Leaving Baumauer’s frown to reappear like a fault line, Kalist retraces his route to his desk and sits down, then leans right back in his chair, looks up at the magnificent window behind him and chants – in a whisper so low Baumauer can’t make out what he’s saying – “Bride of Beimerstetten, bride of Beimerstetten, bride of Beimerstetten, naked bride of Beimerstetten,” and he imagines a procession of proud military men blowing trumpets as they stomp through a bomb-devastated town to the tune of Handel’s Messiah.