The man introduces himself in English, as Oberst Enzian, of the Schwarzkommando. He apologizes for his show of temper, notes Slothrop’s armband, declines an interview before Slothrop can get in a word. “There’s no story. We’re DPs, like everybody else.”

“The Major seemed worried that you’re headed for Nordhausen.”

“Marvy is going to be an annoyance, I can tell. Still, he doesn’t pose as much of a problem as—” He peers at Slothrop. “Hmm. Are you really a war correspondent?”

“No.”

“A free agent, I’d guess.”

“Don’t know about that ‘free,’ Oberst.”

“But you are free. We all are. You’ll see. Before long.” He steps away down the spine of the freighttop, waving a beckoning German good-by. “Before long… .”

Slothrop sits on the rooftop, rubbing his bare feet. A friend? A good omen? Black rocket troops? What bizarre shit?

Well good mornin’ gang, let’s start it

Off with a bang, so long to

Double-u Double-u Two-o-o-o!

Now the fightin’s over and we’re all in clover

And I’m here ta bring sunshine to you—

Hey there Herman the German, stop yer fussin’ and squirmin’,

Don’tcha know you’re goin’ home ta stay—

No, there’s never a frown, here in Rocket, Sock-it Town,

Where ev’ry day’s a beautiful day—

(Quit kvetchin’, Gretchen!)

Go on and have a beautiful daa-aay!

Nordhausen in the morning: the lea is a green salad, crisp with raindrops. Everything is fresh, washed. The Harz hump up all around, dark slopes bearded to the tops with spruce, fir and larch. High-gabled houses, sheets of water reflecting the sky, muddy streets, American and Russian GIs pouring in and out the doors of the taverns and makeshift PXs, everybody packing a sidearm. Meadows and logged-off wedges up on the mountainsides flow with mottled light as rainclouds blow away over Thuringia. Castles perch high over the town, sailing in and out of torn clouds. Old horses with smudged knobby knees, short-legged and big-chested, pull wagonloads of barrels, necks straining at twin collars chained together, heavy horseshoes sending mudflowers at each wet clop, down from the vineyards to the taverns.

Slothrop wanders into a roofless part of town. Old people in black are bat-flittering among the walls. Shops and dwellings here are all long-looted by the slave laborers liberated from the Dora camp. Lotta those fags still around, with baskets and 175 badges out on display, staring moistly from doorways. From the glassless bay window of a dress shop, in the dimness behind a plaster dummy lying bald and sprawled, arms raised to sky, hands curved for bouquets or cocktail glasses they’ll never hold again, Slothrop hears a girl singing. Accompanying herself on a balalaika. One of those sad little Parisian-sounding tunes in 3/4:

Love never goes away,

Never completely dies,

Always some souvenir

Takes us by sad surprise.

You went away from me,

One rose was left behind—

Pressed in my Book of Hours,

That is the rose I find… .

Though it’s another year,

Though it’s another me,

Under the rose is a drying tear,