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
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
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