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thought of the sugary grain bar which now took the place of good German bread. This unfortunate newspaper seller was embarrassed in front of his guest because the stranglehold of the British vermin allowed him to offer nothing better. It was an outright scandal. I was overcome with emotion.
    “It’s not your fault, my good man,” I assured him. “In any case, I’m not much of a coffee lover. But I would be very grateful for a glass of water.”
    And so I spent my first morning in this strange new epoch shoulder to shoulder with the smoking newspaper vendor, bent on analysing the population and gaining new insight from their behaviour until such a time as my host, through the contacts he had mentioned, might be able to secure me some sort of employment.
    For the first couple of hours it was humble workers and pensioners who patronised the kiosk. They bought tobacco and the morning papers, but said little. A newspaper by the name of
Bild
seemed to be highly popular – particularly with olderpeople. I assumed this was because the lettering was so extraordinarily large that those with poor vision would still be able to digest the news. An excellent idea, I was forced to concede, one that not even the zealous Goebbels had thought of. Just think of how much more enthusiasm it would have sparked for our cause amongst the elderly! In the last days I could remember of the war, it was chiefly the older members of the Volkssturm who lacked the drive, the determination and willingness to sacrifice themselves for the German nation. Who would have thought that a simple device such as larger lettering could have such an effect?
    In mitigation, there had been a paper shortage during the war, but when all is said and done that Funk chap had been an utter moron.
    My presence outside the kiosk began to cause a stir. There was the occasional outburst of gaiety, especially amongst the younger workers; more often it was recognition, conveyed by the words “cool” and “epic” – totally incomprehensible, I know, but from their facial expressions I inferred a definite respect.
    “Isn’t he great?” the newspaper seller beamed to one of his customers. “Practically no difference, is there?”
    “Nope,” the customer said, folding his newspaper. He was a worker, mid-twenties probably. “But are you allowed to do that?”
    “What?” the newspaper vendor said.
    “You know: the uniform and all that.”
    “What objection could possibly be raised against the coat of a German soldier?” I asked suspiciously, a hint of irritation in my voice.
    The customer laughed, to silence me, I expect.
    “He’s really good. No, I mean, obviously you do this professionally, but don’t you need some sort of special licence to wear that in public?”
    “Well I never!” I replied, incensed.
    “All I’m saying,” he said, a touch intimidated, “is what would the authorities think if they saw you looking like that?”
    This made me ponder. His intentions were honourable, and he was right: my uniform was no longer in the best condition; it was barely presentable.
    “I agree, it is a bit dirty,” I said, somewhat crestfallen. “But even soiled, a soldier’s coat is forever nobler than the spotless dinner jacket of a fraudulent diplomat.”
    “Why would it be forbidden?” the newspaper vendor asked soberly. “He’s not wearing a swastika.”
    “What the devil is that supposed to mean?” I yelled in anger. “Everyone knows damn well which party I’m in!”
    The customer left, shaking his head. When he was out of sight, the newspaper seller invited me to sit down again.
    “He’s got a point,” he said in a friendly tone. “My customers are giving you funny looks. I know you take your work seriously, but couldn’t you wear something different?”
    “Am I to deny my life, my work, my Volk? You cannot ask that of me,” I said, leaping up. “I will go on wearing this uniform until the last drop of blood has been spilled. I will not,