Messner had collected Nehmann from the darkroom. Now, with the prints still slightly wet, Nehmann awaited an introduction. Messner, capless, emerged briefly from the tent and gestured Nehmann inside. Richthofen was sitting on a folding canvas chair, bent over a map, enjoying what looked like a chicken sandwich. The tent smelled of cigarettes and warm leather and a single oil lamp cast a flickering glow over the Generaloberst’s upper body. At his elbow was a bottle of brandy and three glasses.
Messner poured drinks while classical music played softly in the background. Beethoven. Probably a symphony.
‘And you’re Nehmann?’ Richthofen glanced up. ‘Goebbels’ little Waise?’
Nehmann blinked. Waise meant ‘orphan’. He didn’t know whether this was a compliment or not.
‘Waise?’ Nehmann wanted to be sure.
‘Imp. Elf. Some people I know think you belong in a circus.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘I’m not sure you should be. That stunt on Mount Elbrus. Your idea or your master’s?’
‘I helped make it happen. At the time it seemed a good idea.’
‘It was an excellent idea. Poorly received by the Führer, alas, but command at his level is seldom easy. Occasionally you go crazy over the silliest things. You’ve seen the photo? It was developed here.’
Messner fetched it from a box file beside Richthofen’s camp bed. Half a dozen men were clustered around a pinnacle of snow. Above them, the War Flag streamed in the wind. Perfect, Nehmann thought.
‘I understand Messner here arranged for a little keepsake to be left up there, as well. A Fokker triplane. My cousin would be flattered. And so am I. War can be a burden sometimes. Moments like these lighten the load.’ He took the photo, gazed at it for a moment, and then handed it to Messner. ‘So, what do you have for me, Nehmann?’
Nehmann returned the Leica. Richthofen put it carefully on one side, then he rolled up the map and asked Nehmann to spread the prints from the developing bath across the table. The prints were already beginning to curl. Richthofen flattened each of them in turn with one thick finger and told Messner to find a magnifying glass.
‘So why are you here, Nehmann?’ Richthofen was studying the cratered wilderness that had once been the picnic area on the Mamaev Kurgan. A smoker’s grunt appeared to signal approval.
‘The Minister is hungry for news.’ Nehmann said. ‘He thinks Berlin needs a bit of cheering up. I was a butcher once. I know how to carve the best bits from the carcase.’
‘And that’s your skill? Finding little morsels of good news? Then scuttling back to your lord and master?’ He was examining a shot of the oil tanks ablaze beside the river.
‘The wick in the Stalingrad candle.’ Nehmann nodded at the burning oil tanks. ‘That’s the kind of image he likes.’
Richthofen glanced up. There was surprise in his face, and just a hint of admiration that he didn’t bother to conceal.
‘Wick?’ he repeated. ‘Candle? I like that.’
‘It’s what I do.’
‘Then you’re a poet.’
‘You’re too kind. An ex-butcher would be closer.’
‘No.’ Richthofen shook his head. ‘You should leave the butchery to us. That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’re good at. That’s why we have the medals and the fancy uniforms. You have a different talent. Maybe I should be envious.’
‘I doubt it. This regime has little use for poets.’
‘You’re probably right, Nehmann. Which raises a question or two. I understand that Goebbels gives you free rein. Am I right?’
‘More or less.’ Nehmann nodded.
‘Then tell me why.’
‘I think he’s lonely.’
‘You’re his friend?’
‘I’m someone he can talk to. That’s rare, believe it or not. He’s surrounded day and night by people who make life sweet for him. He must know thousands, tens of thousands. How many does he trust enough to risk a proper conversation?’
‘That’s true for all of us. You flew in a Heinkel today. Those men talk to each other, get drunk with each other, would die for each other and one day they probably will. Get above a certain command level and it’s never the same. This job is solitary. It has to be. You can’t afford it to be otherwise. But solitary can be good while lonely is something else entirely. So…’ He sat back a moment and reached for his brandy. ‘Where does that leave Herr Goebbels?’
‘Lonely. For sure.’
Messner stepped back into the tent with the magnifying glass. Richthofen muttered something Nehmann didn’t catch and Messner disappeared again.
‘You’ll take a little brandy, Nehmann?’ Richthofen nodded at the bottle. ‘A man shouldn’t drink alone. Bad for the liver but worse for the spirit. Prosit. Here’s to more candles and more wicks.’
Nehmann raised his glass to acknowledge the toast, watching the Generaloberst as he took a closer look at the remaining photos. He’d heard a great deal about this man, and the reputation he’d built for himself since the early days in Spain. To chalk up victory after victory, to rewrite the Luftwaffe’s combat manual, to command the respect of flyers who could spot a phony at a thousand metres, to be at ease with the likes of Hitler and General Franco, to be able to stir an old woman like Paulus into taking a risk or two, all this spoke of someone deeply unusual.
Messner stepped back into the tent. He’d brought a thick buff envelope, a little battered around the edges. Richthofen grunted an acknowledgement and said they needed a third chair. Messner once again disappeared.
‘He tells me you two have met already.’ Richthofen was tidying Nehmann’s photos into a neat pile.
‘That’s true.’
‘Then you’ll know that he, too, is lonely.’
Nehmann felt acutely uncomfortable. This man broke all the normal rules of conversation, a talent Nehmann recognised only too well.
‘Messner has been unlucky.’ Nehmann touched his face. ‘An accident like that has consequences.’
‘Indeed. A moment of inattention? A poor decision? Alas, it doesn’t stop with traffic accidents. You should talk to Messner when you get the chance. He deserves what you called a proper conversation and officers at his level aren’t good at that.’ He glanced up. ‘I have a name for you, Nehmann. Olga Helm?’
‘She’s an actress.’
‘You know her?’
‘We’ve met, yes.’
‘And?’
‘She’s an attractive woman. Talented, too.’
‘Indeed. A combination not without consequences.’
He held Nehmann’s gaze for a long moment and then shook the contents of the envelope onto the table and began to sift through them, one by one. As far as Nehmann could judge, these images told the story of the last year or so. A convoy of trucks, poorly camouflaged, bucketing along a birch log road that had been destroyed by the passage of heavy armour. The burned-out remains of a Soviet tank abandoned in some far-flung village square. An aerial shot, not unlike the ones Nehmann had shot that afternoon, a town centre reduced to a moonscape. A gaggle of Soviet prisoners, sitting cross-legged in the mud. Moments caught on the way to Stalingrad, he thought. A simple record of events, framed and shot by someone with an unblinking eye.
‘These are yours, Herr Generaloberst?’
‘They are, Nehmann, yes. Me and my Leica. Man and wife. Inseparable. We Germans have been making history for a year. One day it will be important not to forget. Here—’
He’d finally found the photo he was after. Nehmann found himself looking at a thin-faced man in his late twenties. His eyes were deep-set and the greatcoat, open at the neck, looked perhaps a size too big.
‘I took that near Smolensk last year. What do you make of him?’
‘He’s a prisoner,’ Nehmann said. ‘Which means he’s probably Russian.’
‘You’re right. How did you know?’
‘The eyes. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next and he doesn’t trust you to make the righ
t decision. If you want to know the truth, I’ve been that way for most of my life. You don’t need to be a soldier to feel the edge of things.’
The edge of things. Another phrase that won Richthofen’s approval.
‘You know who he is?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘His name’s Yakov. He’s Stalin’s eldest son. We found out by accident from someone else in the compound.’
‘And he’s still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘In captivity?’
‘Yes. His real name’s Dzhugashvili, like his father. Our friends in the Abwehr talked to him at length. No love lost, Nehmann, between father and son. Yakov fell in love with a Jew He wanted to marry her. Stalin threw him out. Later he married another Jew – a dancer from Odessa. She gave Stalin two grandchildren. He didn’t bother with either of them.’ He reached for the photo and studied it for a moment or two. ‘So how lonely is Stalin? Have you ever thought of that, Nehmann?’
Messner was back with a chair. Nehmann watched him settle and reach for his brandy. Olga Helm? He couldn’t believe it.
Richthofen appeared to have lost interest in Stalin. He wanted to talk about Goebbels again.
‘Feuertaufe? You’ve seen it?’
Baptism of Fire was a film Goebbels had masterminded. It followed the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe into Poland and had been shown in countless cinemas across Europe. If you happened to be living, unbombed, in London or Paris, it was a deeply uncomfortable warning of what might happen if you ever said ‘no’ to Hitler.
‘A masterpiece,’ Nehmann murmured.
‘And a lie. You were in France, I believe. You have eyes in your head. How many horses did you see on that campaign?’
‘You mean ours? Wehrmacht horses?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hundreds. Thousands. Maybe more than that.’
‘Exactly. And how many of those horses appeared in Goebbels’ little movie? None. Am I complaining? Absolutely not. Watch that film, come out of the cinema, and you know that we Germans have invented a new way of making war. It’s all Sturm und Drang. Tanks, artillery, Stukas, Heinkels. Lots of noise. Lots of movement. Not a horse in sight. Does Goebbels ever ask himself how we keep feeding this machine? How we carry supplies to the front line? Never. And why? Because there’s no point. No one goes to the movies to watch horses and carts. If they’re German, they want to know we’re winning. That we’re irresistible. And foreign audiences? They’re shitting their pants. Clever, Nehmann. But a lie.’
‘Poland?’ Nehmann said softly. ‘Belgium? Holland? France? Don’t they belong to us now? Or have I missed something?’
‘You’ve missed nothing, Nehmann. Of course, we’ve won. But that was the easy part. What I’d like to know now is how Goebbels and his people, people like you, Nehmann, are going to cope when things go wrong, when the enemy doesn’t fall over within weeks, when the war is still there, day after day, and there seems to be no end to it. Maybe that’s when your boss starts thinking hard about the horses.’ A thin smile. ‘Largely because, by that time, we’ll probably be eating them.’
The music had come to an end. Messner was on his feet, tidying the photos. In the distance, Nehmann could hear the cackle of a lone aero engine.
Richthofen drained the last of his brandy and stood up. He looked, Nehmann thought, suddenly old.
‘Enough.’ The Generaloberst checked his watch. ‘Bed.’
19
TATSINSKAYA AIRFIELD, 24 AUGUST 1942
Nehmann was in no hurry to go back to his tent. An hour with Fliegerkorps VIII’s forbidding chief had confirmed what he’d long believed to be the truth about the realities of being in charge. Capable or otherwise, High Command set you apart. Some, like Richthofen, could cope. Life had sandpapered their souls. They relished the bruising business of leadership, the endless confrontations, the ambushes that lay in wait, the guarantee that your peers – fellow chieftains – were always out to screw you. Others, maybe Stalin, certainly Goebbels, were more vulnerable, more thin-skinned. Richthofen, he knew, had a baroness for a wife and three fine children. He’d never waste a moment even thinking about the likes of Lida Baarova.
‘He liked you, Nehmann. I could tell.’
It was Messner. He’d emerged from nowhere, a cigarette between his fingers. The darkness softened his ruined face.
‘Should I be flattered?’ Nehmann enquired.
‘Yes. Getting his time is one thing. Gaining his confidence, his interest, is quite another. He likes people who answer back.’
Nehmann nodded, trying to mask his irritation. This was like having his homework marked, he thought.
‘So, what’s been happening?’ He nodded vaguely towards the east.
‘Good news. The best, in fact. Sixteenth Panzer are already on the river. They arrived yesterday afternoon. A good pair of binoculars, and you’re peering into Asia. From the Don to the Volga in a single day? Remarkable. A couple of our fighter pilots put on a bit of a display for their benefit. Victory rolls. Other stuff. You should write it up, Nehmann. They’re both back on base here. Kurt Ebener’s available tomorrow morning. I can fix for you to see him.’
‘You’re telling me the city’s fallen?’
‘No. Sixteenth Panzer are out on their own, north of Stalingrad, but it’s just a question of time now. The river crossings within the city are still open. If the Ivans are wise, they’ll bale out while they can. Otherwise we’re going to be taking another million prisoners.’
Nehmann nodded. Yakov Dzhugashvili, he thought. Stalin’s son.
‘There’s a man called Helmut,’ he said. ‘Propaganda Company. I’m sure you know him.’
‘And?’
‘Where would I find him?’
‘Now?’ Messner was frowning. ‘At this time of night?’
Nehmann stepped closer, put a hand briefly on Messner’s arm, a gesture of reassurance.
‘We’re journalists, Georg.’ He gave Messner’s arm a squeeze. ‘We never sleep.’
*
Helmut’s tent lay in the same quarter of the airfield as Nehmann’s. Messner drove him across. Like Nehmann, Helmut had the tent to himself. To Messner’s evident irritation, his oil lamp was still casting long shadows over the canvas.
Messner brought the Jeep to a halt.
‘You want me to come in?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then tell him it’s late. The oil in that lamp won’t last forever. You hear what I’m saying, Nehmann? You’ll give him the message?’
Nehmann fought the urge to laugh. Messner shrugged, gunned the engine and accelerated away. Nehmann waited until the lights of the vehicle had disappeared behind a line of nearby Heinkels. After a while, he could hear nothing but the soft keening of the wind and he spent several minutes immobile, his head tilted back, gazing at the million tiny lights pricking the blackness of the night sky. He was trying to imagine what it must be like to be a Russian, living in Stalingrad, waiting for the German axe to fall. Shackled to history’s guillotine, these people might themselves be searching the heavens, desperate for some sign of a reprieve. A shooting star burned briefly overhead, a leaving a trail of brightness that flickered and then died. Gone, Nehmann thought. Kaputt.
Inside the tent, Helmut was lying on his camp bed, fully clothed. He appeared to be dozing. There was a book open on his chest, rising and falling as he slumbered on. Nehmann closed the tent flap behind him and stepped across to the bed. The book was War and Peace, a German translation, much thumbed.
‘What do you want, Nehmann?’ Helmut wasn’t asleep.
‘Tell me about Tolstoy. Does he help at all?’
‘He always helps. This is my second time through. But you didn’t come for that, did you?’
Nehmann didn’t answer. Instead, he settled into the tent’s only chair, low-slung, canvas stretched over a wooden frame. He wanted to know how long Helmut had been with Sixth Army.
Nehmann nodded. As a kid, learning the basic skills of butchery, he’d been banished to an outhouse in the depths of winter. The cold in the mountains could be brutal, especially when the wind got up. He’d shared this arctic space with hanging sides of cattle and sheep, and he remembered the rough grain of the big table, scarred and bloodstained, and the long minutes it took to breathe life back into his frozen fingertips. Sometimes you had to saw the frozen meat from the bone and leave it to thaw out once you could find a fire. That bad.
Helmut had a bottle of vodka. He’d been with General von Bock when Army Group Centre’s advance had come to a halt in front of Moscow, back around Christmas. The news, all of a sudden, had been worse than bad – Zhukov’s armies bursting out of nowhere to chase the Wehrmacht away – and there were no pictures to feed the Glee Machine that was Goebbels’ Promi.
‘You called it that? The Glee Machine?’ Nehmann had never heard the term.
‘We did. In private. It made no difference, of course. When you tell Berlin the truth they don’t want to know, and when they insist you send stuff back, good news stuff, you start making it up. We settled on a theme in the end. How to get the better of winter. How to survive January. It was all campfires and huge stews and close-ups of grinning soldiers who badly needed a shave. There was a corporal who played the mouth organ and that helped. Kraft durch Freude. Strength through joy. Our guys looked like a bunch of Boy Scouts. Berlin? Delighted.’
Last Flight to Stalingrad Page 16