by Ken Follett
‘Which means anyone they dislike,’ said Maud.
Ethel said: ‘How can there be a democratic election now?’
‘We must do our best,’ Walter said. ‘If we don’t campaign, it will only help the Nazis.’
Lloyd said impatiently: ‘When will you stop accepting this and start to fight back? Do you still believe it would be wrong to meet violence with violence?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Maud. ‘Peaceful resistance is our only hope.’
Walter said: ‘The Social Democratic Party has a paramilitary wing, the Reichsbanner, but it’s weak. A small group of Social Democrats proposed a violent response to the Nazis, but they were outvoted.’
Maud said: ‘Remember, Lloyd, the Nazis have the police and the army on their side.’
Walter looked at his pocket watch. ‘We must get going.’
Maud said suddenly: ‘Walter, why don’t you cancel?’
He stared at her in surprise. ‘Seven hundred tickets have been sold.’
‘Oh, to blazes with the tickets,’ Maud said. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t worry. Seats have been carefully allocated, so there should be no troublemakers in the hall.’
Lloyd was not sure that Walter was as confident as he pretended.
Walter went on: ‘Anyway, I cannot let down people who are still willing to come to a democratic political meeting. They are all the hope that remains to us.’
‘You’re right,’ Maud said. She looked at Ethel. ‘Perhaps you and Lloyd should stay home. It’s dangerous, no matter what Walter says; and this isn’t your country, after all.’
‘Socialism is international,’ Ethel said stoutly. ‘Like your husband, I appreciate your concern, but I’m here to witness German politics first hand, and I’m not going to miss this.’
‘Well, the children can’t go,’ Maud said.
Erik said: ‘I don’t even want to go.’
Carla looked disappointed but said nothing.
Walter, Maud, Ethel and Lloyd got into Walter’s little car. Lloyd was nervous but excited too. He was getting a perspective on politics superior to anything his friends back home had. And if there was going to be a fight, he was not afraid.
They drove east, crossing Alexander Platz, into a neighbourhood of poor houses and small shops, some of which had signs in Hebrew letters. The Social Democratic Party was working-class but, like the British Labour Party, it had a few affluent supporters. Walter von Ulrich was in a small upper-class minority.
The car pulled up outside a marquee that said: ‘People’s Theatre’. A line had already formed outside. Walter crossed the pavement to the door, waving to the waiting crowd, who cheered. Lloyd and the others followed him inside.
Walter shook hands with a solemn young man of about eighteen. ‘This is Wilhelm Frunze, secretary of the local branch of our party.’ Frunze was one of those boys who looked as if they had been born middle-aged. He wore a blazer with buttoned pockets that had been fashionable ten years ago.
Frunze showed Walter how the theatre doors could be barred from the inside. ‘When the audience is seated, we will lock up, so that no troublemakers can get in,’ he said.
‘Very good,’ said Walter. ‘Well done.’
Frunze ushered them into the auditorium. Walter went up on stage and greeted some other candidates who were already there. The public began to come in and take their seats. Frunze showed Maud, Ethel and Lloyd to reserved places in the front row.
Two boys approached. The younger, who looked about fourteen but was taller than Lloyd, greeted Maud with careful good manners and made a little bow. Maud turned to Ethel and said: ‘This is Werner Franck, the son of my friend Monika.’ Then she said to Werner: ‘Does your father know you’re here?’
‘Yes – he said I should find out about social democracy myself.’
‘He’s broad-minded, for a Nazi.’
Lloyd thought this was a rather tough line to take with a fourteen-year-old, but Werner was a match for her. ‘My father doesn’t really believe in Nazism, but he thinks Hitler is good for German business.’
Wilhelm Frunze said indignantly: ‘How can it be good for business to throw thousands of people into jail? Apart from the injustice, they can’t work!’
Werner said: ‘I agree with you. And yet Hitler’s crackdown is popular.’
‘People think they’re being saved from a Bolshevik revolution,’ Frunze said. ‘The Nazi press has them convinced that the Communists were about to launch a campaign of murder, arson and poison in every town and village.’
The boy with Werner, who was shorter but older, said: ‘And yet it is the Brownshirts, not the Communists, who drag people into basements and break their bones with clubs.’ He spoke German fluently with a slight accent that Lloyd could not place.
Werner said: ‘Forgive me, I forgot to introduce Vladimir Peshkov. He goes to the Berlin Boys’ Academy, my school, and he’s always called Volodya.’
Lloyd stood up to shake hands. Volodya was about Lloyd’s age, a striking young man with a frank blue-eyed gaze.
Frunze said: ‘I know Volodya Peshkov. I go to the Berlin Boys’ Academy too.’
Volodya said: ‘Wilhelm Frunze is the school genius – top marks in physics and chemistry and maths.’
‘It’s true,’ said Werner.
Maud looked hard at Volodya and said: ‘Peshkov? Is your father Grigori?’
‘Yes, Frau von Ulrich. He is a military attaché at the Soviet Embassy.’
So Volodya was Russian. He spoke German effortlessly, Lloyd thought with a touch of envy. No doubt that came from living here.
‘I know your parents well,’ Maud said to Volodya. She knew all the diplomats in Berlin, Lloyd had already gathered. It was part of her job.
Frunze checked his watch and said: ‘Time to begin.’ He went up on stage and called for order.
The theatre went quiet.
Frunze announced that the candidates would make speeches and then take questions from the audience. Tickets had been issued only to Social Democratic Party members, he added, and the doors were now closed, so everyone could speak freely, knowing they were among friends.
It was like being a member of a secret society, Lloyd thought. This was not what he called democracy.
Walter spoke first. He was no demagogue, Lloyd observed. He had no rhetorical flourishes. But he flattered his audience, telling them that they were intelligent and well-informed men and women who understood the complexity of political issues.
He had been speaking for only a few minutes when a Brownshirt walked on stage.
Lloyd cursed. How had he got in? He had come from the wings: someone must have opened the stage door.
He was a huge brute with an army haircut. He stepped to the front of the stage and shouted: ‘This is a seditious gathering. Communists and subversives are not wanted in today’s Germany. The meeting is closed.’
The confident arrogance of the man outraged Lloyd. He wished he could get this great oaf in a boxing ring.
Wilhelm Frunze leaped to his feet, stood in front of the intruder, and yelled furiously: ‘Get out of here, you thug!’
The man shoved him in the chest powerfully. Frunze staggered back, stumbled, and fell over backwards.
The audience were on their feet, some shouting in angry protest, some screaming in fear.
More Brownshirts appeared from the wings.
Lloyd realized with dismay that the bastards had planned this well.
The man who had shoved Frunze shouted: ‘Out!’ The other Brownshirts took up the cry: ‘Out! Out! Out!’ There were about twenty of them, now, and more appearing all the time. Some carried police nightsticks or improvised clubs. Lloyd saw a hockey stick, a wooden sledgehammer, even a chair leg. They strutted up and down the stage, grinning fiendishly and waving their weapons as they chanted, and Lloyd had no doubt that they were itching to start hitting people.
He was on his feet. Without thinking, he, Werner and Volodya had formed a p
rotective line in front of Ethel and Maud.
Half the audience were trying to leave, the other half shouting and shaking their fists at the intruders. Those attempting to get out were shoving others, and minor scuffles had broken out. Many of the women were crying.
On stage, Walter grasped the lectern and shouted: ‘Everyone try to keep calm, please! There is no need for disorder!’ Most people could not hear and the rest ignored him.
The Brownshirts began to jump off the stage and to wade into the audience. Lloyd took his mother’s arm, and Werner did the same with Maud. They moved towards the nearest exit in a group. But all the doors were already jammed with knots of panicking people trying to leave. That made no difference to the Brownshirts, who kept yelling at people to get out.
The attackers were mostly able-bodied, whereas the audience included women and old men. Lloyd wanted to fight back, but it was not a good idea.
A man in a Great War steel helmet shouldered Lloyd, and he lurched forward and bumped into his mother. He resisted the temptation to turn and confront the man. His priority was to protect Mam.
A spotty-faced boy carrying a truncheon put a hand on Werner’s back and shoved energetically, yelling: ‘Get out, get out!’ Werner turned quickly and took a step towards him. ‘Don’t touch me, you Fascist pig,’ he said. The Brownshirt suddenly stopped dead and looked scared, as if he had not been expecting resistance.
Werner turned away again, concentrating, like Lloyd, on getting the two women to safety. But the huge man had heard the exchange and yelled: ‘Who are you calling a pig?’ He lashed out at Werner, hitting the back of his head with his fist. His aim was poor and it was a glancing blow, but all the same Werner cried out and staggered forward.
Volodya stepped between them and hit the big man in the face, twice. Lloyd admired Volodya’s rapid one-two, but turned his attention back to his task. Seconds later the four of them reached the doorway. Lloyd and Werner managed to help the women out into the theatre foyer. Here the crush eased and the violence stopped – there were no Brownshirts.
Seeing the women safe, Lloyd and Werner looked back into the auditorium.
Volodya was fighting the big man bravely, but he was in trouble. He kept punching the man’s face and body, but his blows had little effect, and the man shook his head as if pestered by an insect. The Brownshirt was heavy-footed and slow-moving, but he hit Volodya in the chest and then the head, and Volodya staggered. The big man drew back his fist for a massive punch. Lloyd was afraid it could kill Volodya.
Then Walter took a flying leap off the stage and landed on the big man’s back. Lloyd wanted to cheer. They fell to the floor in a blur of arms and legs, and Volodya was saved, for the moment.
The spotty youth who had shoved Werner was now harassing the people trying to leave, hitting their backs and heads with his truncheon. ‘You fucking coward!’ Lloyd yelled, stepping forward. But Werner was ahead of him. He shoved past Lloyd and grabbed the truncheon, trying to wrestle it away from the youth.
The older man in the steel helmet joined in and hit Werner with a pickaxe handle. Lloyd stepped forward and hit the older man with a straight right. The blow landed perfectly, next to the man’s left eye.
But he was a war veteran, and not easily discouraged. He swung around and lashed out at Lloyd with his club. Lloyd dodged the blow easily and hit him twice more. He connected in the same area, around the man’s eyes, breaking the skin. But the helmet protected the man’s head, and Lloyd could not land a left hook, his knockout punch. He ducked a swing of the pickaxe handle and hit the man’s face again, and the man backed away, blood pouring from cuts around his eyes.
Lloyd looked around. He saw that the Social Democrats were fighting back now, and he got a jolt of savage pleasure. Most of the audience had passed through the doors, leaving mainly young men in the auditorium, and they were coming forward, clambering over the theatre seats to get at the Brownshirts; and there were dozens of them.
Something hard struck his head from behind. It was so painful that he roared. He turned to see a boy of his own age holding a length of timber, raising it to strike again. Lloyd closed with him and hit him hard in the stomach twice, first with his right fist then with his left. The boy gasped for breath and dropped the wood. Lloyd hit him with an uppercut to the chin and the boy passed out.
Lloyd rubbed the back of his head. It hurt like hell but there was no blood.
The skin on his knuckles was raw and bleeding, he saw. He bent down and picked up the length of timber dropped by the boy.
When he looked around again, he was thrilled to see some of the Brownshirts retreating, clambering up on to the stage and disappearing into the wings, presumably aiming to leave through the stage door by which they had entered.
The big man who had started it all was on the floor, groaning and holding his knee as if he had dislocated something. Wilhelm Frunze stood over him, hitting him with a wooden shovel again and again, repeating at the top of his voice the words the man had used to start the riot: ‘Not! Wanted! In! Today’s! Germany!’ Helpless, the big man tried to roll away from the blows, but Frunze went after him, until two more Brownshirts grabbed the man’s arms and dragged him away.
Frunze let them go.
Did we beat them? Lloyd thought with growing exultation. Maybe we did!
Several of the younger men chased their opponents up on to the stage, but they stopped there and contented themselves with shouting insults as the Brownshirts disappeared.
Lloyd looked at the others. Volodya had a swollen face and one closed eye. Werner’s jacket was ripped, a big square of cloth dangling. Walter was sitting on a front-row seat, breathing hard and rubbing his elbow, but he was smiling. Frunze threw his shovel away, sailing it across the rows of empty seats to the back.
Werner, who was only fourteen, was exultant. ‘We gave them hell, didn’t we?’
Lloyd grinned. ‘Yes, we certainly did.’
Volodya put his arm around Frunze’s shoulders. ‘Not bad for a bunch of schoolboys, eh?’
Walter said: ‘But they stopped our meeting.’
The youngsters stared resentfully at him for spoiling their triumph.
Walter looked angry. ‘Be realistic, boys. Our audience has fled in terror. How long will it be before those people have the nerve to go to a political meeting again? The Nazis have made their point. It’s dangerous even to listen to any party other than theirs. The big loser today is Germany.’
Werner said to Volodya: ‘I hate those fucking Brownshirts. I think I might join you Communists.’
Volodya looked at him hard with those intense blue eyes and spoke in a low voice. ‘If you’re serious about fighting the Nazis, there might be something more effective you could do.’
Lloyd wondered what Volodya meant.
Then Maud and Ethel came running back into the auditorium, both speaking at the same time, crying and laughing with relief; and Lloyd forgot Volodya’s words and never thought of them again.
(v)
Four days later, Erik von Ulrich came home in a Hitler Youth uniform.
He felt like a prince. He had a brown shirt just like the one worn by Storm troopers, with various patches and a swastika armband. He also had the regulation black tie and black shorts. He was a patriotic soldier dedicated to the service of his country. At last he was one of the gang.
This was even better than supporting Hertha, Berlin’s favourite soccer team. Erik was taken to matches occasionally, on Saturdays when his father did not have a political meeting to attend. That gave him a similar sense of belonging to a great big crowd of people all feeling the same emotions. But Hertha sometimes lost, and he came home disconsolate.
The Nazis were winners.
He was terrified of what his father was going to say.
His parents infuriated him by insisting on marching out of step. All the boys were joining the Hitler Youth. They had sports and singing and adventures in the fields and forests outside the city. They were smart and fit
and loyal and efficient.
Erik was deeply troubled by the thought that he might have to fight in battle some day – his father and grandfather had – and he wanted to be ready for that, trained and hardened, disciplined and aggressive.
The Nazis hated Communists, but so did Mother and Father. So what if the Nazis hated Jews as well? The von Ulrichs were not Jewish, why should they care? But Mother and Father stubbornly refused to join in. Well, Erik was fed up with being left out, and he had decided to defy them.
He was scared stiff.
As usual, neither Mother nor Father was at the house when Erik and Carla came home from school. Ada pursed her lips disapprovingly as she served their tea, but she said: ‘You’ll have to clear the table yourselves today – I’ve got a terrible backache, I’m going to lie down.’
Carla looked concerned. ‘Is that what you had to see the doctor about?’
Ada hesitated before replying: ‘Yes, that’s right.’
She was obviously hiding something. The thought of Ada being ill – and lying about it – made Erik uneasy. He would never go as far as Carla and say he loved Ada, but she had been a kindly presence all his life, and he was more fond of her than he liked to say.
Carla was just as concerned. ‘I hope it gets better.’
Lately Carla had become more grown-up, somewhat to Erik’s bewilderment. Although he was two years older, he still felt like a kid, but she acted like an adult half the time.
Ada said reassuringly: ‘I’ll be fine after a rest.’
Erik ate some bread. When Ada left the room, he swallowed and said: ‘I’m only in the junior section, but as soon as I’m fourteen I can move up.’
Carla said: ‘Father’s going to hit the roof! Are you mad?’
‘Herr Lippmann said that Father will be in trouble if he tries to make me leave.’
‘Oh, brilliant,’ said Carla. She had developed a streak of withering sarcasm that sometimes stung Erik. ‘So you’ll get Father into a row with the Nazis,’ she said scornfully. ‘What a great idea. So good for the whole family.’
Erik was taken aback. He had not thought of it that way. ‘But all the boys in my class are members,’ he said indignantly. ‘Except for Frenchy Fontaine and Jewboy Rothmann.’
