could not understand me. His Italian was minimal — kitchen Italian, as we used to call it — good enough for instructing the cook. He was even then rather fat and wearing a suit cut in such a way as to hide the worst of his bulk. His vanity was second only to his self-indulgence, though he was an amiable fellow of the old South German type which is nowadays dying out.

Like so many of those early Nazis, Göring worshipped Hitler. Mussolini found his enthusiasm irritating. The German, true to form, did not notice. Ethel Grisham, drifting up in an incongruous ocean of green tulle, eventually saved us and bore Göring off to meet ‘this delicious English woman’. ‘She’s just your type and she’s dying to meet you.’

Mussolini muttered something to me about the crassness of the ‘German bumboys’ and was then forced to do his diplomatic best with the ambassador and his dumpy wife while I talked to Tom Morgan, Billy Grisham and one or two other pals from the press corps. Everyone but Tom was rather mocking about my uniform. I told them that they were lucky to earn such good salaries. They could afford suits. We servants of the state had nothing to wear but black serge.

‘And nothing to eat but black bread, I suppose,’ said Billy, amiably popping half a gram of caviar into his mouth. They were pleased with my elevation but like good friends saw no harm in ribbing me about it. That and their knowing winks around La Sarfatti, they reserved for me alone. When I was with Maddy they were more respectful. I regretted she was not there. Tom Morgan, a little drunker than the rest of us, told us some leering story and then nodded across the hall. ‘That Hun looks like Fatty Arbuckle playing the lead in The Merry Widow.’

He spoke of Captain Göring. Like some favoured bull at a cattle show, the German preened himself before a woman he evidently found attractive. ‘What a stunner, eh?’ said Morgan, nudging me. ‘I bet she’s an actress.’

I turned to look. As I did so an intense and complex emotion suffused my entire body. The ‘stunner’ was the woman I knew better than any other still alive. My wife! My eternal! My soulmate!

‘She is indeed an actress, Tom,’ I confirmed quietly, putting down my drink and adjusting my uniform. ‘She is an exceptionally fine one. She is my greatest leading lady. Miss Gloria Cornish.’

Everything else forgotten, I hurried across the room to greet my guardian angel. She was, of course, the wonderfully beautiful and voluptuous Mrs Cornelius.

She sensed my presence. A platinum radiance in pink and silver, a cloud of beaming Guerlain, she turned.

I began to approach. For a heartbeat she paused, then she recognised me. “Ello, Ivan!’ Her genial voice was more lusciously sensual than ever. ‘Wot’s wiv ther face fungus?’ Her enormous blue eyes took in my uniform, my orders. ‘Turned out nice again, I see.’ The tip of her pink tongue wet her ruby lips. She winked, one old survivor to another.

Mio angelo! Mia amante! Mia sposa! My life!

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