He almost had them on that. The word ‘law’ was like a blow. This was a generation of students whose professors could have them beaten for minor misdemeanours. Brought up within the Prussian military social culture, discipline and obedience were a religion to them. The ring of fury that was surrounding him and Luxemburg seemed to fall back a half pace or so, reacting instinctively to the presence of a natural leader.
Unfortunately there was one among the students who was also a leader of sorts and he wasn’t in a mood to surrender.
A young man stepped forward and looked up at Stanton, his face illuminated in the lamplight from above. Cold, pale eyes beneath the peak of his little student cap. A pink schlager duelling scar on each cheek. This was a son of the aristocracy, a Prussian Junker to the toes of his jackboots. He, too, was used to being obeyed.
‘And who the hell are you?’ the student enquired imperiously.
Stanton stepped down from the post to reply. He still towered over the young student.
‘I’m the man who’s stopping you making a very serious mistake, sonny,’ Stanton replied, bringing his face to within an inch of his adversary’s.
It was a bold move and it didn’t work. It would have done with a similar child of privilege in 2025, some arrogant, lazy-voiced posh boy being faced down for pissing in the street after an Oxbridge Ball. But the young man facing Stanton was of an aristocratic mind-set forged in the nineteenth century. He gave way only to others of his kind.
‘She’s a dirty Polish Socialist whore,’ the young man shouted right back into Stanton’s face. ‘She killed the Kaiser and we intend to deal with her. If you attempt to stop us we’ll deal with you too.’
Now there were two leaders and the mob preferred their own. Stanton sensed it about to leap forward once more. He had a split second in which to act. He reached forward, grabbed the leading student by the neck and in a practised and fluid movement threw him into a head lock. ‘This man is under arrest for threatening an officer of the Crown,’ he shouted. ‘Anyone who comes to his aid will be arrested also.’
It really was a desperate shot. He had no uniform and his German was spoken in an accent that marked him as a foreigner. They had no reason to believe that he was a police officer other than the fact that he had aggressively claimed to be one.
He sensed the mood continuing to swing against him.
Stanton decided to produce his gun.
He hadn’t wanted to. Experience had taught him that pulling a gun in a crowd was a very dangerous thing to do. It took everything to a whole new level. There would certainly be others in the crowd who had concealed weapons and they would very likely pull theirs too, leaving only the options of retreat or a firefight. Stanton believed that you should never produce a gun unless you were prepared to use it and he really didn’t want to use his. Who could guess where gunfire would take an already appallingly volatile situation?
But it had to be done.
He pushed the Junker student to his knees and stepped in front of Luxemburg, holding his pistol high above his head.
‘All of you, this is your last warning. Stand back in the name of the Emperor! If you continue to threaten either myself or this lady I shall shoot.’
If the surrounding students thought the little snub-nosed Glock was a rather strange-looking weapon, they didn’t show it. They knew a gun when they saw it and the fact that Stanton had produced it convinced them he had the authority to do so.
Collectively they took a step back, leaving their leader isolated on his knees. The madness had not gripped them so totally that they were oblivious to the rule of law or the threat of being shot. Stanton didn’t hesitate. Leaving the student he had ‘arrested’ on the ground, he took Luxemburg under his arm and pushed his way back to the platform.
‘I must address the crowd,’ she said. ‘I must explain—’
‘No more speeches,’ he said. ‘Get inside.’
While the various deputies gathered around their comrade and ushered her inside the building, Stanton jumped up on to the platform to address the crowd himself.
‘Go home!’ he shouted. ‘This is no way to mourn the Emperor. Go home!’
The crowd probably would have dispersed anyway but the decision was made for them with the sound of clattering hooves on cobbles which heralded the tardy arrival of the police.
Stanton, having no wish to be arrested for impersonating an officer, stepped off the platform and, with no other exit options available to him, followed the Socialist deputies into the SPD building.
34
IMMEDIATELY INSIDE THE building was a large reception area hung with trade union banners featuring trades long forgotten in Stanton’s century: wheel-tappers, lamp-lighters, panel-beaters, leather-tanners, boiler-makers, glass-blowers, riveters and woodturners. On another occasion, Stanton would have liked to look at those beautiful murals, those heroic frescoes, embroidered in an age when worker solidarity had been a noble and inspiring crusade.
This particular evening, however, was rather too fraught for sightseeing.
In the middle of the room stood the group of bearded men who had been on the platform. They were fussing over Rosa Luxemburg, who appeared to be a great deal calmer than they were.
One of the men noticed Stanton and stepped forward to introduce himself. He was handsome if a bit frayed at the edges, with a high forehead, a thick shock of wiry black hair and a moustache that was badly in need of a trim. The eyes that shone behind his wire pince-nez were forceful but they were not unkind.
‘Good evening, officer,’ he said. ‘My name is Karl Liebknecht.’
Stanton knew the name. It was one that was almost as familiar as Luxemburg’s to any student of modern history. In the century now lost this man would be the only member of the entire Reichstag to vote against Germany going to war. And a few years later he would die alongside Rosa Luxemburg, beaten to death in a Berlin street.
‘Hugh Stanton,’ Stanton replied, ‘and I’m afraid I’m not an officer. That was a ruse.’
‘A ruse? How very surprising,’ Liebknecht said. ‘Although perhaps not entirely so. If you had been a policeman it would have been the first time they’ve ever done us a favour. I don’t think you’re even German.’
‘No, I’m British. On holiday. Just thought I’d … well, lend a hand.’
‘I must say that really is most extraordinary. You have done a very great and noble thing, sir.’
There was a chorus of agreement at this, half a dozen grey and heavily bearded heads nodding their approval.
‘And how like an English gentleman,’ a female voice interjected. ‘You came to the aid of a damsel in distress.’ Rosa Luxemburg came forward and took his hands. ‘I rather think I owe you my life.’
She was even smaller than he’d thought; the top of her head came barely up to his ribs. But for all her diminutive size there was no doubt she had stature. Her face was so strong, with deep dark eyes and a long thin nose, the bridge perfectly straight, good skin and fullish lips. She was in her early forties and there were strands of grey in her hair but she still seemed youthful. For some reason Stanton found he liked her instantly.
‘Just doing my duty, uhm, ma’am,’ Stanton heard himself replying. He didn’t know why he said it, although he supposed he had to say something.
‘Your duty? Is it your duty to rescue Socialists? We could do with a few more of you about.’
‘Well, you know. I think it’s everybody’s duty to come to the aid of people in trouble … besides, I was happy to do it because’ – for some reason Stanton felt obliged to offer further explanation – ‘I have a friend who admires you.’
‘Really? Do I know him?’
‘It’s a she, an Irish Suffragette, and no, you don’t know her, she just thinks you’re important, that’s all.’