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many of us here: This cannot possibly be my life; there must be some mistake.
    I think Theo likes our mutual silence. He knows as well as I do that the government doctors are not coming to give him a mechanical jaw–or if so, only in passing. They are coming to assess whether he, Theo Poepke, can return to civilian life, or whether he will be sent for the foreseeable future to one of the secret military hospitals. This is not a health issue. It is one of morale: the authorities do not want the horrifically wounded to sabotage support for the war, to frighten women on trams.
    Just as Theo has settled into my cell to read, Dr Lipp runs in brandishing the newspaper.
    ‘The tide is turning!’ he shouts, then louder: ‘The end is near!’
    Theo raises his eyebrows at me good-naturedly. We are mute, not deaf.
    White bubbles of spittle have collected in the corners of Lipp’s mouth and the pale pink lining of his trouser pocket hangs loose from his hip.
    ‘The Social Democrats have split! A group of them are voting to end the war! Block the funding! They’re founding a new anti-war party, the…’ He squints his left eye for better grip on his monocle. ‘“Independent Social Democratic Party”. This is it, boys—’ He slaps the paper loudly with the back of his hand.
    ‘Show me that,’ I say.
    ‘—and they’re not locking them up this time!’ Lipp finishes. Then stops, a wet grin splitting his face. ‘He speaks,’ he says.
    Theo looks at me, his eyes going up at the corners. It could be a smile.
    Once I started talking, they soon let me out. At first I was aimless. It was 1917, and although the end of the war might have been nearer than the beginning, it was still too far off. I went to Munich and enrolled at the university; I had a love affair with a girl whose sweetheart was at the front. When he was killed she lost interest in me.
    My friends kept dying, throughout that year and the next. I had been saved but I did not feel worthy of it. Then I joined the new party–the Independents–and we campaigned for peace. My strength started to return. The authorities called us traitors, saboteurs of the war effort. They broke up our meetings and took us into custody. But we were as prepared to die for our country as they were; some of us already had. We just wanted to save it first.
    In the monastery I thought the atoms had realigned to form me again, moved into place by notes of song and invisible grace. But now I see that the solid thing was outside of me; I had hitched my hopes to history.
    The revolution came in Russia, and we waited for our own.
    Clara moves her shoulders, her neck from side to side. It is as if we have both been back in the monastery with the wounded and the monks.
    ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
    ‘I haven’t thought of those people for a long time.’ My voice is hoarse.
    There’s a line between her brows and her eyes are searching. It is a face ravaged with puzzlement, sympathy brimming close to the surface. She blinks it away. ‘How about I go get us some sandwiches?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    She puts her hands into the small of her back and arches, catlike, then pushes out her chair. She moves to the door for her jacket, but turns to face me before she gets there.
    ‘After lunch, I thought, we could work in the park for a bit.’ She opens her arms, gesturing at the abandoned world. ‘I mean, for some air. See what’s left of the cherry bl—’
    I shake my head. I will stay in this room. I have always worked best in captivity.
    She slips on her jacket.
    ‘Why don’t you have yours in the park?’
    She is uncertain, then relieved. ‘Okay…’ She shoulders her bag.
    ‘Actually, take the afternoon off. We’ve done enough for one day.’
    She looks at me sceptically. It is inconceivable to her that someone would voluntarily stay in a room day and night when right outside this grand city shimmers and beckons like an amusement park, a lucky dip for grown-ups. Also, she suspects