Johann Langner and Ava Bauer were married on a bright and cold Saturday morning, just as soon as Johann’s recovery was deemed complete and he had been given his release papers. The wedding had been a quiet and somewhat hurried affair because Johann had been allowed no more than three weeks’ leave to see his family before he had to return to the Ostfront, and because both Ava and Johann had agreed that they didn’t want their families and friends to go to any fuss over them when times were so difficult.
Neither had minded in the least, and they cared little for the manner of the proceedings. They simply wanted to be husband and wife, so that it could be recorded for all time that they had once loved each other, and although neither of them had openly said it, Johann knew that to wait any longer was sheer folly in light of the mortal dangers he would again soon find himself in. He was to leave for the Ostfront in two days, and the prospect of facing the Russian winter, having heard that temperatures at the Moscow Front had fallen to as low as minus thirty-seven degrees centigrade, made the thought of leaving his new bride so soon after their wedding all the more unbearable.
It was a cold afternoon towards the middle of the month, and for what seemed like the first time since their wedding, Johann had left Ava at her parents’ home where he’d been staying while he was in Munich. He hadn’t seen anything of Volker during his leave, and while it pained him to be parted from Ava, he had contacted Volker to arrange to see him before returning to his unit. Volker had not been able to escape his responsibilities at the concentration camp, so his friend had suggested Johann visit him there, adding that he had a surprise for him.
Johann had borrowed Herr Bauer’s motorcar for the short journey northwest of Munich to the medieval town of Dachau. He drove up to the concentration camp’s main entrance gates and took in the thick stonework that surrounded them, and it was impossible for his eyes not to be drawn to the black eagle that sat above them, as tall as a man with its wings spread to either side. He showed his papers to the sentry guard who made a telephone call, and a moment later Johann was admitted through on foot and escorted to the Kommandantur—the camp headquarters—where he found Volker Strobel waiting for him, standing in his greatcoat with his hands on his hips at the corner of the building. There were two SS guards with him.
‘Johann! It’s always so good to see you, my friend.’
They saluted one another and Volker offered out a black-gloved hand. Johann shook it. There was no informal hug or even a slap on the back this time, which Johann understood was because his friend was on duty and that he had his authority to uphold.
‘It’s good to see you, too, Volker. I missed you at the wedding of course. I was hoping you would be my best man.’
‘It would have been my honour, Johann, but duty first, eh? I trust you received the food and champagne I sent.’
‘We did. Thank you. It went down very well.’
‘I’m sure it did,’ Volker said, almost laughing. ‘It was very fine champagne.’ He pulled his gloves on more firmly and turned away from the building. ‘I’m glad you’re wearing your coat. I’d like to show you the prisoner camp while you’re here, and as I said during our brief telephone conversation yesterday, I’ve arranged a little something for you. Call it a personal wedding present, if you like, just for you.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ Johann said as they moved off, the two guards following close behind them.
As they walked, Volker pointed out various parts of the camp, including the SS troop barracks, the administration buildings, the bakery, and the residential officers’ housing, making a point of highlighting his own accommodation. He asked Johann about the action he’d seen and of the wounds he’d received at the Ostfront, and Johann gave him a potted summary of his life on the front line.
An hour passed as in the blink of an eye, so deep were they in conversation, but it was interrupted when they came to a building with a deep inset arch that led to a single iron gate. It had the words ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ written in iron lettering above it, promising those who were imprisoned in the compound beyond that their work would make them free. They passed through the gate, collecting two more guards for their entourage.
‘Being the first camp of its kind,’ Volker said, ‘Dachau has become the model for all others. We now also have SS doctors at the camp hospital, whose duty it is to regularly determine those who are unfit for work.’
‘What happens to them?’ Johann asked.
‘Special Treatment 14f13,’ Volker replied. ‘They are no longer of any use to us here, so they are transferred to Hartheim in Austria. This is the prisoner roll-call area. Those buildings beyond are the prisoner barracks.’