Winter of the World by Ken Follett

happen in Germany, it could happen in Britain. This grim prospect made him shiver with dread. He had his whole life in front of him, and
he did not want to live it in a repressive dictatorship. He wanted to work in politics, like his parents, and make his country a better place for people such as the Aberowen coal miners. For that
he needed political meetings where people could speak their minds, and newspapers that could attack the government, and pubs where men could have arguments without looking over their shoulders to
see who was listening.
    Fascism threatened all that. But perhaps Fascism would fail. Walter might be able to talk Gottfried around, and prevent the Centre Party supporting the Nazis.
    Heinrich came out. ‘He’ll do it.’
    ‘Great! Herr von Ulrich suggested the Herrenklub at one o’clock.’
    ‘Really? Is he a member?’
    ‘I assume so – why?’
    ‘It’s a conservative institution. I suppose he is Walter
von
Ulrich, so he must come from a noble family, even if he is a socialist.’
    ‘I should probably book a table. Do you know where it is?’
    ‘Just around the corner.’ Heinrich gave Lloyd directions.
    ‘Shall I book for four?’
    Heinrich grinned. ‘Why not? If they don’t want you and me, they can just ask us to leave.’ He went back into the room.
    Lloyd left the building and walked quickly across the plaza, passing the burned-out Reichstag building, and made his way to the Herrenklub.
    There were gentlemen’s clubs in London, but Lloyd had never been inside one. This place was a cross between a restaurant and a funeral parlour, he thought. Waiters in full evening dress
padded about, laying silent cutlery on tables shrouded in white. A head waiter took his reservation and wrote down the name ‘von Ulrich’ as solemnly as if he were making an entry in the
Book of the Dead.
    He returned to the opera house. The place was getting busier and noisier, and the tension seemed higher. Lloyd heard someone say excitedly that Hitler himself would open the proceedings this
afternoon by proposing the Act.
    A few minutes before one, Lloyd and Walter walked across the plaza. Lloyd said: ‘Heinrich von Kessel was surprised to learn that you are a member of the Herrenklub.’
    Walter nodded. ‘I was one of the founders, a decade or more ago. In those days it was the Juniklub. We got together to campaign against the Versailles Treaty. It’s become a
right-wing bastion, and I’m probably the only Social Democrat, but I remain a member because it’s a useful place to meet with the enemy.’
    Inside the club Walter pointed to a sleek-looking man at the bar. ‘That’s Ludwig Franck, the father of young Werner, who fought alongside us at the People’s Theatre,’
Walter said. ‘I’m sure he’s not a member here – he isn’t even German-born – but it seems he’s having lunch with his father-in-law, Count von der Helbard,
the elderly man beside him. Come with me.’
    They went to the bar and Walter performed introductions. Franck said to Lloyd: ‘You and my son got into quite a scrap a couple of weeks back.’
    Lloyd touched the back of his head reflexively: the swelling had gone down, but the place was still painful to touch. ‘We had women to protect, sir,’ he said.
    ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of a punch-up,’ Franck said. ‘Does you lads good.’
    Walter cut in impatiently: ‘Come on, Ludi. Busting up election meetings is bad enough, but your leader wants to completely destroy our democracy!’
    ‘Perhaps democracy is not the right form of government for us,’ said Franck. ‘After all, we’re not like the French or the Americans – thank God.’
    ‘Don’t you care about losing your freedom? Be serious!’
    Franck suddenly dropped his facetious air. ‘All right, Walter,’ he said coldly. ‘I will be serious, if you insist. My mother and I arrived here from Russia more than ten years
ago. My father was not able to come with us. He had been found to be in possession