There’s a sharp bend in the road, and the tree-lined avenue to Haselhorst is in front of them. On either side of the road, wide water-filled ditches, and some three hundred yards in front of them, an obstacle, something pale but clearly visible lying across the road.

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t work it out. Are they building some kind of barrier?’

‘It looks so bright. Fluffy, almost. Like straw. Well, we’ll ignore it. Straight through.’

‘What if we can’t get by? The ditches are too wide to get across.’

‘Well, then we’ll wait. Some car or wagon is bound to pass.’

They are reasonably close now, and Thiel says, relieved: ‘It’s nothing. Someone’s dropped a load of straw.’

‘Yes, I can see.’

Then, a little closer: ‘There’s something fishy here. They’re not picking it up. In fact, they’re leading horses and wagons away!’

‘Never mind! We’ll get through. Just kick it aside.’

And now they are very close. There are three or four people standing by the straw, which is lying across the whole roadway. One of them bends down, and suddenly there is a flickering here, and another there. A flame dances aloft. Ten flames. A hundred. Smoke, thick white gouts of it, spews up.

The oxen throw back their heads, dig their feet in. Turn violently away.

And suddenly the wind gets into the flames, searing heat beats into their faces, they are standing in a pall of smoke.

‘Go! Go! Back to the village!’ yells Kalübbe, smacking his steer on the muzzle. The cartilage makes an echoey noise.

Almost side by side, pulled up by the ropes each time they stumble, they are racing to the village.

A hundred yards on, their beasts are walking more calmly. Breathlessly Kalübbe shouts: ‘There’s nothing for it this time, I’m going to have to write a report!’

‘And what do we do now?’

‘They won’t let us get to Haselhorst. That’s pointless. But just to show them, we’ll go to Lohstedt by way of Nippmerow, Banz and Eggermühle.’

‘But that’s ten miles!’

‘So what! Do we want to put the oxen back in Päplow’s byre?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Well then!’

They are now back at the Krug. There are the farmers, staring at them.

‘They’ve been waiting for us. Well, don’t think you’re going to get your beasts back.—Drive by as quickly and smoothly as possible!’

All the faces are staring at them. They are young and old, pale blond, doughy, smooth and creased, with grey or black beards, with skin tanned by autumn storms and winter rains. At Thiel and Kalübbe’s approach, the farmers break up. Some step across to the other side of the village street, and now, as the two men try to pass them, they all start walking, silently and close to them, like an impromptu escort. Faces lowered or upraised, seeing nothing, sticks in their hands.

They’ve not finished with us, thinks Kalübbe. This isn’t going to go smoothly.