At that point words began to roll out of my mouth. Then Winter spoke up. And Jürgen Kupka and Bansemer had their own two cents' worth to put in.

"Oh, Mahike. We've known him for years."

"We had him in school."

"He had a weakness for neckwear when he was only fourteen."

"Christ, yes. Remember when he swiped that lieutenant commander's thingamajig off the hook in gym class. Here's how it…"

"Naw, you gotta begin with the phonograph."

"What about the canned goods? I suppose that was nothing. Right in the beginning he always wore a screwdriver…"

"Wait a minute! If you want to begin at the beginning, you'll have to go back to the Schlagball match in Heinrich Ehlers Field. Here's how it was: We're lying on the ground and Mahlke's asleep. So a gray cat comes creeping across the field, heading straight for Mahike. And when the cat sees that neck bobbing up and down, she says to herself, my word, that's a mouse. And she jumps…"

"That's the bunk. Pilenz picked up the cat and put it… You going to tell me different?"

Two days later we had official confirmation. It was announced at morning roll call: A former Labor Service man from Tuchel-North battalion, serving first as a simple machine-gunner, then as a sergeant and tank commander, always in the thick of battle, strategically important position, so and so many Russian tanks, and furthermore, etcetera etcetera.

Our replacements were expected and we were beginning to turn in our rags when I received a clipping that my mother had cut out of the Vorposten. There it was printed in black and white: A son of our city, always in the thick of battle, first as a simple machine-gunner, later as a tank commander, and so on and so on.