One of the unspoken truths about Wednesday’s anniversary is that, for many, it will be tainted by the perception that Manchester United have built their financial success by exploiting the memory of Munich while failing to pay proper recompense to those whose lives were blighted by the tragedy.

It is a perception that poisons the memories of the families whose lives were devastated by Munich, a perception that has left some fans feeling that the soul of the club was lost amid the wreckage of Flight 609 ZU, a perception that has been sharpened by the knowledge that while some of the survivors and families live in poverty, the present crop of players and directors drink Cristal by the crateful.

Albert Scanlon, the winger who fractured his skull in Munich and who lives in a nursing home, has views that typify the resentment that has festered since the tragedy. “Munich killed not only a lot of the players who were on that flight, but some of the survivors, too,” he said in The Lost Babes, Jeff Connor’s fascinating memoir. “Things changed for all time at Munich and United didn’t come up to par. They have never really done ’owt for me.”

Much of the bitterness relates to the months after the disaster and the treatment of the survivors and families by the club. Dennis Viollet, Bobby Charlton and Bill Foulkes were retained by Matt Busby, but Scanlon was off-loaded within a season and Kenny Morgans not long after. Johnny Berry, who was unable to play again because of the injuries he suffered in the crash,

was asked to leave his grace-and-favour home off Davyhulme Road within 12 months of the crash to make way for Shay Brennan, a new player.

Jackie Blanchflower, another survivor whose injuries were such that he never played again, was given employment by Louis Edwards, later the club’s chairman, loading meat pies on to lorries, but Munich was the beginning of a downward spiral into poverty. “Mum used to say that he used up the family’s luck surviving Munich,” Blanchflower’s daughter, Laurie, said. “He was always being made redundant.”

Given the incalculable grief caused by the tragedy, it is difficult not to empathise with the bitterness directed at the club, but it is important to place United’s actions in the context of an institution that was itself fighting for survival in the aftermath of a calamity that had so damaged its team and staff. If Busby had kept players on the books in a way that could not be justified in footballing terms, or if the club had continued to offer homes and wages in perpetuity, Manchester United would have been bankrupted.

It is also not strictly true to say that the survivors and their families were neglected. United were underinsured, but the payout of £200,000 was shared equally by the club and the families of the players who lost their lives.

The club have also made gestures to survivors and families that have caused friction. Roger Byrne’s widow, Joy, and their young son were allowed to stay indefinitely at a club house for a peppercorn rent, while Viollet’s second wife, Helen, received a cheque from the club when he faced huge medical bills after the diagnosis of a brain tumour in 1998. Some who were aware of this generosity wondered why it had not been given to them.

The moral ambiguities that have marred the aftermath of Munich are, perhaps, most powerfully exemplified by the testimonial match played at Old Trafford in 1998 to mark the 40-year anniversary of the disaster (the match also doubled as a farewell to Eric Cantona, who had left the club the previous season).

When the committee organising the match said one share from the proceeds would go to each player still living and one to surviving relatives of the dead, it was bombarded by relatives of the airline crew and of the journalists who felt that they were also entitled to recompense. Others argued that Charlton and the Busby family should not be given a share because of their relative wealth.

“What has always hurt me is that not one of those players I played with took the trouble to pick up the phone or just drop me a card to say thank you,” John Doherty, the former player who helped to organise the match, said. “By the end I was sick of it.” Harry Gregg, the former goalkeeper, who was particularly scathing of the testimonial, said: “It has been so much PR bulls***.” He did, however, bank a cheque for £47,283.89.

Despite the bitterness directed towards the club, there are many who view United’s actions with equanimity. The family of Liam Whelan, the young Dublin forward who died in the crash, said: “All the money in the world couldn’t bring Liam back to us. We have never asked anything of Manchester United and never would.”

Perhaps the nub of the resentment derives from the niggling perception among victims that United have grown into financial giants by exploiting the memory of the tragedy. It is true that United’s rise from the ashes of Munich is central to the club’s mythology, but it cannot be sensibly argued that the disaster provides the primary explanation for their success.

However one views the actions of the club, it is undeniable that the air crash has given rise to a separate and, in some ways, more disquieting tragedy, reflected in the enduring bitterness towards United that many will take to their graves. Fifty years on, the trauma of Munich shows no signs of abating.