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 protective 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:
‘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 protective 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:
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