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‘So you turned it into a museum?’ Jean said.

‘I suppose you could call it that. Although, I prefer to think of it as an education centre. It’s been overshadowed now of course by the
NS-Dokumentationszentrum
, the Munich Documentation Centre for the History of National Socialism, which was built on the site of what used to be the headquarters of the former NSDAP—the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, which you will no doubt better know as the Nazi Party.’

Langner looked down at the photocopy of the newspaper cutting again. ‘1963,’ he said, smiling to himself. ‘I remember the mayor of Munich cutting the ribbons as though it were yesterday.’ He looked up at Tayte. ‘How can a former Hitler Youth training academy possibly help you in your search to find your mother?’

It was a good question, and one which Tayte had already asked himself many times since he’d embarked on this most personal of assignments. When it came to his own family history, Tayte knew he’d been clutching at straws his whole life, and he had to admit to himself that this time was no great exception, but this time he knew for a fact that this former Hitler Youth building was somewhere his mother had once been. He had never found such a concrete connection to his family before, and Marcus had clearly thought it important, which had helped to spur Tayte on. All he figured he had to do now was to find out why his mother had gone there, and then follow the clues. He reached a hand towards Langner and pointed to another image on the newspaper copy. It showed a crowd and several protest placards. He singled someone out.

‘Going back to your earlier question, I know the photo I have of my mother was taken in 1963 because she was there the day your education centre was officially opened. She was at the ceremony.’ Tayte paused as he wondered again whether his father had perhaps taken the photograph. ‘See the dogtooth 1960s baker-boy hat this woman’s wearing?’

Langner looked more closely and nodded. Tayte drew his attention back to the photograph of his mother.

‘Her face is a little obscured in the newspaper image, but that’s very clearly the same hat my mother’s holding in the photo she left me. The style and pattern are identical.’

‘So your mother was a
Demonstrant
? She was protesting against my having saved this former Hitler Youth building from demolition?’

‘Maybe,’ Tayte said. ‘Or maybe she was there for some other reason and just got caught up in the crowd. It’s the reason she was there at all that interests me—whether it was because of the building or perhaps someone connected with it.’

‘Which is what brought you to me,’ Langner said.

Tayte nodded. ‘I figure if I can find out what or who my mother was interested in, and why, it could lead me to someone who can identify her.’

‘But I’ve already told you I don’t know the woman in this picture. I can’t see how I can be of any further help to you.’

‘Volker Strobel,’ Jean said, sitting forward as her eyes locked on Langner.

Langner’s eyebrows twitched at hearing the name and he smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now I begin to see where this is going.’

Tayte elaborated. ‘According to the article in this newspaper, Volker Strobel was the main reason for the protests at your opening ceremony that day—the day my mother was there. As I’m sure you can imagine, when I set out to identify why she was there, Strobel went straight to the top of my list.’

Jean leaned in and picked up the newspaper copy. ‘This article shows that the protestors were strongly against preserving the institution that had, and I quote, “spawned such evil as Volker Strobel, the Demon of Dachau”.’

Langner’s features had taken on a solemn appearance. He slowly nodded his head in recognition of the facts being presented to him as Tayte continued.

‘I spent a considerable amount of time trying to find out about Strobel—trying to understand why my mother might have been interested in him. I soon learned that researching a most-wanted war criminal, whom no one’s been able to find since the war ended, is no walk in the park. Coupled with the seemingly impossible task of trying to connect this man with a mother I know nothing about made the job of finding my family seem as impossible as ever.’

‘But something has given you hope?’ Langner said.

‘Possibly, which of course is why we’re here. I managed to identify a few people in Strobel’s family line, but no one wanted to talk to me about him. They all gave me the same answer—the answer I’m sure they’ve given to many Nazi hunters over the years. They said they knew nothing about him. They were ashamed of him and wanted to be left alone, and for the past to be left where they felt it belonged. So, after that avenue was closed to me, I returned to the archives and kept digging in the hope that I might turn something up. Then I found a reference to Volker Strobel that made it all the more imperative that I see you.’

‘Do you remember the magazines of the Hitler Youth?’ Jean asked. ‘One was called
Will and Power
. Issued bi-monthly.’

‘Yes, of course, the
Wille und Macht
,’ Langner said. ‘It was familiar to most members of the
Hitlerjugend
. There may be many things wrong with me, my dear, but there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with my memory.’

Tayte reached into his folder again and slid out another of the records he’d collected. ‘During my research I came across a digital copy of the magazine on the San Francisco based Internet Archive. It was filed under Baldur von Schirach, the magazine’s editor at the time. I had a translated copy made and this is a printout of the page that caught my attention as it appeared in
Will and Power
magazine in May 1937.’

Langner took the copy and studied the page for several seconds before a gentle smile creased his lips. ‘So young,’ he said, his tone distant and melancholic. His smile dropped. ‘We had become perfect little soldiers—we sons of the
Führer
. I was nineteen years old when this picture was taken—a young man swept along by a wave so strong no one could have stopped it, let alone imagine the devastation it would ultimately cause.’

Langner turned the copy of the magazine page around to face Tayte and Jean. Amidst the text, which was written in the Fraktur blackletter typeface so synonymous with Nazi Germany, were the portraits of two Hitler Youth members. The image was in black and white, but having seen so many photographs of similar Hitler Youth members during his research, it was not difficult for Tayte to imagine their blonde hair and blue eyes, their black trousers and brown shirts, with black ties and cross straps over their chests. With their strong jawlines and proud, authoritative stances, they looked the epitome of Nazi Germany’s perfect Aryan race.

‘We had grown out of our shorts by the time this picture was taken,’ Langner said. ‘We were being honoured for our conduct in the
Hitlerjugend
, and for becoming two of the youngest members to make the rank of
Bannführer
at the time, although when the war began and the majority of adult leaders were conscripted into the
Wehrmacht
and the
Waffen-SS,
the minimum age was reduced to as young as sixteen to make up for the sudden deficit in leadership.’

‘The article tells of your friendship with Strobel,’ Tayte said.

‘Yes, and of course the HJ, as we commonly referred to it, encouraged such comradeship.’ He gazed down at the image again. ‘Look at us,’ he added, offering the image closer to Jean. ‘We were the very best of friends when this picture was taken. But how quickly the war, among other things, changed all that.’

‘You fell out?’ Tayte asked.

‘What about?’ Jean added. ‘If that’s not too personal a question.’

‘No, it’s quite all right. It was a long time ago. I had once thought that nothing could come between us, but I was clearly very naive. In simple terms I suppose we fell out over a girl, and because the war brought out the very worst in Volker Strobel. I came to hate and despise the man I had once considered my friend.’

‘Could you tell us about him?’ Tayte asked.

‘To a point, yes, I could.’

‘And will you?’ Jean said.

Langner turned to Tayte and regarded him seriously. ‘If your mother was interested in a man such as Volker Strobel, are you completely sure you want to find out why?’

Tayte gave a single, determined nod.

‘Wherever it may lead? Whatever the repercussions?’

When it came to understanding his own ancestry, Tayte had always felt a degree of apprehension about what he might someday find. Nevertheless, he had to know where this new lead would take him. He looked at Jean and then back at Langner. ‘Yes, I’m absolutely sure,’ he said. ‘If there’s something about Volker Strobel that could help point me in the right direction, I’d be glad to know it, wherever it might lead.’

Langner sat up and took a sip of water from the glass beside his bed. ‘Very well,’ he said, adjusting his posture. ‘Let me tell you about the man who was once my closest friend. As it remains unclear about what you hope to find, I suppose I should commence the story of my acquaintance with Herr Strobel,
Der Dämon von Dachau
, from the day I first met him. It was in 1933 and I had just turned fifteen. It wasn’t mandatory to join the
Hitlerjugend
until 1936, but I come from a long line of military forefathers, and so I had been a member of the
Deutsches Jungvolk
—the
junior branch of the
Hitlerjugend
—from the age of ten. I can still remember the very first time I saw Volker. Out of nowhere he came striding confidently towards me. His hair as bright as fire and his blue eyes so piercing it was impossible to look away, despite the somewhat difficult circumstances I had found myself in.’ Langner paused, as though momentarily lost to his memories. ‘Yes, I remember Volker Strobel very well,’ he added. ‘But then, it was a very memorable introduction.’

Chapter Two

Munich. 1933.

‘Kick him again, Erich! Never let your opponent gain the upper hand.’

The boy’s lip was already swollen and bleeding profusely from the blow that had knocked him to the ground. It was three against one and he knew this was a fight he could not win.

‘Like this, Günther?’ Erich kicked the boy again, and this time it felt as if the blow had cracked a rib.

‘That’s it,’ Günther said with obvious satisfaction. ‘The strong dominate the weak. Remember that.’ He was suddenly towering over the defenceless boy. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy spat blood at him. A moment later he felt a tug at the neck of his shirt as his head and shoulders were pulled up, only to be smashed back down again by Günther’s fist. Laughter rang in the boy’s ears. Another blow sent his head crashing into the parquet floor that lined the corridor he had previously been running along on his way to class. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. Had his father been there, he knew he would have beaten him all the harder if he had. Instead, he rolled onto his side and curled his knees up to his chest in supplication.

Then, through the blood in his eyes, he saw a pair of knee-length white socks striding towards him, and a pair of black shorts and a brown shirt like his own. It was another boy of about his age approaching along the otherwise empty corridor. Their eyes met, and even while he was being kicked repeatedly in the back, by all three of the older boys for all he knew, the boy couldn’t take his eyes off the newcomer.

The approaching boy called out. ‘Hey,
Blödmann
!’

The kicking stopped and somehow the pain in the boy’s back and ribs seemed to intensify.

‘Who’s this, then?’ Günther said. ‘Has your little brother come to help you?’ He laughed. ‘We’ll soon see who the stupid one is. It’s still three against two, and we’re older and stronger.’

The size and strength of the opposition seemed to make no difference to the newcomer, who was suddenly in their midst, standing with his hands on his hips in a defiant, mocking posture.

‘And what are you going to do, little man?’ Günther continued. ‘Do you want some of the same med—’

Günther wasn’t allowed to finish his sentence. The newcomer cracked his fist into Günther’s nose with such speed and determination, it would have been impossible to see it coming. The other two boys backed away, as though suddenly less sure of themselves.

Günther quickly recovered. He wiped the blood from his nose and studied it momentarily before looking up again. ‘You’re going to pay for that!’ He lunged at the newcomer and landed a glancing blow to his chin, jolting his head sideways. Then Günther leapt at him and pulled him to the ground. ‘Can you wrestle, little man?’

The newcomer lashed out again, but this time his punch was easily blocked.

‘I’m a very good wrestler,’ Günther said as he twisted his legs around the other boy and rolled him over, pinning him onto his back.

The newcomer jabbed again, and now he cut his opponent’s lip. He threw another punch, but any advantage he might have had was fleeting.

Günther blocked him again and he knelt on his upper arms, immobilising them. ‘See how you like this,’ he said, and then he began to rain blow after blow into the newcomer’s face, like a blacksmith hammering steel, until his knuckles were wet with blood.

Beside them, the boy stirred. He sat up and the pain in his ribs caused him to wince and clutch his side. He saw Günther’s friends move closer and he knew he would not be allowed to help this bright-haired boy who had come to his aid. He could do no more than watch and hope that the bully would soon let up. Blow after blow continued to fall until the boy saw the fight go from the newcomer. He had stopped bucking and twisting, and his head seemed limp now as it rocked from side to side as Günther kept hitting him. The boy thought Günther would never let up. He thought he was going to kill the newcomer if he didn’t do something. He was about to, for what good he thought it would do, but the beating suddenly stopped. Günther seemed to freeze mid-blow.

He groaned. ‘Oh,
Scheisse
!’

Very slowly Günther began to fall sideways towards the boy. He landed heavily just a few feet from him, and it was then that the boy saw the reason he had stopped the beating. Protruding from his side was the unmistakable black and polished nickel plate handle of the newcomer’s Hitler Youth dagger.