An Evening at Home

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Of course she had not changed. She was still my angel. Only Mussolini gave off that almost supernatural wave of animal magnetism. My eyes as full as my heart, I bowed, embracing her hand, kissing it. "My dear Mrs Cornelius."

"You orlways was a smarmy bugger, Ivan?" She was amiable as ever. "Still, I must admit it's good ter see a familiar face. Got yerself somefink official an' steady,I see, workin' fer th' corporation. I don't blame yer. I'm done for in ther talkies it's me accent, so I took up with ther Baron over there," she indicated a stooped shadow in a wig, "'oo was good enough ter 'elp me back on me feet, but I'm thinkin' of goin' inter cabaret, maybe in Berlin. It's orl wide open fer English artistes, I'm told. 'Ave yer met - " She turned to address the enormous beaming German, who was clearly enraptured by her, an infatuated zeppelin.

"'Ermann, is it?"

He bowed, clicked his heels and shook hands again. He did not recollect me. I supposed we all looked the same to him in our black uniforms. Although not quite as tall as he seemed from his photographs, Herman Goering was considerably wider. He spoke now in confident, but not very good English.

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