An unnatural glow lights up the warm summer night. At the Southern Gate of the Forbidden City, right under the six-metre-tall portrait of Mao Zedong, a tank has been set ablaze. Flames leak out and shoot way up into the air, giving the bloated countenance of the Great Helmsman a sinister glare. Screaming feverishly, an enraged mob circles the steel skeleton shimmering in the heat – as if they mean to exorcise the evil that is bound to come. Though this one tank has been rendered harmless by the demonstrators on Tiananmen Square, everybody knows that more of them will follow.

Then, all of a sudden, panic sets in, rage turns abruptly into fear. ‘The army's coming, they’re coming from the west, from Mengtougou!’ Rudderless, the mob starts to drift, unsure what to do next. The flower-power mood of the previous weeks has dissipated, evaporated into the threatening glow of the muggy night. For just a moment, cheerfully crackling fireworks break the spell, but my Chinese friends realise more quickly than I that it is something completely different. ‘Take cover, they’re shooting!’ Screaming, thousands of people run in every direction, taking cover behind trees and low walls at the edge of the square.

In one long sprint I run in the direction of the Peking Hotel and hide behind a planter. The intensity of the fireworks increases, as if gigantic firecrackers were being shot from every rooftop in Beijing. The immeasurably large square catches all the sounds and throws them back: The ra-ta-tat of shots, the cries of fear and rage, the dull rumble of the tanks that come rolling in from the west. My next sprint brings me into the lobby of the Peking Hotel. Recovering my breath, I look around and see it is deserted, but in the corner I spot a couple of public telephones. It is three o’clock in the morning, and I have been on the move since the evening started. In a world without cell phones, I had virtually disappeared from the face of the earth – it was high time to tell my wife that I am still alive.