John and Arthur sat in the rear seats, another lieutenant, a new conscript like John, in the front with the driver. They bumped their way east on the pitted roads. Remnants of pillowcases and sheets, ripped and grey, still hung from windows or were strung on balconies. Surrender. One or two buildings had makeshift American flags sewn together from scraps of cloth. They were coming into Charlottenburg. There were still potholes. Some had been filled by the sappers, but it was a thankless task. The armoured vehicles churned them up again sooner than you could say Jack Robinson. A couple of Humbers passed by, bigwigs, John guessed, on their way to Spandau. Either side of the boulevard were large turn-of-the-century apartment blocks. Tree-lined avenues led away from the main street. It was random, John thought, what had been flattened, what survived, as if the war had been a tornado scooping up streets, sparing others. He spotted a crude cross. Grave no 21. A little further along there was a small earth patch with garish red markers, topped with a white star.

‘Russians,’ Arthur said.

John grabbed the sides as the driver swung round the corner into a landscape of brick stumps and stone hillocks. Women were in a line, digging at the scree, passing it along, one pail at a time.

‘They get fourpence ha’penny a day,’ Arthur said. ‘To clear it.’

Arthur kept his ear to the ground, picked up intelligence that would float past others. It was one of the many things John admired about his sergeant. He looked at the straggling line of women balancing on rocks and stones, handing down the buckets of rubble, one hand to the next. Their dresses were faded and frayed, the hems uneven, their headscarves tied tightly. Some wore socks inside their shoes but many, John could see, had bare legs smeared in dust. He thought of the temporary graves, of the bloated bodies in the rivers, of houses resting in their ashes. He could see no hope. Where did these people live? So much was destroyed.

The women made no sound as they worked. Pedestrians walked without a word. It was as if defeat had swallowed language. An American jeep drove past them, its engine jarring in the mortuary quiet. Their vehicle veered left again, crossed a canal, barbed wire marshalled on its banks. All John could hear was the throb of their engine, the crash of gears. Not a birdsong, or the buzz of an angry wasp, no rustle of leaves or the bark of a dog. The great city was mute.

Ahead of them was a large space.

‘Tiergarten, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘More like Teargarden.’