If Hitler Comes by Christopher Serpell Read Free Book Online Page B

consciences—a war unwon, a job half-finished, a nation disgraced in the eyes of the world, betrayed by its own half-heartedness and the leaders it had produced. I still remember his peroration, delivered with the voice of a trumpet:
    â€œOn your feet. March through the town. Show the Jews and show the world that there is still blood in Britain.”
    His hearers had leapt up like one man, and, as he ended, streamed shouting and cheering into the city streets.
    I sat where I was until my dizzied wits had come to earth. Then I remembered that there was to be an interview with the Press in one of the committee rooms. At this Rosse showed that he was not merely a demagogue. Most of the journalists who were there to question him felt, as I felt, indignant at having been swept off their feet by an oration. They were out to justify themselves as hardened newspaper men, to trip him up and reveal him as a callow politician. They did not succeed. He met their questions with wit and ability, and occasionally abashed them with a quiet sincerity which blunted their would-be cynicism. When he learnt that I was from one of the Dominions his face lit up and he drew me aside to beg that I would convey his message to my own countrymen. Would I ask them, he said, to have patience with the Old Country—to remember that the voice of politicians was not the voice of England? I was to tell them that he and his like were there to restore the lost tradition of Britain, to renew the pride in their heritage which Britons all over the world had once shared between them. The men who had returned sulkily or defiantly to Canada, Australia, and New Zealand would once again be glad that they had sprung to arms. In spite of myself I was moved, not only by his discernment of the feelings which were troubling the hearts of my countrymen, but by the warm, personal friendliness of his manner, and the spontaneity of his words.
    Yet even while I talked with him, pandemonium was spreading through the streets as darkness fell over the city. The authorities had been deceived by the quiet and orderly way in which the meeting had begun, and had relaxed their precautions . But what had begun on the Town Hall steps as a tumultuous procession developed within twenty minutes into a riot. It was a Saturday, and the large Jewish population of the city was out enjoying the Sabbath holiday. The sight of the crowded pavements and brightly lit shop windows seemed to enfuriate the Leaguers. One of them levelled his banner-pole like a lance, and with a shout of “Come on, boys, we’ll show ’em” dashed it through a window. With the crash of the broken glass rose the ugly, long-drawn sound of women’s screaming, and with a roar the fight began. It became the worst kind of street battle. The local citizens fought furiously against the invaders. The Jews among them were not the timid refugees of recent years, but a hardy race born and bred in the industrial slums, and they fought backwith the jagged armouries of the race-gangs and the back streets.
    The inadequate police forces struggled desperately to regain control, but they were swept aside or trampled underfoot as the battle raged up and down the main shopping thoroughfares. At first the Leaguers, united in a blind enthusiasm, had the upper hand, and drove the crowd before them. Then, as local resentment boiled up and as reinforcements poured out of the public houses and side streets, they in their turn were hurled back. Gradually the main battle broke up into a number of vicious and hard-breathing struggles between small bodies of men, and it was then that the worst casualties occurred. Fortunately by this time the police had collected enough reinforcements to clear the streets, and this they did with repeated truncheon charges and a good deal of very necessary hard-hitting.
    By nine that night the battle was over. The pavements were covered with broken glass and wreckage, but the streets were