We chose the latter.
‘Wilson will show you to your rooms. We’ll meet down here before dinner.’ Mrs Mawgan acknowledged my subtle bow with a smile of equal delicacy and we parted.
Wilson, the butler, took us up to the second floor, along a carpeted marble tunnel, to our suites. Mine was more luxurious than any hotel’s. I had never been in anything of this size or richness. The sensation of genuine opulence which swept through me reminded me exactly of the feeling I received at my Uncle Semya’s house in Odessa when I realised I was actually to have a whole room to myself, that many people thought it quite natural not to sleep in the same room as the one in which they ate! It was all I could do to stop from running from place to place opening cupboards and inspecting the elaborate toilet fittings. The whole was tastefully designed in the same patriotic colours, with the addition of gold and silver where appropriate. The wallpaper at first seemed fairly plain until inspected closely. Its chief motif was of lozenge shapes containing the initials KKK. The main feature of the suite, however, was my huge four-poster bed in the Napoleonic style, its headboards painted with scenes recalling the great triumphs of America’s struggle for freedom and honour. Inset over the tallest point of the headboard was a stylised Klan hood on which, in beautiful Gothic script, had been imposed the motto Suppressio veri suggestio falsi. This reference to the methods of our enemies could not be too frequently reiterated. The french windows of my sitting-room opened onto a balcony directly overlooking the lawns and the lake. How I wish those fools who even now insist to me that the Klan was a gang of ill-bred ruffians could have visited Klankrest in the days of its glory. They, who would not even know which fork to use for fish, would have been speechless with amazement. It was the epitome of civilised and gracious living. Nobody there questioned my yichuss.
EIGHTEEN
IF I AM A MARTYR brought low by my beliefs, then I am in excellent company and should not complain. Certain contemporaries have suffered far worse than I. They were reviled, imprisoned, tortured, hanged or burned alive. No single individual betrayed me in my fight. I am history’s victim, but I have had many exquisite moments, seen the world in all her beauty, made love to delightful women, enjoyed lasting friendships and the warmth of public acclaim. I am not one to whine over misfortunes, or blame others for my failures. I stand by my actions. What if I no longer receive the general respect which perhaps is my due? I have at least been true to myself. The Sultans sail from the City of Dogs. They come out of Carthage on a black and bloody tide. Their ships ride at anchor in harbours blocked with corpses. Scarecrow boys hang in the yards, grinning at the ruined cities of the West. Only the Slav remains ready to resist them and the Slav is still in chains. The Steel Tsar died, forgetting to tell where he hid the key. Those girls are so lovely with their pale hair and blue eyes, picking at my clothes, looking for silk stockings and satin drawers like the ones Esmé might have worn. I cannot help myself. I give it away.
The West is on her last legs and I shall not live forever. The Sultans strut from their gloomy men-o’-war onto a festering shore already conquered by its own degeneracy. They who ruled only a few yards of Buchenwald or Auschwitz now claim mastery of the world. But the Sultans are liars if they claim me as their subject. I am not of their blut. Ich habe langen geschlafen. Jesus erweckte die Toten. I refused to become a Mussulman. I lost my mother. I wrote several times but nobody knew what had happened to her. Then, after the War, in London in 1948, I met Brodmann. He was already old and probably had TB. He told me he had been in Kiev when the SS came. He had worked for them in an office and had recognised her name from the list, had seen her as she went down to the trench. All this he could have said just to wound. Why was she on a list? Why was he not in the gorge? It was in the gorge I worked, he said. I was captured, too. I have no reason to trust Brodmann. He lied even then, trying to placate me. Why did you pursue me? I asked. I did not, he said. I never got out until ‘46. I was sent to Czechoslovakia. It was distasteful, my mother’s name on Brodmann’s sickly lips. I guessed he was out of favour but still a Chekist, hoping to redeem himself by luring me back. I was too old a hand for him. Anyone might have learned my mother’s name, which was doubtless in my file, together with our old address. That was not, of course, the name I use. I at least am willing to show responsibility and protect those relatives still alive in Russia. Somebody told me Brodmann had died in Spain in 1950. Doubtless he was by then claiming to be a Sephardim Don! The Catholic pseudo-Fascist Franco must have welcomed him as a brother! I wonder how he explained what happened at the Tempelhof Airfield in 1939! They are all the same. They, too, would have been Sultans, given the opportunity. Maybe Brodmann was exactly that, living by betraying the likes of my mother. The black ships are the size of towns, prows throwing up yellow mud as they invade the land. They are implacable. They fly a dozen cryptic standards, but I have always recognised the banners of Carthage. That is why they hate me so. Yet certain of us, all of whom have this gift, recognise each other, frequently without having to exchange words. So it was between myself and Major Sinclair and later with Eddy Clarke and Mrs Bessy Mawgan.
It is a form of telepathy, I think, or something spiritual revealed in the eyes; an instant rapport. We are a brotherhood secret even to our own kind! I was never, however, to be granted an opportunity as miraculous as that offered to me by the Imperial Wizard: to speak to an entire nation! Nothing like it could have happened to me in Russia. Indeed, Mr Clarke had many recent reports of worsening terror as some assassin bungled the killing of Lenin, giving Trotski and the rest an excuse to pound the Bolshevik hammer with still greater ferocity on the wretched remains of one of the world’s noblest nations. I became incensed at dinner that first night, finally uttering a tirade against Russia’s murderers which, to my astonishment, had my hosts and Major Sinclair on their feet and clapping. Even the negro servants were impressed.
I remained a guest at Klankrest for over a week. Major Sinclair returned to the Delta (‘on unfinished business’) leaving me to discuss the strategy and logistics of my proposed tour with Mr Clarke, Mrs Mawgan and several prominent Klan officials. Eddy Clarke confided he had opposition within the organisation itself. ‘They resent my closeness to Colonel Simmons and believe I’m somehow feathering my own nest. Nothing could be further from reality. There’ll always be a few, I suppose, who see another’s altruism and believe it to be a reflection of their own greed. We shall have to teach them a lesson soon.’
I asked, by the way, where the great founder was. My ambition, naturally, was to be able to meet him one day.
‘He devoted himself body and soul to the Klan, Max. He’s no longer a spring chicken. He’s worn himself out and will be going for a rest in Florida. When he returns he’ll scotch those damn’ fool rumours. He knows what we’ve done for him. Three years ago they were glad of nickels and dimes. Today there’s a turnover in millions.’
Under these circumstances I greatly appreciated the time he allowed me. Mrs Mawgan herself assumed chief responsibility for coaching me, providing structure and detail to my proposed speeches and warning me where to be diplomatic, when I could be as forceful as I pleased. My basic text was taken directly from Griffith (whom I knew by heart) and Mrs Mawgan helped me amplify it. The first tour would begin in Portland, Oregon and encompass some fifty cities in the South and West. Mrs Mawgan thought I should be ‘broken in’ before I assaulted the North-Eastern citadels of Carthage’s greatest power. So busy were we I saw nothing of Atlanta itself and had time only to telephone Mr Cadwallader. Perhaps he had read the Paris newspapers for he seemed distant. He said vaguely he would call me at the house to arrange a luncheon. My social life consisted finally of two large parties held by my hosts to entertain wealthier and more influential sympathisers.