‘My friends!’ she shouted. ‘I thank you all for joining us at this meeting and would beg your attention while I explain something to you. While it is true that I believed the late Emperor was a despot—’
She got no further.
Clearly the next sentence would have been a condemnation of that despot’s murder but she didn’t get a chance to say it. The crowd seemed almost to leap forward as one, like a beast hurling itself upon its prey. The thin line of party workers in front of the platform buckled instantly and the vanguard of students were on the platform before anyone had even a chance to run. The rioters then began at once to lay about themselves with their clubs, punching and smashing at the bewildered old men while loyal supporters tried to pull them to safety.
Bricks and stones were also being hurled at the building now and the sound of breaking glass filled the air. Stanton wondered where the police were. No doubt they felt they had better things to do that night than protect a bunch of Socialists from getting a hiding which, guilty or not, they richly deserved.
In the melee Stanton lost sight of Rosa Luxemburg and he hoped she’d got back inside the building. He admired her for her principles and also for her reckless bravery. He certainly didn’t want to see her torn to bits by a savage mob. Besides, Bernadette thought she was one of the good guys. He really hoped she’d got away.
But then he saw her.
Captured. In the hands of he mob. Hoisted above their heads and being carried into the heart of the crowd. A tiny bundle. Helpless, like a mouse in the paws of a dozen cats.
And they were taking her towards a lamppost.
Surely they couldn’t be planning to lynch her?
But they were. Not planning, of course. Just doing. The collective hysteria had become self-perpetuating. As was the way with mobs, they had their own momentum. Stanton knew that if he could have taken any of the individuals in that crowd aside and asked them quietly and calmly whether they really wanted to go through with what they were doing – to hang someone, without trial or evidence, to commit a cold-blooded murder in the street – most of those conservative young men would almost certainly have backed off. But together, sharing the madness and the joy of it, and of course the anonymity, they were beyond argument. Even if somebody had been able to find the voice to make one.
And their victim was such a perfect fit.
A Socialist had killed their Emperor and she was Berlin’s most famous Socialist.
A woman. A foreigner. A revolutionary. And a Jew.
Who among the German Junker class really thought it mattered very much to hang a Jew? A hundred miles east they hung them for sport.
It was simply irresistible.
Stanton could hardly believe what he was watching. These ordered and contented streets he had been admiring earlier in the day, the electrified, tram-lined, motorized Kaffee und Kuchen delivery network that were the envy of the world, the arteries of the celebrated Weldstadt, the first global city, had become a jungle in a matter of hours.
The blood lust wasn’t universal. There were some around Stanton who were looking about themselves in concern, shocked like him at the pace at which things were moving. But at the centre of the storm the mob had become a single many-headed monster. Stanton saw a rope thrown over the crossbar of the lamppost. An electric lamp, that bright symbol of an ordered and progressive nation, turned in an instant to a gibbet in the service of the basest and most primeval blood lust.
He caught a sight of the victim’s face, flashing white then dark, white then dark as she twisted and turned beneath the harsh electric glow. Such a small face. Such a small woman. But a big one too. He’d read that when addressing a crowd she seemed to physically grow in stature, mesmerizing her listeners with a rich voice and biting wit. But all her famed intellect couldn’t help her now. Stanton could see that her mouth was moving. Was she trying to argue with them? Trying to open their closed minds to the illogicality of their actions? More likely she was simply pleading for her life, which was an equally hopeless exercise.
There were so many hands on her now, pulling her, pushing her, hoisting her up towards the gallows. She had at most a minute of life left.
Stanton turned away. He didn’t want to watch her die.
But then he heard a voice in his head. It was Bernadette. That sweet warm Irish brogue was at his inner ear. She’s a wonderful woman, you know. I can’t think of anyone I admire so much. Very clever, very passionate, very brave and very important.
That was what Bernadette had said to him on their night in Vienna. When her lips had been so close to his he had felt them brush against his skin as she spoke. And now in his mind she went on speaking: What are you doing, Captain Stanton of the Special Air Service Regiment? Are you going to let this innocent and defenceless woman die? Is that what a British soldier does? Don’t forget it’s your fault they’re lynching her! Do you have an ounce of honour in your whole damned body?
She had a point.
And then Cassie was in his ear as well. Two women calling him to task.
He had her letter in his wallet – I never minded being married to a soldier. Because I knew you believed in what you were risking your life for.
That was the man she’d loved. A guy who did the right thing.
The girls were right. It was time to man up.
He turned again and began to push his way towards the centre of the mob. After all, what did he have to lose? His mission was done, history was unmade, his life was his own and his actions no more or less relevant than anyone else’s. He was free to act as he chose and he chose to risk his life trying to prevent an innocent woman from being hanged in the street.
And if he joined her in her fate? It would be a good way to die.
He didn’t have much time.
Get a bloody move on! he heard Bernadette’s voice in one ear.
Hurry, Hugh! Hurry! Cassie’s voice urged him in the other. They’re going to kill her!
He pushed and pulled and physically chopped a path through the people in his way, raining practised blows down on any who didn’t move instantly in response to his barked command. He knew from experience that angry mobs, while dangerous, are also dull and stupid and a determined individual can do a great deal with them. People gave way to him instantly, no doubt thinking that he wished to be in at the kill, secretly pleased perhaps that others were doing the dirty work while they could enjoy the spectacle without taking any responsibility for it.
It took Stanton less than thirty seconds to get into the very heart of the disturbance and make his voice heard.
‘Put her down and stand back!’ he shouted in German. ‘Every one of you! Leave the woman alone and stand back now!’
His voice was strong. Resonant. Authoritative. A voice that was used to giving commands and used to being obeyed. The wildeyed young men with the struggling woman in their grip paused. Theirs was a group madness, an abdication of personal free will, a roller-coaster of hatred. Stanton’s firm and focused intervention was like a stick shoved between the spokes of a spinning wheel.
He stepped forward again, forcing his way to the lamppost where Rosa Luxemburg was being held while her gallows was prepared.
He put a foot on the wider part at the base of the post and with one hand pulled himself up, thus gaining a little height.
‘This woman is a member of a legal political party,’ he shouted. ‘There is no evidence whatsoever to connect her with the assassination of the Emperor and if anyone has any they should take it to a court of law!’