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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 —thejunior 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.