one day in june 1967 i was going, as i did almost every day, to the trikont café in munich’s schellingstraße: café, bookshop and meeting place of the socialist german student alliance, the driving force behind the revolt. there was a heap of leaflets on the bar; someone asked me: ‘comrade, don’t you want to hand them out?’ i glanced at the title: ‘the chief butcher of persia is in munich’. and so i took a pile, clamped them under my arm, went to the stachus and handed them out; i was 19.
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