Last Flight to Stalingrad

by Graham Hurley

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Nehmann started to apologise but Goebbels cut him short.

  ‘He gets carried away, darling. That’s part of his charm.’ He tore a sheet of paper from the pad on his desk and reached for a pen. ‘Give me that list again, Nehmann, and we’ll see what we can do.’

  *

  The Mercedes was waiting, as promised, outside. Nehmann, clutching a bag of herbs and spices, went through the pantomime of farewells, first a courtly kiss for Magda on both cheeks and a murmured thank you for the present, and then a stiff handshake for the Minister. Goebbels gave his hand a little squeeze before letting go, the significance of which was lost on Nehmann.

  ‘Be good at New Year, Nehmann.’ He was beaming again. ‘Take care of that lady of yours.’

  Nehmann got in the car. He was starving. Beside the driver sat one of the bodyguards. Another was in the back beside Nehmann. Both were impeccably suited and barbered. Not a trace of the brutal SS haircut for the Minister’s retinue.

  They drove back to the city in silence. Nehmann wondered whether to offer directions to the bookshop but knew there was no point. Goebbels was a master of taking care of the smallest details. This little scene, like much else in his life, had been carefully stage-managed.

  By now it was mid-evening, the streets of outer Berlin deserted. There was a 20 kph speed limit during the blackout, ruthlessly enforced, but Goebbels’ driver took no notice. He was driving with his headlights on, ignoring the occasional red lights at major intersections, sounding the ministerial klaxon when a lone cyclist wobbled into view.

  Nehmann sat back, aware of the warmth of the bodyguard beside him, thinking of Georg Messner. It was the Berlin blackout that had sent him through the windscreen and so nearly killed him. He’d managed, in the end, to put most of his life back together again but for what purpose? To fly handfuls of food into a besieged city without a future? To try and snatch some kind of victory from the jaws of a humiliating defeat? Nehmann shook his head, remembering the shriek of the incoming artillery shell on the airfield at Tatsinskaya and the moment Messner’s precious tent, his pride and joy, exploded. I must get out to Wannsee, he thought. I must present my sympathies and tell that wife of his that she had, in the end, married a good man.

  They were in Mitte now. Nehmann recognised the turn that would take them into Kopernikusstrasse, and then the ghostly shape of the tree outside the bookshop. The big Mercedes came to a halt at the kerbside. Nehmann grunted a thank you for the lift, picked up his kitbag, and got out. The street was deserted but very faintly he thought he could hear a woman’s voice singing a carol. Stille Nacht. Beautiful.

  There was no sign of life in the bookshop. He crossed the pavement and knocked lightly on the door. Nothing. He knocked again, waiting patiently in the darkness, aware that the Mercedes hadn’t moved. All three faces were watching him from the car. A third knock. He was trying to imagine the living arrangements inside. Was there a little room at the back, part kitchen, part living space, where father and daughter ate their meals together? Might there be a couple of bedrooms on the next floor where they slept? The prospect of a bed and a little privacy put a smile on Nehmann’s face. Then he heard footsteps inside, and a voice he recognised.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Werner. Werner Nehmann. Maria’s friend?’

  ‘Ah…’

  The door opened. It was her father. He peered down at Nehmann, saw the car at the kerbside, frowned, gestured for him to come in. As Nehmann stepped past him, he heard one of the car doors open and he glanced back in time to see one of the bodyguards buttoning his jacket and making his way towards the corner of the street.

  ‘Komm, Herr Nehmann.’

  The old man led the way through the bookshop. In the darkness he seemed to know every hazard, every creaky floorboard, but Nehmann was more cautious, inching his way forward, his hands outstretched, one small step at a time.

  ‘Maria?’ he whispered. ‘She’s here?’

  The old man seemed not to hear him. When Nehmann at last found a door at the back of the shop he was already in the next room, bent over a lamp, trying to coax a flame with a wavering match. The smell of paraffin took Nehmann back to Stalingrad.

  ‘Maria?’ he repeated. ‘She’s here?’

  The old man glanced up at him. The wick was burning now and he turned it down, his face shadowed and seamed in the throw of light.

  ‘Those people outside? They belong to Goebbels?’

  ‘They do, yes.’

  ‘And you’ve come from his place? Out at Bodensee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must have seen Maria. That’s where she is. She plays for the family this evening.’ He put a bony hand on Nehmann’s arm. ‘It’s an honour, my friend,’ he said heavily. ‘We should all be very proud, ja?’

  Nehmann was staring at him. The entertainment, he thought, after the family have eaten their fill, and the children have opened their presents, and the staff have cleared the plates away. After the goose and the dumplings, a little light relief, maybe even a song or two.

  Nehmann felt a sudden surge of anger. This, he realised, was Goebbels’ masterclass in humiliation. Everything scripted. Everything pre-planned. Not a single detail left to chance. You’re anticipating a plate of something delicious, something festive, to fill that belly of yours? Alas, no.

  ‘You’re expecting her back? Afterwards?’

  ‘No.’ The old man shook his head. ‘She’ll be staying the night. Again.’

  ‘She’s there often?’

  ‘Ja. Too often.’

  Nehmann nodded, said nothing. He knew he had to get out of this place, this trap, this life. There was a door beside the big square sink.

  ‘There’s some kind of courtyard at the back? Maybe a way out?’

  ‘Of course. Live in this city and you have a bicycle. Where else would you keep it?’ He paused, frowning. He seemed to have remembered something. Nehmann was already at the door. ‘Wait, my friend. Please…’

  He stepped back into the bookshop and Nehmann heard him rummaging in the darkness. Then he returned to the kitchen, a book in his hand. He examined it carefully in the light from the paraffin lamp before giving it to Nehmann.

  ‘From my daughter,’ he said. ‘Frohe Weihnachten, ja?’

  Happy Christmas. Nehmann was looking at the book. It was the guidebook to Potsdam he’d last seen in the bookshop window. He opened it. Inside was an envelope he recognised, brown manila, carefully sealed. The water tank on the roof of Guram’s apartment block, he thought. Goebbels’ precious fucking billet-doux. She must have been up there, she must have retrieved it, kept it safe, knowing that one day I’d be back.

  He lifted it to his nose, sniffed it. Nothing. Just a faint mustiness, the fug of the bookshop, the scent of a thousand stories.

  His gesture made the old man smile.

  ‘She’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You want to stay the night here?’

  ‘No.’ Nehmann shook his head. ‘One favour? Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Please tell her I love her.’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he smiled. ‘Is there anything else?’

  *

  Outside, in the tiny courtyard, Nehmann could make out the shapes of three bicycles propped against the back wall. He still had the letter, but he’d left the book with the old man. He slipped the letter into the breast pocket of his jacket. There was a wooden door beside the bicycles. The bottom bolt was stiff beneath his fingers and it took a moment or two to wrestle it free.

  His hand found the handle and latch and he half turned to take a final look at the back of the terrace before he left. One of those windows, he told himself, belongs to Maria’s room. Her world. Her bed. Her smell. He half closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it might have been like if he hadn’t put her in harm’s way, if she hadn’t played like an angel, if she hadn’t been taken hostage by the little dwarf out at Bodensee. Then
he shook his head, knowing that what-if games like this were the shortest cut to madness, and he pulled the back gate open to make his escape.

  For a split second the bulky shape of the waiting bodyguard confused him. Then he realised that this little movie had arrived at its final reel.

  ‘Komm, Nehmann,’ the bodyguard grunted.

  Nehmann nodded, said nothing, feeling the huge hand tighten around his upper arm. Game, set and match, he thought vaguely. ‘Happy fucking Christmas. So much for Der Überlebende.’

  *

  The bodyguard took him along the narrow lane that ran the length of the terrace. Back in Kopernikusstrasse, the Mercedes was still waiting, the rear door already open. Nehmann paused on the kerbside. He thought he could see the paleness of a watching face in the darkness of the bookshop, but he couldn’t be certain.

  ‘Get in, please.’ The bodyguard was losing patience.

  Nehmann felt pressure in the small of his back. He glanced up and down the street, tempted to make a run for it, but then the bodyguard pushed him into the back of the car and the opportunity had gone. The driver half turned behind the wheel. They were to drive him to the airfield at Tempelhof. There, said the driver, he would be put on an aircraft and returned to Stalingrad.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I have no idea, Herr Nehmann. Hasn’t the Minister told you?’

  Nehmann didn’t answer the question. Instead he said he wanted to go first to Wannsee.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to see somebody. I have something for them. Call it a gift.’

  ‘A Christmas present?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The driver had turned back to check his watch. Now he was staring out at the street. Nehmann could see his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘He’s close, this friend?’ he asked.

  ‘She.’

  ‘Ja? Someone important to you?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded and reached for the ignition key. ‘Five minutes only. You give me directions, ja?’

  *

  The drive out to Wannsee took less than half an hour. Nehmann was trying to remember the exact location of Messner’s house and, once they’d found the road that skirted the lake, he asked the driver to slow down and give him a good look at each property as it slipped past. The tree in the corner of the front garden, he told himself. Where the pet rabbit had been buried.

  Finally, he recognised the house and told the driver to stop. The property was in darkness but that meant nothing because the blackout rules applied out here, too.

  ‘It’s late,’ the driver muttered. ‘And it’s Christmas Day. What kind of time is this to pay a visit?’

  ‘You want to bring me back tomorrow? The next day?’ Nehmann was searching deep in his kitbag. ‘I’d be very happy with that.’

  ‘Ja. And pigs might fly.’ The driver tapped his watch. ‘Five minutes. And Hans goes with you.’

  ‘Lucky Hans.’

  The driver ignored the comment. Nehmann’s fingers had closed over his present for Beata. He pulled it out. Hans was the bodyguard beside him. He got out and circled the car, holding the door open for Nehmann. Nehmann stepped out and stood motionless for a moment on the icy pavement, enjoying the chill of the wind. He was past mere hunger, now. Far out on the lake he could hear the throaty chatter of what sounded like ducks.

  ‘You still want to do this?’ It was Hans.

  Nehmann nodded. Hans followed him down the path to the front door. Nehmann rapped twice, then again. Stepping back and looking up, he caught a twitch in the blackout curtain and the brief hint of a face. Then came footsteps from inside and a male voice.

  ‘Ja?’

  ‘My name’s Werner Nehmann. I’m a friend of Georg Messner.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, where is he? Tell me something about him. What does he look like?’

  Nehmann realised his story was being put to the test. Very sensible.

  ‘He’s tall. He flies airplanes. His face is a mess. Was.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Please open the door. I need to talk to his wife.’

  There was a brief pause. The door opened.

  ‘You mean my wife. Her name’s Beata.’

  ‘Werner Nehmann.’ Nehmann extended a hand. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Dieter Merz. What’s that in your hand?’

  Nehmann wouldn’t say. Merz was as small as he was. He was wearing pyjamas under a dressing gown that was several sizes too big. His feet were bare and when Nehmann asked whether he was cold he nodded.

  ‘Of course, I’m cold,’ he said. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘It’s difficult. Can I talk to your wife?’

  ‘She’s in bed.’

  ‘Can you get her down? It’s important.’

  Merz was frowning. He wanted to know about the other figure at his front door.

  ‘He’s a friend of mine,’ Nehmann said. ‘He’s doing me a favour.’

  ‘You said “was” just now. What does that mean? Has something happened to Georg? Something bad?’

  Nehmann was beginning to lose patience. Five minutes was nothing. Then another face appeared, and he recognised Messner’s ex-wife. She must have stolen down the stairs without making a sound, Nehmann thought. He extended a hand. In the other he still had the present.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Frau Merz,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to call like this.’

  She brushed aside his apology. The children were asleep.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Why are you here?’

  Nehmann explained briefly about the tent, and Tatsinskaya, and the Russian tanks, and the shells exploding everywhere. Beata was looking confused but he at last had Merz’s full attention.

  ‘You were there? At Tatsinskaya?’ Merz asked.

  ‘I was. You know it?’

  ‘Very well. I’m a flyer, too. Georg was my best friend. Tatsinskaya’s a shithole. The Russians have taken it now and in my book they’re more than welcome.’

  ‘Georg?’ It was Beata. She didn’t care about Tatsinskaya.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead. I’m very sorry. I got to know him a little out east. He was a good man.’

  She nodded, biting her lip, saying nothing. Then Merz had his arms around her heaving shoulders, holding her close. Nehmann heard a scrape of movement behind him as the bodyguard shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  ‘One minute,’ he muttered. ‘Then we go.’

  Beata had regained her composure. She’d found a handkerchief in the pocket of Merz’s dressing gown and she blew her nose.

  ‘You were at Stalingrad?’ It was Merz.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse.’

  Merz nodded. Nehmann at last offered the present to Beata. She took it, turned it over, examined it from all angles. Finally, she shook her head.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘An egg slicer,’ Nehmann said. ‘Georg invented it himself. He told me you have chickens. These days eggs maybe need to go further. Make a thousand, and Georg thinks you’ll both be rich.’

  ‘Thinks?’

  ‘Thought.’ Nehmann offered a parting nod. ‘Frohe Weihnachten.’

  *

  The airfield at Tempelhof was no distance at all. The first flights out would be departing at dawn but the ground floor of the terminal was already busy with servicemen in uniform, mainly Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe. A Standartenführer in SS uniform was waiting for Nehmann and his bodyguard beside the desk that checked every outbound passenger. A secure room, he said, had been prepared for Herr Nehmann. He would, from now on, become the responsibility of the Gestapo.

  A prisoner, Nehmann thought. In all but name.

  Hans offered him a curt nod of farewell and strode back out to the waiting Mercedes, while the SS Standartenführer demanded a look through Nehmann’s kitbag.
Nehmann emptied the contents onto a nearby table, aware that he still had Goebbels’ billet-doux in his pocket. Among the litter of stinking underwear and sundry other items on the table, the Standartenführer found a brown paper bag.

  He opened it, sniffed the contents, frowned.

  ‘What’s in here?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Herbs. Spices.’ Nehmann held his gaze. ‘Where I’m going the food is shit.’

  32

  STALINGRAD, 12 JANUARY 1943

  That first week of the New Year in Stalingrad was quiet. At night, Nehmann sat in the Abwehr office in the bus depot, mostly alone, smoking. From time to time he caught the flat bark of a sniper rifle or a distant burst of machine-gun fire, but he got the sense that, post-Christmas, the orchestra was still tuning up. Sixth Army was surrounded. Walk in any direction and you’d finally bump into a Russian. Both armies were restive but the final onslaught, that last yank on the rope that would strangle the German presence on the Volga, had yet to come.

  Did it matter? He wasn’t sure any more. After his brief visit to Berlin – hot water, proper food – Stalingrad had closed around him again. This was an outpost of hell he’d come to regard as normal. The bread ration had been reduced to seventy-five grams per day, less than a couple of slices, and even Schultz was running out of food. Blankets, proffered by peasant women in felt boots, had become the new currency. Infantrymen turned up at the bus depot complaining that frostbite had done them in. Their forefingers were so swollen, they said, that they could no longer get them through the trigger guard.

  An army incapable of firing a rifle? Nehmann simply added this tiny detail to the grotesque tapestry that had become his world. Once he’d have made a note, worked it into one of his stories, used it at the end of a paragraph to make the reader close his eyes and shake his head and wonder who’d commissioned madness on this scale. Now, though, Nehmann had put his pen away. The Promi didn’t need him any longer. His readership had gone. And even Stalingrad, with its inexhaustible horrors, couldn’t penetrate a growing sense of apartness. If Nehmann felt anything, he concluded, he felt numb. Nothing mattered. Except somehow finding Kalb.

  Then came the moment when he and Schultz were sharing a cigarette on a patch of dirty snow outside the Abwehr office. Crows were circling overhead, black against the grey shroud of cloud that never seemed to lift. Schultz watched them for a moment then told Nehmann they were looking for fresh corpses.