Göring has two, but very small.

Himmler has something sim’lar,

But Goebbels has no balls at all.

After the silence of the journey the Kurfürstendamm was brazen in its noise. An RAF sergeant appeared, his blue battledress dusty. He stood, arms akimbo, puffing his pipe. They were all, John noted, lower ranks. Triumphalist. He felt uncomfortable, but Arthur was grinning.

‘After what this lot have been through, sir, they’re entitled to let their hair down. Don’t judge them. They’re brave lads.’

There was something about the Yanks, though. They had a swagger that singled them out. Bigger, too. We look stunted, John thought, skinny runts. He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. A young boy stared at him, eyes sunken and round, face pasty and gaunt. His mouth was pinched tight with broken lips and snot ran from his nose. He was holding out a small, grubby hand. His shirt was too big for him, his trousers too short, his knees too bony. His shoes had no laces.

‘How old are you?’ John said. He spoke in German, and the boy smiled.

‘Zehn.’ Ten.

He looked much younger. The army said no fraternisation, but this was a child. John fished in his pockets, gave him two cigarettes.

‘Take them to your mother,’ he said, patting him on the head. The boy tucked them into his shirt pocket, grinned at John and ran off. John watched as he skipped and jumped over the holes and stones. An older boy approached the lad. John hadn’t noticed him, saw him hold out his hand and the younger one take out the cigarettes and place them in his palm. An older brother. How sensible.

‘Street Arabs,’ Arthur said, standing beside him and watching the scene. ‘I bet that big lad’s running a right racket. Send out the pathetic ones to pull at the heartstrings. He’ll be coining it in.’

‘I thought it was his sibling,’ John said.

Arthur laughed. ‘Oh my, sir, you’re still not versed in the ways of the world, are you?’

John’s CO had said Arthur was too familiar with him, had instructed John to reprimand him for talking to a superior without due respect. John was damned if he was going to bawl Arthur out for impertinence.

‘That’s why I need you,’ he said, instead. They turned their backs on the boys, walked along the street.

‘Now,’ Arthur said. ‘First rule.’ He kicked a stone out of the way, held up his hand. ‘Basic exchange. One cigarette is worth five marks. Tobacco costs us nothing in the NAAFI. So if you have, say, two hundred cigarettes…’ He paused and smiled. ‘You can do the arithmetic. Result? We live like kings.’

‘But there’s a sign,’ John said, pointing to a notice posted on a ventilation shaft. ‘Says no goods from NAAFI or PX to be traded. It’s written in German too.’