Picture the scene. January 1940, Secheval in the French Ardennes. A phone box in a swirling snowstorm. Inside, in a fog of frozen breath, a man in French infantry uniform is feverishly filling a scruffy school exercise book with arcane mathematical formulae. The man's name is Wolfgang Doeblin. He is 23 years old, one of the most gifted mathematicians of his generation. And ever since this morning, he has known he is going to die.
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