Johann Langner spent four days in Gilching. Having collapsed by the fireside in the company of his host, she had put him to bed where he drifted in and out of consciousness in a state of constant delirium. In his wakeful moments he was aware of Frau Olberg watching over him, soothing his brow with cold towels, until gradually the savage images of war that would make him cry out in his sleep, succumbed to peace. On the morning of the third day, his fever broke, and by the afternoon he felt well enough to get out of bed, his determination to recover having been fuelled by his need to find Ava.
Johann’s legs still felt weak as he pedalled through the outskirts of Munich on Martha’s rattling old bicycle. Whatever its state, Johann was grateful for it. He had set out from Gilching early, beneath an overcast sky, and he had taken frequent breaks out of necessity along the way, avoiding the busiest places as best he could. Johann was also grateful for the civilian clothes he now wore, which belonged to Ava’s uncle, Heinz Schr?der. He had chosen the dullest clothing he could find in Herr Schr?der’s wardrobe so as not to stand out, and he wore a cap pulled down over his brow. Martha had warned him that many of the people had turned against the military, the SS in particular, because the people blamed them for the lack of food, and the destruction and poverty the war had brought about. She feared that if he wasn’t picked up by the Gestapo and shot for desertion, then the people of Munich would almost certainly try to lynch him from the nearest tree if they knew he was a member of the once elite Leibstandarte.
It was late morning by the time Johann turned the bicycle onto Landsberger Strasse, which followed the main railway tracks to the station terminal. Here, evidence of the bombings was soon everywhere he looked—the railway having been a key target for the Allied air strikes. He was looking for a public telephone booth. He was desperate to speak to Volker and he knew he couldn’t just cycle up to the gates of the concentration camp at Dachau and ask to see him as he had before. Things were very different now that he had no papers allowing him to be there.
As the bomb damage only seemed to increase the closer he came to the main railway terminal, Johann decided that any telephone booths still standing in the area were unlikely to work. So he made a turn and headed towards the centre of the city, which he had hoped to avoid. As the streets became busier he found himself looking away from everyone he passed, and from every vehicle that passed him. Then somewhere along Sonnenstrasse he saw the word Fernsprecher—long distance. The red telephone booth had a small queue standing outside it, which was a good sign. Clearly it was in working order.
Johann cycled past it and turned into a narrow alley. He propped the bicycle against the wall and pretended to adjust the chain so as not to arouse suspicion as he watched the booth. He had a frustrating wait as it seemed that every time someone left the queue, another person joined it. This pattern continued for thirty minutes. Then when the last person entered the booth, he pulled his cap further down over his eyes and left the alley to wait outside it, hands thrust deep into his pockets, nervously flicking at the coins Martha had given him. His shoulders were scrunched and his head was bowed low. When the occupant came out, he turned away and coughed into his hand. Then he slipped inside.
Volker had previously given Johann a telephone number for the administration building at Dachau concentration camp, and Johann had written it in his Soldbuch—the personal identification and pay book given to him as a new recruit when he joined the Leibstandarte, which he had since been obliged to carry everywhere with him. He lifted the handset from its hook on the side of the receiver box, inserted his coins, and dialled the number. A few seconds later the call was answered.
‘Hello?’ Johann said. The line was poor. ‘Could I please speak to Lagerführer Strobel?’
‘Please state your business.’
‘It’s a personal matter. I need to speak to him urgently.’
‘Are you family?’
‘No, I’m a friend.’
‘Well, I’m sure you can understand that Lagerführer Strobel is a very busy man. I cannot interrupt his duties without first verifying the urgency of your call.’
‘I told you, my reasons for calling are personal. If you can just let him know I’m on the line, I’m sure he’ll want to speak to me.’
Johann was squeezing the handset tightly in frustration. He wanted to slam it against one of the telephone booth windows, but he constrained himself. Outside he could see that there were already two people waiting.
After a considerable pause, the man at the other end of the line sighed and said, ‘What is your name, please?’
‘Does it matter?’
In a more aggressive tone, he asked again, ‘Your name, please.’
‘It’s Langner. He’ll know who I am.’
‘One moment. I’ll see if Lagerführer Strobel is available.’
Johann inserted the last of his coins as he waited, listening to the static clicks on the line for what felt like an eternity. Outside, he saw that the queue had built further, and he could see that those who had been waiting longest were growing impatient. Someone tapped on the window and he turned his back to them.
‘Hello? Herr Langner?’
‘Yes, hello,’ Johann said with urgency.
‘I’m afraid Lagerführer Strobel is not available. I’m sorry.’
It was not what Johann wanted to hear. ‘Did he give you any message for me?’