‘I think so.’

‘It does have a point. Shall I go on?’

‘Please do.’

They had been billeted round the medieval town, with its stone river bridges and half-timbered houses rendered in shades of ochre and pink. Anton and Friedrich had managed to complete their duties by seven on an August evening, when they met outside a bar in a cobbled square.

‘We could jump into the river here,’ said Friedrich. ‘And float downstream.’

‘Yes, but where would we end up?’

‘It joins the Main, which in turn joins the Rhine.’

‘Which ends where?’

‘In the canals of Amsterdam, I believe.’

‘I’ve never been to Amsterdam,’ said Anton. ‘It’s worth a try.’

‘You’d like it. Rembrandt, herrings, Vermeer.’

‘But will they still be there?’ said Anton.

‘The herrings?’

‘I was thinking of the art. I mean, will we still be able to appreciate it? After what we’ve witnessed. Do you think a painting of a girl reading a letter will seem important?’

‘More than ever,’ said Friedrich. ‘That’s the life that we have to believe in.’

‘It’s like a religion, then. Like believing in a god you can’t see. All a matter of blind faith.’

They had left the bar and were sitting on the parapet of the bridge with their legs hanging over the fast waters. Anton had been only half joking. It would have been possible to get into a riverboat and go; there was a little blue-painted skiff moored almost directly beneath them. Their commanding officer would soon be asleep in the Bürgermeister’s house; there had been no time to organise any patrols or military police. His own mental fatigue was such that he had no fear of discipline. The rump of the bedraggled army had barely the willpower to pursue and court-martial them, and a bullet at dawn would in any case have been more dignified than being dismembered by a shell.

‘And do you think your father will now believe you are a “solid” citizen?’ said Anton.

‘I think he will. And my mother. Watching millions die and having killed a few myself will earn me some respect. Perhaps even a corner office in the ministry.’

‘And will you be able to enjoy that office? And the view?’

‘I’m afraid not. It’ll seem to belong to a different life. Something promised to me in a plan that got thrown out. A route map drawn up by fools.’

‘Yes,’ said Anton. ‘That’s the trouble, isn’t it? You won’t be able to go back to the ministry, to the concert halls, to your lover’s apartment and go through the motions as though any of it mattered. How much can you pretend?’

Friedrich smiled. ‘Perhaps in Vermeer’s time they thought the same, you know. His life coincided with the Thirty Years War – in which, if I remember from our schooldays, eight million Europeans died.’

‘Many Dutchmen?’

‘Yes, plenty. They fought alongside Austria.’

‘So you’re saying that we’re watching just another chapter in the bloodlust of Europe? That’s too sad for words.’