He paused a moment, his hand crabbing awkwardly to the right. He’d wrapped Goebbels’ letter in wax paper, and then sealed it in an envelope before taping it to the underside of the tank. For a moment or two he thought it might have gone but then his fingers closed on an edge of the envelope and he sat back on his haunches, sweat pouring down his face, knowing it was still there.
Stalingrad next, he thought. More madness.
15
TATSINSKAYA AIRFIELD, RUSSIA, 23 AUGUST 1942
Georg Messner met his boss back at Tatsinskaya. The airfield had been carved out of the raw steppe. A single east–west runway, unpaved, would handle most of the take-offs and landings over the coming days and local people had watched in wonderment as these once-sleepy hectares had suddenly filled with a vast fleet of aircraft.
Messner hadn’t seen Richthofen for a couple of days. His briefcase contained the usual paperwork, all of it marked Urgent/Immediate, but just now, unless he was mistaken, there was something even more pressing to resolve.
Richthofen wanted to know about aircraft readiness. The first wave of bombers was due to take off within minutes.
‘Bombed-up and ready to go,’ Messner confirmed.
‘Serviceability?’
‘Eighty-three per cent.’
‘Really?’ The figure sparked a rare smile from Richthofen. Eighty-three per cent was high and both men knew it. Flying time to Stalingrad was an hour and a quarter. By late morning, the first wave should be back here at Tatsinskaya and waiting ground crews would have them back in the air, refuelled and rebombed, by mid-afternoon. Two sorties a day? Perfect.
Messner badly wanted to change the subject. He directed the Generaloberst’s attention towards two nearby vehicles. One of them was a staff car adapted for service on the steppe. The other was a truck, the cargo area shrouded in canvas. Both carried the flashes of SS Einsatzgruppen C.
Doors in the staff car opened as Richthofen and Messner approached.
‘Standartenführer Kalb, Generaloberst Richthofen.’ Messner did the introductions.
Kalb snapped to attention, his right arm raised. Richthofen studied him for a moment, then acknowledged the salute. Another SS officer had joined them. Messner didn’t know his name.
‘Gentlemen?’ Richthofen was rolling himself a cigarette.
Kalb took the lead. In the back of the truck, he said, were a number of what he termed ‘gifts’ for the citizens of Stalingrad.
‘Really? You’re playing Father Christmas? At this time of year?’
The irony was lost on Kalb. He mentioned a senior SS commander in charge of Einsatzgruppen C, and then another who’d evidently controlled everyone in SS uniform since the start of Operation Barbarossa. Today’s plan, he said, had the full backing of both men. Indeed, they regarded it as an important initiative with undoubted relevance to the rest of the campaign.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ Richthofen sealed his cigarette and ignored the offer of a light from the other SS officer. ‘I’m a busy man, Herr Standartenführer. Today, as you might gather, is far from routine. Time belongs to no man, least of all me.’
Kalb looked briefly nonplussed. Then he nodded towards the truck.
‘Komm, bitte…’
Richthofen and Messner followed him. The other SS officer had signalled to two men in the truck and they were already dropping the tailgate. As Richthofen approached, they stood respectfully aside.
‘One question, Herr Standartenführer.’ Richthofen paused to light his cigarette. ‘What’s smelling so bad?’
Kalb had no answer. Instead, he was looking at Messner.
‘In the absence of any figure from you, Herr Oberst, I took advice. We understand at least a dozen depending on size. Might that be accurate?’ He nodded up at the truck. ‘In any event, we brought spares, just in case.’
Spares? Messner was watching Richthofen clambering up into the back of the truck. Once again, he refused help. He parted the two wings of canvas and stood motionless, his booted feet apart, hands on hips, the cigarette smouldering between his fingers. Then he turned, braced his body and jumped. Moments later he was back with Kalb and Messner.
‘You killed these people?’ He was talking to Kalb, matter-of-fact, no hint of surprise.
‘Of course.’
‘And they are…?’
‘Saboteurs, propagandists, agitators, enemies of the state.’
‘And you’re denying them a burial?’
‘We’re putting them to good use.’
‘By throwing them out over Stalingrad?’
‘Indeed. That’s exactly what we’re doing.’ Kalb seemed warmed by the way Richthofen had been so quick to spot the guile of the plan. He began to explain it in detail, exactly the way he’d done to Messner, dropping the bodies upriver, letting the ID they were carrying – their names, their occupations – make a point or two once they’d been recovered, but Richthofen cut him short. Engines were starting all over the airfield. Ground crew were hauling away the wooden chocks that anchored the wheels.
‘You see my aircraft, Herr Standartenführer?’
‘Of course. Our aircraft. Might that be more accurate?’
Messner blinked. This man didn’t know Richthofen, couldn’t possibly anticipate the fire he’d just lit. Anticipating an explosion of wrath, followed by a curt dismissal, he was surprised that Richthofen barely flinched. Instead, he beckoned Kalb closer, the way a teacher might invite a backward pupil to consider the simplest proposition. The gesture was almost friendly, even conspiratorial.
‘As you can see, these aircraft will be taking off in minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late to call any of them back and, in any event, it would take us far too long to unload the bomb bay.’
‘You’re telling me I have to wait? Kein Problem, Herr Generaloberst.’ He turned to share a smile with the other SS officer but Richthofen hadn’t finished. He checked his watch. ‘The next wave will be leaving in less than an hour. I’m happy to put one of those aircraft at your disposal.’
‘Excellent. You can take a dozen of these scum? More, perhaps?’
Richthofen shook his head. He seemed to be counting the men Kalb had brought with him.
‘There’s four of you?’ He was looking at Kalb again. ‘Would that be right?’
‘Ja.’
‘Then the answer’s eight. Eight bodies.’ He nodded at the truck. ‘You choose.’
Kalb looked briefly confused. Then he began to understand.
‘But you said twelve.’
‘I did.’
‘And the other bodies? The balance?’
‘You, Herr Standartenführer, and your Kameraden. Our bomb bays are bigger than you think. The journey will take no time at all. It needn’t be uncomfortable.’ He offered Kalb a thin smile, and then took a final drag on his cigarette before grinding it beneath his boot. ‘Your decision, Herr Standartenführer. Oberst Messner will be pleased to take care of the details. Auf Wiedersehen. Enjoy the flight.’
16
KYIV, UKRAINE, 23 AUGUST 1942
Werner Nehmann arrived at Kyiv in the late afternoon. He was expecting a fellow scribe from one of the Propaganda Companies to meet him at the airfield but instead, to his delight, a figure from what felt like the distant past stepped back into his life. The same scuffed leather jacket. The same hint of menace in his battered face. The same scars on the shaven baldness of his bone-white skull. Even the way he walked, loose-limbed, his whole body moving from the shoulders, seeming to carry the promise of imminent violence. Wilhelm Schultz, a still-rising star among the Abwehr spy hunters, and now – it appeared – resident in this huge city.
Schultz had always done important business in bars and this posting was no different.
‘You want to fill your belly and keep your money in your pocket?’ he growled. ‘Welcome to Kyiv.’
Schultz had a car and a driver. He took Nehmann to a bar built into a cliff behind Khreschatyk, the city’s main boulevard. Nehma
nn stared out at the lines of ruined buildings, gaunt in the midsummer sunshine.
‘Who did all this?’ he asked.
‘The Russians. You want to know how? I’ll tell you later. First we need a drink.’
Schultz led the way into the sudden darkness of the bar. They’d first met when Nehmann began work for the Promi. Goebbels had a hunch that, despite the ten-year age difference, the two men were probably brothers under the skin and he’d been right. Now Schultz wanted to know everything that had happened to the little Georgian. Interviewees he’d gutted with that clever smile of his. Senior chieftains he’d outraged. Stunts he’d pulled. Women he’d fucked.
‘Let’s start with the women, my friend.’ Schultz had summoned the barman. ‘Tell me about last night and then work backwards.’
Nehmann declined the invitation. In real life, as on the page, you always held something back. Except, perhaps, the tease that always carries the reader into the story.
‘I’m in love,’ he said.
‘And?’ Schultz was reaching for the first of the tall glasses of lager.
‘Terrifying. Little boy lost.’
‘You’re making it up. You make everything up.’
‘I do. I admit it. But not this. And what’s worse is I mean it.’
‘Both sides? You both mean it? Two fools on the same errand?’
‘Yes. At least I think so.’
‘Think so? What kind of language is that? Your life is a buffet. You need do nothing but help yourself, especially where the women are concerned. And now you’re telling me that’s changed?’ He shook his head. ‘Is this woman real? Has she found signs of life beyond that Schwanz of yours? Have you given her permission to have a look round, make herself at home? Bad news, my friend. And, may I say it, a disappointment.’ He passed Nehmann the other glass. ‘She has a name, this woman?’
‘Maria. I think…’
‘You think? Christ, this gets worse. She’s asking the questions? She’s doing the interview. Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Yes. And you know something else? I love her for it. Why? Because she’s probably better than me, sharper than me, more ruthless than me.’
‘Ruthless? That’s fighting talk, Nehmann. This vision belongs in uniform. You should put her on a plane, send her here. What else does she do?’
‘She plays the piano. Once you’ve sat and listened, the game’s over. Always fight your battles on the territory of your choice. Me? No fucking chance. Beethoven? Schubert? Chopin? Her father taught her how to play the piano when she was still in nappies. She’s made me honest, Willi. I’m a reformed man.’
‘And she fucks good?’
‘Like an angel, Willi.’
Schultz held his glance, then extended a hand in congratulation. No one else called him Willi.
‘To your Maria…’ He reached for his drink.
‘To Maria.” Nehmann was looking wistful. ‘I’m afraid “your” indicates possession on my part. I lie for a living but not in this case. I’m afraid “your” would be hope, Willi, rather than expectation.’
They touched glasses, Schultz acknowledging the distinction with the hint of a smile.
*
From the bar, a couple of hours later, they strolled a block or two away from Khreschatyk to a backstreet restaurant where Schultz’s face was again welcome. In a city in which many of the locals were starting to eat their ration cards, Schultz was insisting on the Wiener schnitzel with dumplings and red cabbage. Unbidden, the waiter brought a bottle of champagne as an aperitif. Schultz hauled the bottle out of the ice bucket, leaving a row of drips over the pristine whiteness of the tablecloth.
‘It’s Georgian, Nehmann. You’ll love it.’
Another toast, to Stalingrad this time. Schultz wanted to know what his master thought Nehmann would bring to the feast.
‘You mean Goebbels?’ Nehmann asked.
‘Of course. Is he still your pet dwarf? Is he still halfway up your arse?’
Again, Nehmann declined to answer. Much as he liked this man, he had no intention of sharing the story of the last couple of weeks. Trust, even within a relationship like this, was something you’d never want to hazard.
‘He wants what he always wants,’ Nehmann said. ‘He wants me to make the turd smell sweet.’
‘You mean this fucking war?’
‘Of course. So far, no problem. It’s skittles, isn’t it? Holland? Belgium? France? You knock them over and wait for the applause. Russia? I’m not so sure.’ He paused. ‘You?’
‘Me? A confidence, Nehmann. I’ve been here since late September, last year. We’d chased the Ivans out of the city and made ourselves comfortable. The bomber boys had done a respectable job on one or two areas of the city but free labour made it easy to tidy up. Then bombs started going off. No reason. No sign of aircraft. No clue why. We were losing people we couldn’t afford to. I think the magic fucking word here is targeting. Hotels we’d commandeered for senior command staff. Office accommodation we’d be using. Someone obviously knew what they were doing. And that someone was either Russian or one of the locals. Either way we had to find out.’
‘So, they called you in?’
‘They did, Nehmann. I was very happy in Paris. They’d promised me a posting that might have lasted years. There are worse places to fight the war, believe me.’
‘And here? What did you find?’
‘It was hard going. These people are tough. They had nothing left to lose and that makes a difference, believe me. They’re good haters, too, the Ukrainians. They hate us and they loathe the Russians but we’d pushed them to the brink during the siege and when the Ivans came up with a plan to leave us with a souvenir or two, little bonbons to keep us on our toes, they saw the point. It’s a quaint notion, especially these days, but they seemed to think that the city was theirs by right and they wanted it to stay that way. The Russians were in a position to make life tough for us. And so the locals said yes.’
‘The Ivans planted explosives?’
‘Lots. All over the city. Thousands of kilos of the stuff. More than you or me could possibly imagine. All wired up to make life just a little difficult.’
‘How?’
Schultz shook his head. Enough, he seemed to be saying. All you need to know is this: that the Russians are clever, and tough, and never give in. Stalin, he growled, has made himself the face of Russia. He calls himself the Vodzh, the great fucking Leader. He has absolute power. He’s not a performer. He hasn’t Hitler’s gifts. He can’t find the sweet spot and make all those women get silly about him. But that doesn’t matter but because Stalin treats his people like dogs and when he says bark they do just that. Ship all your arms factories a thousand kilometres to the east? It happens. Make the women work twelve-hour days turning out shells? It happens. Put people like me behind the front line to shoot deserters on sight? No problem. Result? No matter how many we kill, they just keep coming. The French, according to Schultz, had gone flabby. The Motherland was something you argued about all day in bars and cafés and when it came to a fight they’d forgotten how to.
‘You understand?’ He was leaning across the table now. ‘You see what I’m trying to say? The Russians aren’t like that. For Russians, the Motherland, the idea, is all they’ve got. It’s like religion. It’s their last hope. It’s the difference between life and death. Stalin knows that. And what he also knows is that nothing we – or even the fucking weather – can do will ever change that. They have to draw a line. They have to defend that line. They have to get through. At whatever cost. Do they understand that back home? Are there people in Berlin who might have the first inkling about this animal we’re prodding with our sticks? You, my friend, would know. Why? Because you’re Georgian. You’ve lived under the Russians. You speak the language. So why don’t you tell me what they’re really like?’
Nehmann felt like applauding. None of this would make the turd smell any sweeter, quite the contrary, but it had the raw stink of truth, a com
modity he’d almost forgotten how to recognise.
‘Berlin?’ he said mildly. ‘You think they have the faintest idea about any of this?’
‘That’s my question. I’m in the chair here, Nehmann, so what’s the answer? Let’s start with Goebbels. The man’s got a brain in his head, unlike some of the others. You play him like the artist you are. Tell me. Truthfully. Tell me what he thinks.’
‘Truthfully?’ Nehmann smiled at the very idea. ‘Goebbels is a realist. He thinks this war will go on and on. He also thinks it’s going to get harder and harder to win, which is where people like me come in. The problem with propaganda is this: you put shit in one end and it’s not hard to guess what comes out the other. People don’t trust stuff like that. They can smell shit at a thousand metres. They don’t believe a word of it and that doesn’t matter as long as you’ve got them by the throat but then a time arrives when you’re depending on these same people for the basics of life – like your shells and your bombs and your bullets – which are going to keep the rest of the world at arm’s length. It’s August, Willi. Goebbels lives in the world of promises. What he can very definitely promise is another winter. More cold. Less food. And an eternity on the production line. What kind of offer is that? Unless we can keep delivering all those sweeties from abroad?’
Schultz nodded and sat back to make space for the food. The Wiener schnitzel looked delicious. Nehmann reached for a fork and stirred the cabbage into a puddle of sauce.
‘And Stalingrad?’ Schultz hadn’t finished.
‘Another bottle?’
‘Of course.’ Schultz gave the waiter a nod. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘I think the city has a very big problem. It has Stalin’s name on it. Never underestimate the simple things. Hitler wants it for his little collection. He thinks it would keep the Germans happy and he’s probably right. Me? I’m here to pat their little square heads, and engage their interest, and tell them not to worry. The Führer will deliver because he always does. Is it a fantasy? I’ve no idea but you, Willi, will be the first to know. And that’s a promise.’
Last Flight to Stalingrad Page 14