But why not? They got blamed for most things in Europe in those days. And particularly for socialism. Ever since Karl Marx had first called on the workers of the world to unite, the Jews had been accused of being behind international socialism (while perversely also apparently being behind international capitalism). From time immemorial if there was any hating going on in Europe, the Jews copped it as a matter of course. It was therefore really no surprise that many in the crowd had already stopped blaming Luxemburg the Socialist for the death of their Emperor and had begun blaming Luxemburg the Jew.
Stanton really hadn’t thought of that. He wondered if McCluskey and her fellow Chronations had done. Of if they’d cared.
The uneasy feeling Stanton had felt earlier had developed into a sick and leaden sensation in his stomach which, try as he might, he could not push away. He tried to argue with himself that this was just one night. That the crowds were shocked and upset. Certainly it looked as if things were going to be rougher than he’d hoped, but it would pass.
He allowed himself to be drawn along with the mob. And mob it was becoming, there could be no doubt about that. Stanton felt the weight of history on his shoulders. New history. History in the making.
He spotted a bonfire up ahead.
A bonfire in the street, not a big one, just a little brazier with red and yellow tongues licking hungrily at the air, but Stanton felt his stomach tighten further at the sight of it. Angry crowds making fires in the Berlin night. Flame-flickered shadows on the cobbles. Smoke in the air, drifting on the breeze towards the river Spree. He’d seen that before. Not personally but in countless documentaries and old news reels. Images that had been stamped on the collective memory of his twentieth century. Once recognized by hundreds of millions, now known only to him.
It was leaflets they were burning. He could see them, dancing orange hot in the night air. At first Stanton wondered if they were his own flyers, but that couldn’t be. There had only been a few hundred of them, hours before and in another part of town. He caught one and pulled it down, black with soot and fringed with bright sparkle, but the smoky letters were still legible. It was a message from the Social Democrats. They’d guessed the way the rumour mill was working and had moved fast to declare their outrage and their loyalty to the Crown.
Fellow Berliners!
The leaflet read.
The murder of our beloved Prince is a crime against all Germans! We of the Social Democratic Party stand united with the nation in our condemnation of this heinous crime!
Long live Kaiser Wilhelm the Third!
That final declaration of loyalty to the Kaiser’s eldest son must have been hard for those sober-faced liberal parliamentarians to write. Young Willy was universally acknowledged to be a wastrel, a dilettante and a hopeless womanizer, his luxurious lifestyle being a particular irritation for those who, like the authors of the leaflet, yearned for social equality. Despite that, however, the SPD were anxious to tell the world that they stood behind the new Emperor. They must be pretty scared.
But the students on the street weren’t interested. They didn’t want to listen to mealy-mouthed Socialists offering weasel words of loyalty while in fear of their lives. They wanted vengeance and they weren’t minded to let any little matter of their targets being innocent deprive them of it. So they burned the leaflets and surged onwards.
Soon the crowd with whom Stanton was moving came across a cloth-capped working man. He was distributing the leaflets the students had been burning. Stanton stood and watched as the unfortunate man was dragged from the pavement into the midst of the mob and beaten to the ground.
‘It’s your people who’ve done this,’ the young men shouted as the boots went in. ‘You Socialists and Jews.’
Stanton thought about intervening, even found his fingers closing round the gun in his pocket. But he did nothing. There was really nothing he could do. This madness would simply have to run its course.
By the time the crowd arrived at the Social Democrat headquarters there were around three hundred of them, and there were at least as many again assembled outside the building already. The nervous Social Democrats had prepared for them by erecting a speaking platform beneath a hastily created banner that stated simply ‘Loyalty to the German Crown’.
Stanton could see that they were terrified. Normally their banners demanded eight-hour working days, living wages and compensation for injury at work. Now they were anxious to assure the world they wanted nothing better than to be ruled by a drunken sex maniac.
There were various earnest-looking bearded men gathered on the platform, one of whom was attempting to speak. His gestures and body language appealed for calm but it would have been impossible for anybody even quite close to him to hear what he was saying above the boos and catcalls of the crowd. In front of the platform was a line of party supporters who had begun linking arms in an effort to protect their leaders. They were tough-looking men, working men with determined faces, but Stanton reckoned they’d be swept away in minutes if the crowd surged.
It occurred to him that he should actually be feeling satisfied at this sight. This was exactly what Chronos had planned, what he had been sent to achieve. A Germany turned against itself, no longer baying for foreign blood, but baying for its own. He could imagine the ruthless McCluskey standing at his shoulder, grinning at her own cleverness.
‘You see! It’s people who make history!’ he could hear her chuckling. ‘In this case, you, Hugh! The lone assassin who changed the world! One bullet and Germany heads down a completely different path. Can’t see this lot having the time or inclination to invade Belgium any time soon. Too busy tearing each other’s throats out.’
And Stanton did take satisfaction from the scene. There could be no doubt that in these early hours after his kill the Chronation plan was working like clockwork. Foreign wars were the last thing on any German’s mind. They had scores to settle at home.
He had saved the British army. He’d saved all the young men of Europe and beyond. But for the time being at least it wasn’t going to be pretty. Not in Berlin at any case.
‘Red Rosa! Red Rosa!’
The crowd had begun an angry chant. They didn’t want to listen to a bunch of anonymous identikit bearded leftie intellectuals. They wanted the star of the show, the bogeywoman, the revolutionary witch. The Polish whore. Rosa Luxemburg, revered by many, loathed by most. Still nominally a Social Democrat but notorious as a firebrand radical and passionate enemy of the Hohenzollern establishment.
She was who they wanted but Stanton didn’t think they had a chance in hell of getting her. Rosa Luxemburg was a very bright woman and she’d have to be a suicidal lunatic to show her face to that crowd.
And then to Stanton’s and indeed everyone’s amazement that was exactly what she did. Emerging from the midst of the group which had gathered at the back of the platform. Limping forward on limbs damaged by illness at the age of five and resolutely taking centre stage.
She was a small woman, dressed soberly. Cream-coloured skirt, white blouse with black tie and a plain-looking hat which might have been some pastel colour but Stanton couldn’t tell by the light of the street lamps. However, unlike the other people on the platform, she did not wear a black armband of mourning. Instead, she defiantly wore a red sash across her breast.
For a moment the crowd grew quiet, as astonished as Stanton was to see her show herself when so many in the crowd had been baying for her blood. And in that moment of quiet she had a chance to make herself heard. There was no amplification, but she was used to public speaking and her voice was clear and audible at least to the front section of the crowd.