For Wilburchen Król, Dachau was nearly the death of him. He was in the infirmary, when the US army liberated the camp at the end of April. Two days before the SS had sent any inmate able to walk on a death march south towards the Austrian border. The Typhus that had ravaged his body in that fouled and vermin infested bed had saved his life. Under the care of the US army medics he was weaned slowly back on to full rations. Weeks later he discharged himself, against their recommendations, and made his way the six hundred kilometres, partly by foot but for most of the way by US army truck, north towards Berlin. The striped camp prison uniform afforded him no end of offers of lifts, but he travelled in the back, the drivers had no desire to catch lice, even though by now he had been deloused several times. There was more DDT in his half rotten uniform than linen. He had to see if the Bierhaus was still there, the former centre of his most lucrative black market operation. It would be here that he would extract vengeance on the Gestapo officer that sent so many to their deaths.