Tayte didn’t like to think of it that way; he knew it was an idle threat he wouldn’t follow through with, but his time in Munich was fast running out and he really wanted this interview. ‘Look, as I said in my letters, I’m just trying to trace my family, and I believe you might be able to help. I’d like to come over and talk to you, that’s all.’
The call went silent for so long that Tayte thought he’d lost the connection. ‘Hello?’
‘Yes, I’m still here,’ Trudi said. ‘Very well. You can call at five this afternoon.’
Tayte was only partway through thanking her when the call ended. He put his phone away, considering that his hunch seemed to have been right. Trudi had certainly not denied that Johann Langner was Ingrid Keller’s father, but he wondered again whether it meant anything in the context of his investigation. If it did, then right now Tayte couldn’t see what. The discovery had given him an interview with Trudi Strobel, though, whom thus far he couldn’t rule out as being his paternal grandmother.
As the taxi turned into Ruppertstrasse and pulled up outside the offices of the Munich Standesamt, Tayte thought ahead to the records Jan Statham was about to show him, hoping they might shed some light on the matter. Perhaps they would give him some insight into what had happened between the two friends and the girl during the Second World War. He felt sure that Johann’s and Ava’s relationship had not continued beyond it. Langner’s son, Rudi, knew very little about Ava, and he had certainly never met her, or heard his father mention her outside of that brief period during the war when they were married.
So what had become of Ava Bauer?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
France. The Western Front. 5 August, 1944.
Neither the onset of evening, nor the warm breeze at the window offered Johann any perceptible respite from what had been yet another hot and sticky day in Normandy. He drew contemplatively on his cigarette as he sat in his room and blew the smoke along with the breeze where it began to spiral into the room. He had been billeted in a house with three other officers of similar rank near Flers while the Leibstandarte, now a full Panzer Division, assembled prior to their next action, which Johann knew would be soon. The familiar pre-battle nerves he always felt as he awaited orders, which had been stretched to breaking point several times over since the war began, were suppressed for now because of an alarming message he had recently received from Volker. He took the slip of paper from his pocket again, still ruminating on its contents, when a tap-tap at the door denied him the chance to read it again.
‘Monsieur?’
Johann turned to the door as it opened, and he saw Marie’s delicate young face appear through the gap.
‘Supper is ready, Monsieur.’
Johann put his slip of paper away again as he stood up. ‘Thank you, Marie. Did your mother manage to make good use of the provisions we brought you?’
‘She has made a cassoulet, Monsieur.’
‘Ah, very good.’ Johann extinguished his cigarette with his fingers, pinched off the tip and put the remainder back into its packet for later. ‘At least when I go back into battle, I shall do so with a full stomach.’
He reached the door and opened it further, smiling at Marie, whom he thought could not have been more than twelve years old. He followed her along the passageway outside his room, which was lit only by the moon at the bare windows.
‘Have you and your mother eaten?’ Johann asked as they began to descend the stairs. They creaked at his every step.
‘Oui, Monsieur. A little.’
‘Good. You must keep up your strength.’
They arrived at the door to the dining room and Johann could hear the voices of his Kameraden beyond.
‘The table is already set, Monsieur,’ Marie said as she opened the door for him.
‘Merci, Marie. Please thank your mother for me.’
Johann entered to the faint but stirring music of Wagner, which was coming from a small Bakelite radio set at the far end of the room, where the shutters were closed against the night. The room was dimly lit by several candles set at intervals along the table, which cast wavering shadows against the walls.
‘Ah, here he is,’ someone said. It was Horst, an Obersturmführer, like Johann, whose voice sounded strained and coarse following his recovery from a Soviet bayonet wound to his throat. ‘Here, have some wine, Johann. It’s very good.’
Johann sat down and took the proffered glass of wine. ‘The cassoulet smells good, too,’ he said, helping himself to a hunk of bread from the board.
‘A good German sausage has to be among the world’s most versatile foods,’ the man sitting opposite Johann said. His name was Friedrich, and as Hauptsturmführer he was the senior ranking officer at the table.
‘That’s very true,’ Johann said, reaching across the table to fill his plate with a ladle of sausage and bean stew from the pot.