Winter of the World (6 page)

Macke now realized that he should have done this research before approaching the man. But he had gone ahead without full information. He might have known that was a mistake. In consequence, he
had been forced to submit to condescension and sarcasm. He had felt humiliated. But he would get his own back.

He began to go through miscellaneous papers in a dusty cupboard at the back of the room.

The name of von Ulrich did not appear here either, but there was one document missing.

According to the list pinned to the inside of the cupboard door, there should have been a file of 117 pages entitled ‘Vice Establishments’. It sounded like a survey of Berlin’s
nightclubs. Macke could guess why it was not here. It must have been in use recently: all the more decadent night spots had been closed down when Hitler became chancellor.

Macke went back upstairs. Kringelein was briefing uniformed police who were to raid the updated addresses Macke had provided of Communists and their allies.

Macke did not hesitate to interrupt his boss. Kringelein was not a Nazi, and would therefore be afraid to reprimand a Storm trooper. Macke said: ‘I’m looking for the Vice
Establishments file.’

Kringelein looked annoyed but made no protest. ‘On the side table,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’

Macke took the file and returned to his own room.

The survey was five years old. It detailed the clubs then in existence and stated what activities went on in them: gambling, indecent displays, prostitution, sale of drugs, homosexuality and
other depravities. The file named owners and investors, club members and employees. Macke patiently read each entry: perhaps Robert von Ulrich was a drug addict or a user of whores.

Berlin was famous for its homosexual clubs. Macke ploughed through the dreary entry on the Pink Slipper, where men danced with men and the floor show featured transvestite singers. Sometimes, he
thought, his work was disgusting.

He ran his finger down the list of members, and found Robert von Ulrich.

He gave a sigh of satisfaction.

Looking farther down, he saw the name of Jörg Schleicher.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how sarcastic you are now.’

(iv)

The next time Lloyd saw Walter and Maud he found them angrier – and more scared.

It was the following Saturday, 4 March, the day before the election. Lloyd and Ethel were planning to attend a Social Democratic Party rally organized by Walter, and they went to the von
Ulrichs’ home in Mitte for lunch beforehand.

It was a nineteenth-century house with spacious rooms and large windows, though much of the furniture was worn. The lunch was plain, pork chops with potatoes and cabbage, but there was good wine
with it. Walter and Maud talked as if they were poor, and no doubt they were living more simply than their parents had but, all the same, they were not going hungry.

However they were frightened.

But had persuaded Germany’s aging President, Paul von Hindenburg, to approve the Reichstag Fire Decree, which gave the Nazis authority for what they were already doing, beating and
torturing their political opponents. ‘Twenty thousand people have been arrested since Monday night!’ Walter said, his voice shaking. ‘Not just Communists, but people the Nazis
call “Communist sympathizers”.’

‘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 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: ‘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.