‘The man’s a fool, an impostor,’ he said, reaching for a sausage. ‘He has the ear of Hitler because he bought off the Russians for a couple of years, but tell me this: what on earth does the man know about propaganda?’
‘He lies,’ Nehmann pointed out. ‘All the time.’
‘Yes, but what lies. Paper lies. The thinnest of lies. The most obvious of lies. Ribbentrop is an impostor. He married his fortune. He stole his title. He has a dentist’s smile. Even his staff say so.’
Nehmann nodded and emptied his glass. He hadn’t been summoned here to listen to Goebbels beating up his many enemies. There had to be another reason.
‘So what happens next, Herr Minister?’
‘What happens next, my friend, we owe to General Manstein. The Führer believes that Trappenjagd is just an hors d’oeuvre. The main course is yet to come. He’s as sensitive to the grain crisis as I am, and he believes the people deserve a little glimpse of what awaits us. The news footage from the Crimea arrives tomorrow. Ribbentrop is trying to get his hands on it. He won’t succeed. He thinks it’s due at Tempelhof just before noon and that’s because we’ve planted all the clues. In reality, it’ll arrive at Schönwalde around nine in the morning and you, my friend, will be on hand to collect it. I’ll be supervising the edit myself. The music is already written, and the earlier battle footage is already cut. Half a day’s hard work and we can start sending out the prints. Radio is fine. Radio is a godsend. But in the end, it’s pictures that count. You agree?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘I know. Tact was never part of my job. I speak the truth as I see it. Not a particle more, not a particle less. Pictures, Werner.’ He made an oblong frame with his long fingers. ‘Pictures. Ja? You agree?’
3
SCHÖNWALDE, BERLIN, 22 MAY 1942
Nehmann spent that night with a woman called Maria. He’d met her a couple of weeks ago in a Moabit nightclub where she played the piano. She said she was Austrian, from a village near Villach. Her orphan looks were, to be frank, Jewish – sallow complexion, a fall of jet-black curls, perfect mouth, enormous eyes – but Nehmann had met a lot of Italian girls and when she said that her grandparents had lived in Bolzano before heading north to Austria he was very happy to believe her.
To date, unusually for Nehmann, they’d yet to make love. She’d asked him to be patient, to wait until circumstances were right for both of them. She’d made the suggestion the first time she’d stayed with him in Guram’s apartment and to his own slight surprise, Nehmann had agreed. He was transfixed by her face, most of all by her eyes. They had a depth and a candour that he found close to hypnotic and, in no time at all, she’d become an important presence in his life.
They talked a great deal late into the small hours after her return from Moabit. They were both outsiders in this teeming city. They compared notes, and drank Guram’s wine, and agreed that much of Nazi Germany was an essay in swagger and bad taste. Complicity in this small conversational act of treason was drawing them ever closer, and Nehmann liked that. In truth, though he’d never admit it to Goebbels, his Czech coquette had begun to bore him and, now that she’d taken her favours elsewhere, he felt nothing but relief. Hedvika was too loud, too easy, too coarse, too suggestible. On the keyboard, and in real life, Maria had an altogether lighter touch.
Daylight came early at this time of year. Maria was still asleep and Nehmann got up and dressed without a sound. The rain had cleared at last and when he descended to the street to meet the car despatched from the Promi, the city was bathed in sunshine. At this hour in the morning there was still the faintest chill in the air but, among the secretaries spilling off the trolley buses, Nehmann saw a couple of older folk carrying rolled-up towels. They’re off to the Lido to make friends with summer again, he thought with a pang of jealousy. He swam there himself whenever he got the chance.
The journey out to Schönwalde took no time at all. At the sandbagged airfield checkpoint, Nehmann wound down the window and offered his Promi pass. The officer in charge consulted a list of names on a typed list.
‘You’re here to meet Oberstleutnant Messner?’
‘I am.’
‘Met him before?’
‘Never.’
‘You’re in for a treat. He’s due in about half an hour. He’s blaming headwinds over Poland so I expect God will be paying the bill.’ He stepped back to wave him through. ‘Good luck, Herr Nehmann.’
Nehmann exchanged looks with the driver as the car began to move.
‘God?’ he queried.
‘Messner has a reputation for never being wrong. If there’s no one else available, he gives God a mouthful.’
Nehmann nodded, none the wiser. The airfield lay before them, littered with heavy plant. Between the bulldozers and the trucks was a wilderness of puddles.
‘I thought this belonged to the Luftwaffe?’
‘It does. They’re laying a hard runway for the day the Regierung move in.’
‘So where’s Messner supposed to land?’
‘God only knows. Which is why the bloody man needs to watch his tongue.’
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘And?’
‘Wait and see.’
They parked beside a barely finished single-storey building that seemed to serve as a rallying point for the army of labourers assigned to the new runway. The driver thought there was a chance of decent coffee inside and left the car to find out. After a while, bored, Nehmann got out to stretch his legs. A frieze of pine trees edged the flatness of the airfield on three sides and he was watching a distant gaggle of tiny stick figures pouring concrete when he heard the faintest mutter of aero engines, throttled back in anticipation of a landing.
Away to the east, below a scatter of fluffy white clouds, he could see the Me-110 dropping a wing and then settling gently on the final descent. From where he was standing it was difficult to be sure but Nehmann had the impression that some of the workmen out there would be wise to get out of the way. Seconds later came the blast of a whistle and the men began to scatter in all directions.
By now, the Me-110 was barely feet from touchdown. Messner lifted the nose, gunned the engines one final time to avoid three men running into his path, and then let the aircraft settle among the puddles. Spray from the main undercarriage sparkled briefly in the brightness of the sunshine, confirming Nehmann’s conviction that he’d just witnessed something remarkable. A big aquatic bird, he thought, totally at home in this sodden stretch of Brandenburg turf.
The Me-110 had come to a halt. Another burst of throttle brought the nose round before the plane began to taxi towards him, weaving its way without hesitation through the thicket of heavy construction vehicles. Cautiously, the workmen were returning to their tasks. One was shaking his fist in Messner’s direction.
‘Here—’
It was the driver. Nehmann took the proffered mug. Coffee with sugar. Better still.
The Me-110 was only metres away, the roar of the engines drowning any longer conversation. Up in the cockpit, Nehmann could see a white disc of face behind a large pair of aviator glasses. Two ground crew in overalls had appeared from nowhere, each pulling a big wooden chock for the main wheels. The taller of the two men glanced up and drew a finger across his throat and the propellers began to windmill before coming to a halt.
In the sudden silence, Nehmann was aware of the aircraft rocking slightly as the pilot released the canopy and clambered onto the wing. From the rear cockpit, he extracted two canvas mail sacks and handed them down to the ground crew.
He was tall, much taller than Nehmann. He climbed down onto the wet grass, and one hand swept the glasses from his face as if to get a proper look at this modest welcoming committee.
‘Oberstleutnant Messner,’ he introduced himself. ‘And you are…?’
‘Nehmann. From the Ministry.’
‘Guten Tag, Nehmann.’ He extended a gloved hand. ‘Do you mind?’
> He wanted Nehmann’s coffee. A man could die of thirst flying out of the zoo that was Russia. Once, under different circumstances, he said he could rely on flasks of the stuff, the real thing, Turkish or Arabian, and perhaps a cake or two to keep his spirits up. But those days had gone.
Nehmann gave him the coffee. He’d never seen a face like this before. Once he must have been good-looking, even handsome, but someone – certainly not a friend – seemed to have rearranged all the constituent parts without keeping the original in mind. The sunken eyes sat oddly in the tightness of the flesh. A scar looped down from one corner of his mouth, while more scar tissue, raised welts of the stuff, latticed his forehead.
Messner, who must have been all too familiar with the curiosity of strangers, paid no attention. He bent for the bigger of the two sacks and gave it to Nehmann.
‘Compliments of Generaloberst Richthofen,’ he said. ‘Fuck it up and he’ll have your arse.’
‘These are the film cans?’
‘Ja.’
‘And the other sack?’
‘A Russian chicken for my lovely ex-wife. And a Ukrainian rabbit with the compliments of Kyiv. You know Kyiv? Been there ever? No? I thought not. Fine rabbits, my friend. You have a car here by any chance?’
‘Of course.’
‘Excellent. In which case, the rabbit might well be yours.’
Nehmann passed the sack containing the cans of undeveloped film to the driver. The other one appeared to be moving.
‘The rabbit’s still alive?’
‘Ja.’ Messner nodded at the aircraft. ‘Alas, I have no refrigeration.’
‘And the chicken?’
‘Dead, I’m afraid. But yet to be plucked.’ Messner checked his watch and then gestured at the Promi car. ‘I need to get to Wannsee. Do we have a deal?’
*
They did. The driver returned to the Promi, where Nehmann handed over the cans of film from the Crimea. On the Minister’s personal instructions, the undeveloped footage was rushed to a processing plant elsewhere in the city. 16mm prints, he was assured, would be ready for the editing suite by early afternoon. Nehmann was expected to attend the edit, where Minister Goebbels – familiar with the footage already cut – would supervise the final version.
The Promi car was still parked outside in the Wilhelmstrasse. Messner, in the front passenger seat, appeared to be asleep. Nehmann opened the rear door to check on the rabbit and then slipped behind the wheel.
‘Still alive?’ Messner had been watching him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Very. Where are we going?’
‘Wannsee. I thought I told you. Get me to the waterfront and we’ll take it from there.’
They set off. Nehmann’s driving skills were rudimentary. He didn’t possess a licence and strictly speaking he should have returned the car to the underground garage, but Birgit said that everything would be fine as long as he was back in time for the edit.
‘We’ve got three hours,’ he told Messner. ‘You want me to drop you off at Wannsee or take you back to the airfield afterwards?’
‘The airfield. Beata was a wife to be proud of, but a man runs out of credit if he doesn’t watch his step.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I didn’t watch my step.’
Nehmann glanced across at him, surprised by this small moment of intimacy. Then, from nowhere, a truck appeared, Wehrmacht-grey, two lines of soldiers squatting on benches in the back. Heads turned to look down as Nehmann braked hard and swerved to the right. One of the soldiers was laughing.
‘Pull in, for fuck’s sake.’ Messner’s muttered oath had the force of an order.
Nehmann came to a halt beside the pavement. Messner waited for a cyclist to pass and then opened the passenger door and stepped out into the road. For a moment, Nehmann thought he’d baled out for good but then the tall figure in the leather flying jacket was pulling his own door open.
‘Move over, Nehmann. You drive like a Russian, my friend, and that’s not a compliment.’
Chastened, Nehmann did as he was told. Messner adjusted the rear-view mirror and rejoined the traffic. From the back of the car came a series of snuffles and then a brief mew. The rabbit, Nehmann thought, didn’t like his driving either.
They drove in silence for a while, following the trolley bus wires out towards Charlottenburg. For no apparent reason Messner slowed at a major intersection. Beyond, on the right, was a branch of the Dresdner Bank.
‘Just here…’ he said ‘…if I’m to believe all the stories.’
‘Just here what?’ Nehmann hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
‘The accident. Me and the windscreen.’ One gloved hand touched his face. ‘This.’
He’d been driving his wife’s car, he explained. He’d had the devil of a toothache for three whole days and she’d managed to find a dentist. It was a winter evening, blackout, and a raid was expected. There was a deadline for the dentist, and he must have taken a chance or two.
‘You don’t remember any of this?’
‘I remember nothing. I’d been flying Goering and a couple of his people that day. Next thing, I’m in the Charité hospital. You know anything about hospitals, Nehmann?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well, especially these days. Put a woman in a uniform and she thinks she owns the world.’
‘You’re supposed to feel grateful. They probably saved your life.’
‘I know. And that only makes it worse. I was months in that place. Pilots and confinement don’t mix. As soon as I was mobile again, I tried to escape. After that they locked me up and threatened me with Himmler.’
‘You flew him, too?’
‘I did. On the Führer Squadron. Next you’re going to ask me what he was like, so I’ll spare you the effort. The man’s a creep. Take it from me.’ He glanced across at Nehmann. ‘Ja?’
The rest of the journey passed in silence until they reached the outskirts of Wannsee.
‘Are you married, Nehmann?’
‘No.’
‘Very wise. My wife was a scientist. She worked at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. That made her very intelligent indeed. She had a huge brain and that was probably vital to our war effort, but she was no fun. No fun around the house. No fun in public. No fun anywhere. You understand what I’m saying, Nehmann?’
Nehmann nodded. No fun in bed, he thought. Behind the mask that used to be a face, this man is strange. So remote. So stiff. And then so abruptly confessional.
‘You’re divorced now?’ Nehmann asked.
‘Yes. Beata lives with a very good friend of mine, a Kamerad from the old days. Merz. Dieter Merz. He and I flew in those air pageants before the war. He was like a film star. On the squadron in Spain we always called him der Kleine, the Little One. He flew like an angel, no fear, and Beata always loved him. They may even be married by now. Remind me to ask her when we get there. You’ll do that for me?’
The marital home turned out to be a modest wooden house with rows of tiny pot plants on the windowsills and glimpse of a garden that stretched down to the lake. From the road, Nehmann could see a rusting child’s swing marooned in knee-high grass and a line of washing drying in the breeze. An air of faint neglect extended to the front door, though someone had recently been at work with a blowtorch on the blistered old paint.
Messner rapped twice, peremptory, unbidden, announcing his presence. Nehmann was wondering whether this visit was supposed to be some kind of surprise when he heard footsteps inside. Moments later the door opened and he was looking at a middle-aged woman, plain, barefoot, with a baby in her arms. She was wearing a pair of paint-stained dungarees and a savage haircut did nothing for the faintness of her smile. The last thing Nehmann had expected was this forbidding figure. Beata, he thought. The ex-wife.
‘This one belongs to Merz?’ Messner was looking at the baby. No greeting. Not a hint of warmth. Just a curt check on the child’s paternity.
‘Her name’s Annaliese.’ Beata
kissed the top of the baby’s head and held her a little closer. ‘And the answer’s yes.’
‘I see…die kleine Kleine.’ The little Little One.
For Messner, Nehmann thought, this had the makings of a joke, though it didn’t seem to amuse his ex-wife.
‘And my Lottie?’ Messner asked.
‘Upstairs.’
‘You gave her the doll I sent from Kyiv?’
‘Doll?’
‘It never arrived? A Russian doll? Green eyes and a little painted skirt?’
Beata stared at him for a moment, and then shook her head. It was obvious she was lying but the really hurtful thing was the fact that she didn’t care. In any marriage, Nehmann thought, indifference must be the real killer.
Messner had opened the canvas mail bag. His hand disappeared inside as he cornered the rabbit, then he hauled it out by the scruff of the neck. The softness of its belly and the sight of the long legs kicking and kicking seemed to fascinate the baby. She wriggled in her mother’s arms, wanting to reach out and touch this strange creature.
‘This is for me?’ Beata was staring at the animal. ‘For us?’
‘It is. I can kill it and skin it now, if you want. There’s something else, too, with the compliments of our Russian friends. Nehmann? You want to show Beata our little surprise?’
Our little surprise? Nehmann, who wanted no part of this conversation, reached deep into the canvas bag. The chicken was cold to his touch, the head and neck floppy beneath his fingertips. Beata stared at it.
‘It’s dead?’
‘Very.’ Messner nodded. ‘Scalding water’s best for getting rid of the feathers, as you probably remember.’
Last Flight to Stalingrad Page 3