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simple, very young soldier, with a face that was only now starting to take on a character of its own. He was carrying a submachine gun with a curved, segmented ammunition clip under his arm.
    Such were the three Russians, the long-awaited guests, whom Doll welcomed with his clenched left fist raised in greeting and right hand outstretched, the word ‘ Tovarich !’ — Comrade! — on his lips.
    But as he did so, as he stood like this in front of the three men, something odd happened. The clenched left fist was lowered, Doll’s right hand crept back into his pocket, and his mouth did not repeat the word that was meant to forge a bond between him and the three Russians. Nor was he smiling any more; instead, his face had taken on a dark, brooding expression. He suddenly dropped his gaze, which a moment earlier had been directed at the three, and looked at the ground.
    How long they stayed like this — whether for two or three minutes, or just a few seconds — Doll was unable to say later. Suddenly the man in the blue tunic stepped forward between him and his wife and went on into the house, followed by the other two. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Doll followed them, but just stood there in silence, each avoiding the other’s gaze. Then they heard the boy cry out: ‘There they are again!’
    Now they could see the three Russians at the back of the house. They had exited via the scullery; it had only taken them a moment to go through the entire house, which was basically a cabin with just four rooms. And now they were striding past the shed, without pausing or looking round, as if they knew exactly where they were going; they walked out on the jetty, climbed into the boat, cast off, and a few minutes later they had disappeared from sight behind the bushes that lined the shore.
    â€˜They’ve gone!’ cried the boy again.
    â€˜There’ll be more on their way!’ said the young wife. ‘That was probably just a first check to see who is living in each house.’ She shot a glance at her husband, who was still standing there with his hands thrust into his pockets, brooding morosely. ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Let’s go and eat before the soup goes completely cold. Then we’ll put the children and grandmother to bed. We’ll stay up for a bit longer; I’ve got a feeling that more of them will be coming this evening or during the night.’
    â€˜Fine’, replied Doll, and went back to the supper table with her. As he did so he noted that even his wife’s voice had changed completely: there was none of that bright, vivacious quality it had had when telling of her afternoon adventures. She’s noticed something, too , he thought. But she’s like me — she doesn’t want to talk about it. That’s good.
    Later on, he preferred to tell himself that perhaps his wife had not noticed anything, that her voice had only sounded so different because a new time of waiting was then beginning, waiting for more Russian visitors to arrive. Waiting was now definitely the hardest part of life for every German, and they had to wait for many things, nearly everything, in fact — for days, months, and possibly even years to come …
    But thanks to the grandmother and the children, a lively conversation did now develop, to which the young wife also contributed. The main topic of interest, of course, was the three visitors, whose motley appearance was something they were not used to seeing in their own German troops (or else they were so used to seeing it, in fact, that they no longer noticed). Later on, they discussed at length whether they would get the boat back, whether the Russians would bring it back …
    Doll took no part in this conversation, and didn’t want to talk at all for the rest of the evening. He was feeling far too worked up inside for that. He spoke just once to ask his wife quietly: ‘Did you see the way they looked at