Much of the square is shored up. Rachel’s directions bring them to a building with a columned portico and potted camellias on the steps. Pocks and splinters scar the symmetrical façade and there are still piles of fallen stone all around. This architecture communicates its recent past all too amply, Harry thinks. How very strange it is to be back here.

They are directed to a large salon that has an ornate plasterwork ceiling. The floor has been boarded over, presumably to protect the parquet, and trestle tables are arranged in a U-shape and loaded with assorted personal effects. It looks like the most ghastly church jumble sale. Each item has an attached luggage label, the number upon which seemingly corresponds to a nameless burial, to a man who is now not even a number. Harry wonders how these things, these ubiquitous things—the standard army-issue pencils; the belts, buttons, and badges; the penknives and combs; the rings and razors; the cigarette cases, compasses, and picture postcards—could identify an individual. These objects could well have been his own. He mentally inventories the items in his old kit bag. Where now are his penknife and cigarette case, his letters and his diary? Could Francis’s belongings surface in a place like this? Should he too be looking for clues? And how would Edie feel if Francis’s penknife did turn up on a trestle table with a ticket attached? Does she really believe that her husband—his brother—could yet be alive and the past four years have just been errors and lies?

The women sniff as they sift. Rachel examines items diligently, picking them up and turning them over as if she expects them to exude some familiar energy, as if she is willing there to be a crackle of connection. She brings them close to her eyes and to her nose. Harry looks at her fingers working and wonders how many other women have already picked over the same debris. As her hands stroke a leather wallet he imagines Edie making the same gesture. Perhaps she has already been in this same room, has picked over these same tables. He wants to take Rachel away, to tell her not to put herself through this, but she stays until the end, until the officer in charge has watched his watch for long enough. Harry wonders at her tenacity, wonders if it is hope or fear that keeps her eyes searching, and considers which of those two sentiments brought Edie to this town.

They walk back through Arras empty-handed. There are still great chasms in the cobbles. He tries to steer Rachel on a safe path. From many buildings it is only the chimney stacks that have survived. They soar skyward. “Like exclamation marks,” she observes.