Where was the Ivan with the burp gun? Pemsel spotted motion behind a pile of rubble. He squeezed off a short burst with his Schmeisser, then ducked away to find fresh cover. A wild scream came from the direction of the heap of bricks and paving stones. It didn’t lure him into looking. The Russians were past masters at making you pay if you fell for one of their games.

Like it matters, Hasso thought. You’re going to die here any which way. Sooner or later? What difference does it make? But discipline held. So did a perverse pride.

He refused to do less than his best, even now – maybe especially now. If the Russians wanted his carcass, they’d have to pay the butcher’s bill for it.

A few meters away, his top sergeant was rolling a cigarette with weeds that might have been tobacco and a strip of paper torn from Der Panzerbar. The Armored Bear was the last German newspaper going in Berlin; even the Nazi Party’s Volkischer Beobachter had shut down.

Karl Edelsheim was good at making do. Like Hasso, he’d been in the Wehrmacht since before the war, and he was still here after almost four years on the Eastern Front. How much longer he or any of the German defenders would be here was a question Hasso declined to dwell on.

Instead, he said, “Got any more fixings? I’m out.” If you paid attention to what was right in front of you, you could forget about the bigger stuff… till you couldn’t any more.

“Sure, Captain.” Edelsheim passed him the tobacco pouch and another strip of newspaper. Hasso rolled his own, then leaned close to the Feldwebel for a light. Edelsheim blew out smoke and said, “We’re fucked, aren’t we?” He might have been talking about the weather for all the excitement or worry he showed.

“Well, now that you mention it, yes.” Hasso didn’t wail and beat his breast, either. What was the point? What was the use? “Where are we going to go? You want to throw down your Mauser and surrender to the Ivans?”