Wilhelm Frunze leaped to his feet, stood in front of the intruder, and yelled furiously: ‘Get out of here, you thug!’

The man shoved him in the chest powerfully. Frunze staggered back, stumbled, and fell over backwards.

The audience were on their feet, some shouting in angry protest, some screaming in fear.

More Brownshirts appeared from the wings.

Lloyd realized with dismay that the bastards had planned this well.

The man who had shoved Frunze shouted: ‘Out!’ The other Brownshirts took up the cry: ‘Out! Out! Out!’ There were about twenty of them, now, and more appearing all the time. Some carried police nightsticks or improvised clubs. Lloyd saw a hockey stick, a wooden sledgehammer, even a chair leg. They strutted up and down the stage, grinning fiendishly and waving their weapons as they chanted, and Lloyd had no doubt that they were itching to start hitting people.

He was on his feet. Without thinking, he, Werner and Volodya had formed a protective line in front of Ethel and Maud.

Half the audience were trying to leave, the other half shouting and shaking their fists at the intruders. Those attempting to get out were shoving others, and minor scuffles had broken out. Many of the women were crying.

On stage, Walter grasped the lectern and shouted: ‘Everyone try to keep calm, please! There is no need for disorder!’ Most people could not hear and the rest ignored him.

The Brownshirts began to jump off the stage and to wade into the audience. Lloyd took his mother’s arm, and Werner did the same with Maud. They moved towards the nearest exit in a group. But all the doors were already jammed with knots of panicking people trying to leave. That made no difference to the Brownshirts, who kept yelling at people to get out.

The attackers were mostly able-bodied, whereas the audience included women and old men. Lloyd wanted to fight back, but it was not a good idea.

A man in a Great War steel helmet shouldered Lloyd, and he lurched forward and bumped into his mother. He resisted the temptation to turn and confront the man. His priority was to protect Mam.

A spotty-faced boy carrying a truncheon put a hand on Werner’s back and shoved energetically, yelling: ‘Get out, get out!’ Werner turned quickly and took a step towards him. ‘Don’t touch me, you Fascist pig,’ he said. The Brownshirt suddenly stopped dead and looked scared, as if he had not been expecting resistance.

Werner turned away again, concentrating, like Lloyd, on getting the two women to safety. But the huge man had heard the exchange and yelled: ‘Who are you calling a pig?’ He lashed out at Werner, hitting the back of his head with his fist. His aim was poor and it was a glancing blow, but all the same Werner cried out and staggered forward.

Volodya stepped between them and hit the big man in the face, twice. Lloyd admired Volodya’s rapid one-two, but turned his attention back to his task. Seconds later the four of them reached the doorway. Lloyd and Werner managed to help the women out into the theatre foyer. Here the crush eased and the violence stopped – there were no Brownshirts.