‘Well I never,’ Arthur said, eyes wide and innocent. ‘Perhaps that’s just a suggestion, sir.’

An old man was coming towards them, a child’s bicycle tucked under his arm. His clothes were shabby, but John could see they had once been good. Perhaps he’d been a professional man, a teacher or a doctor. Arthur stepped forward, pointing to the bike. The man held up his open hand and balled it into a fist, again and again.

‘Fünfundzwanzig Mark.’

‘What’s he say, sir?’

‘Twenty-five marks.’ John smiled, added, ‘Current exchange rate, five cigarettes.’

‘My little lad would love this,’ Arthur said. He looked around him and John followed his gaze. Milling among the soldiers were men and women carrying bulging cloth bags, or cradling goods wrapped in paper. One had a queue in front of him, a battered suitcase on the floor, was lifting out candlesticks, a coffee-pot. Barter and exchange. It was, John thought, like the Forum.

‘What d’you think, sir? Is it right?’

‘Don’t ask me, sergeant,’ John said. ‘Ethics go to the wind at times like this.’

Arthur put his finger on his lip, frowned.

‘Zwanzig,’ the old man said, closing and opening his hand four times.

‘Twenty,’ John said. ‘He thinks you’re haggling.’

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll pay a fair price. I don’t want loot.’ He breathed in. ‘I’ve never seen my son, but I can imagine his face at this. I expect his own boy’s grown out of it, got a bigger bike. How d’you say that in German?’

The man looked up at Arthur, then John, his eyes rheumy and grey. He hadn’t shaved for some days and his chin bristled with sharp white hairs.

‘Here.’ He fished out his cigarettes and handed five to the man, lifted the bicycle and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

‘Danke.’ The old man held out his hand, and Arthur shook it.

‘The market decides,’ Arthur said. He laughed, nodded towards the man with the suitcase.

‘But that lad over there…’ He pointed to the bigger boy that John had spotted earlier. ‘Capitalist accumulation. He hasn’t lifted a finger. I rest my case. Here we are.’ He tucked the small bicycle under his arm and dived down some steps into a cellar. Above him, a painted blue sign had been nailed to the ruins. The Blue Angel.

‘I’m told it’s the best of the dives.’

Der Blaue Engel. He’d watched it in the sixth form, in love with Marlene Dietrich, and now here he was, in Berlin. He hummed as he followed Arthur down the steps into the cavern below. Falling in love again…

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Berlin: July 1945