‘Can you hear that?’
Marie cocked her head. ‘What?’
‘Music. A trumpet.’
‘Maybe it’s Herr Koch playing his gramophone?’
‘They took him last week.’
‘Maybe he’s now back? Maybe he has ...’
She paused as the dull thud of an artillery barrage pummelled a distant district.
‘Let’s hope the Americans do. Herr Koch is probably dead. There, now do you hear it?’
The two sisters sneaked out of the chilly basement and watched seven bedraggled boy soldiers scurrying over the rubble heading toward the suburbs, trailed by two children blowing into battered bugles.
‘The last hurrah! Poor fools.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.