THE SHOT
 IT HAD BEEN A FAIRY TALE , of course--nothing but a fairy tale that
had become reality for a few weeks. And now it was over. It
would have been ridiculous to cling to power any longer: the
election results in January had been too devastating for that.
Two per cent, it was a joke, a cruel, bad joke. Ever since, the
press had been subjecting him not only to more of their frenzied
hatred, but to mockery and scorn as well. A people's king
without a people, a jester on the king's throne, un-Bavarian
crackpot, Jewish upstart.
Kurt Eisner had given up. His negotiations with his archenemy
Erhard Auer, the leader of the Social Democrats, had
gone on late into the night. "Negotiations" was hardly the
right word. He had nothing left to bargain with. Auer had
offered him the position of Ambassador to Prague; he might
as well have said Consular Secretary to Australia. It was over.
He'd had his chance and done what he could to transform
the Kingdom of Bavaria into a people's republic, a land of
solidarity and altruism.
It was a dream, to suddenly find himself sitting in the prime
minister's seat on the night of 7th November. Sometimes you
just had to be quick-witted enough to recognize the moment
when it arrived. And it arrived on 7th November 1918.
A sunny afternoon; tens of thousands of soldiers, sailors,
unionists and workers had gathered on the western slope of
the Theresienwiese. The mood was tense. The Minister of the
Interior, von Brettreich, had had the city plastered with posters
announcing that order would be maintained. The Social
Democratic Party's Erhard Auer had given him his personal
assurance of that the previous day. A revolution was not about
to break out. Kurt Eisner, parliamentary candidate for the
Independent Social Democrats, who had been invoking the
coming revolution for days, would be "forced to the wall", that
was how Auer had put it. He said he had the situation in hand.
He didn't have anything in hand. There was chaos that
afternoon: more and more people arriving; soldiers streaming
in from the barracks, most of them having torn off their
insignia. The men--and a few women--stood in little groups,
clustering first around one speaker, then another. Auer had
secured the best position for himself, on the grand steps leading
up to the statue of Bavaria. But when the crowds realized
he was just trying to placate them, promising them jam in
some far-off tomorrow, they moved on to the other speakers
further down the slope.
Kurt Eisner was standing right at the bottom. He was
almost yelling, waving his arms in the air. A crowd was forming
around the man with the long grey hair, the pince-nez,
the wild beard and the large hat. He had a good name among
those who were hoping for revolution: he had organized the
munition workers' strike in January, had spent six months in
prison for it.
His speaking style was not particularly rousing; his voice
was scratchy and high-pitched. He had some trouble making
himself heard above the other speakers. But the crowd sensed
that, today, this was their man. He wasn't going to send them
home. He could feel the energy of the day, the rage, the will
for some decisive thing to happen at last. The king had been
seen that morning taking a stroll through the English Garden.
Well, how much longer did he want to go on strolling? How
much longer did he want to rule?

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Excerpted from Dreamers by Volker Weidermann
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