Blood of the Wolf

by Graham Hurley

  This, like the schnapps, came as a surprise to most of the men. They gathered round, curious, passing the little triplane from hand to hand. Gammerler didn’t have the full story but told them it had come from Generaloberst Wolfram von Richthofen. As a fighter pilot he’d cut his teeth with his uncle’s squadron over the trenches in the last war and – as a favour – he’d asked the climbers from Army Group ‘A’ to find a niche for the Fokker on the very top of Mount Elbrus. The Red Baron, he said, would doubtless be looking down. Listen hard for his applause.

  The men, warmed by the schnapps, loved the gesture. A couple of them dug a tiny hollow at the base of the flagpole while another consulted a map and a compass. The nose of the plane, he said, should be pointing at distant Stalingrad. He gestured at a shapely mountain away to the north, then checked the map again.

  ‘That direction,’ he said, ‘would be perfect.’

  *

  News of the ascent of Mount Elbrus arrived at Hitler’s Ukraine headquarters long before the photographs. The Führer had spent the afternoon poring over large-scale maps of the Caucasus, demanding to know why Army Group ‘A’ appeared to be stalling in the face of fierce Soviet resistance. By now, Wehrmacht troops – supported by Panzers – should have been pushing over the Terek River towards the oil wells at Grozny but Soviet aircraft appeared to have the sky to themselves and were inflicting serious damage on the German formations below.

  Richthofen, at his headquarters at Mariupol, was on the receiving end of the Führer’s wrath and despatched Messner to find out why FK VIII’s Bf-109s weren’t doing their jobs. After an eternity of delays, Messner finally made radio contact with the Fighter Wing responsible, only to discover that the twenty-eight aircraft available lacked both fuel and ammunition. Without cannon shells and full tanks, the Bf-109s would be staying on the ground.

  Hitler was in no mood for excuses. He telephoned Goering at his nearby headquarters and demanded his presence. Albert Speer, the Minister of Armaments, had just arrived from Berlin and when the three men got together in the early evening Hitler led them into the map room. His forefinger jabbed at the lines of advance that had stalled in the mountains. His generals had promised to be down on the coast by now. He was counting on Black Sea ports, on Grozny oil wells, and that final thrust deep to the south-west that would deliver Baku, key to limitless supplies of black gold from the Caspian basin. This, according to Speer, would come closer to winning the war than any other single victory. So why was progress so slow?

  The question was directed to Goering. When Hitler pointed out that his commanders on the ground were blaming lack of supplies, the Reichsmarschall blustered about aircraft serviceability and the lottery that was the weather over the Caucasus. On the steppe, he said, the Luftwaffe could guarantee regular flights. Europe’s biggest mountains, on the other hand, had a mind of their own. Either way, he’d see to it that normal service would be resumed. On this matter, as on so many others, the Führer had his solemn word.

  At this point, the conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Hitler turned to find the Oberfunker in charge of communications with a message that appeared to be urgent. It had come, he said, from Army Group ‘A’ headquarters down in the Caucasus. The Oberfunker had a smile on his face. Goering visibly brightened. Good news at last, he thought.

  ‘Lass es mich haben…’ Hitler wanted sight of the despatch.

  Putting on his glasses, he walked across to the window for the last of the light. He read the message twice, his face visibly darkening. Then he turned back to the waiting faces by the map table.

  ‘Show me,’ he barked.

  ‘Mein Führer?’ The Oberfunker was looking confused.

  ‘This mountain. Elbris? Elbrus? Where is it?’

  The Oberfunker indicated a point of the map some seventy kilometres inland from the coast. His ink-stained finger was shaking. The oil wells at Grozy lay two days march away to the east.

  ‘The biggest, you say?’

  ‘The tallest, Mein Führer. Five and a half thousand metres. A monster.’

  ‘Enough. Leave us.’

  Hitler couldn’t take his eyes off the map. He was bent over the table, each hand supporting the weight of his body. The Oberfunker stole away from the room without a backward glance.

  By now, Hitler was shaking with rage. Here was the reason all that effort had come to nothing. Expecting an army to fight, they instead wasted their days with stunts like these. All that effort, all that determination, all that energy squandered on a lump of rock. This was a theatre of war, not a circus ring. He wasn’t blaming the men themselves. No, that’s not where the blame belonged. He didn’t doubt for a moment that climbing a mountain like that would demand real guts. But that wasn’t the point. These men were soldiers. They were in the mountains to kill Russians, to kick open the door to the oil wells, not to get themselves diverted to some profitless adventure that didn’t matter a damn.

  He paused for a moment to fumble for a handkerchief and wipe his mouth. Speer was staring down at the table. A thin mist of spittle had settled wetly on the map. Hitler ignored it.

  ‘I ask for victories,’ he roared. ‘And all they can give me is a mountain top. What use is that? Can anyone help me here? Can anyone explain? Maybe we shouldn’t have gone into the mountains at all. Maybe the temptations were too great. War is about concentration of resources, concentration of effort, an agreed line of advance. Get those things right, get the enemy where you want him, and you can smash him to pieces.’ He took a step back from the table and drove his right fist into his open palm. Is this something we should be teaching our generals? ‘Is this something they’ve neglected to learn? Or should we simply stop fighting and climb mountains instead? Look. Look here.’ He stabbed a finger at the map. ‘There are hundreds of them, thousands of them. Who needs an enemy when you can climb a mountain instead? Wonderful idea, gentlemen. Let’s stop bothering the Russians and climb a few more mountains. Can either of you organise that? Or must I do everything myself?’

  The question hung in the air, unanswered. Hitler was leaning on the table, his head down again, his voice low. For a second or two he seemed exhausted. Then he stirred.

  ‘So, whose idea was this?’ His voice was low.

  Goering and Speer exchanged glances, then Speer shrugged and said he didn’t know.

  ‘And you, Herr Reichsmarschall?’

  Goering did his best to compose himself. He’d been waiting for this moment since the Oberfunker left the room.

  ‘Goebbels,’ he said. ‘Who else?’

  12

  BERLIN, 22 AUGUST 1942

  Werner Nehmann was in bed when he took the call from one of Goebbels’ secretaries. He rolled over on his side, shielding Maria from the conversation, trying not to wake her up.

  ‘It’s six in the morning,’ he whispered.

  ‘I know. The Minister presents his compliments. He’s out at Schwanenwerder. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘This is urgent?’

  ‘I believe it might be. Ask the driver.’

  ‘But it’s barely daylight,’ Nehmann protested again. Too late.

  Left holding the phone, Nehmann could think of nothing but Lida Baarova. A conversation with Goebbels was long overdue but the Minister had been away since Nehmann’s return from Rome. Now, it seemed, would come the reckoning.

  *

  Schwanenwerder, in Goebbels’ phrase, was a select little finger of paradise that jutted into one of the wider stretches of the River Havel, beyond Charlottenburg. Among the wooden slopes that overlooked the water there was room for a handful of houses, most of which had belonged to wealthy Jewish families. Goebbels was one of the first of the Party chieftains to stake his claim to the silence and the view, and a handsome redbrick villa with a little wooden jetty of its own now formed part of his ever-growing property empire. In mid-summer, his wife and family were away in the Austrian Tyrol and Nehmann knew that Schwanenwerder was where Goebbels li
ked to turn his back on the world and lick his wounds.

  Nehmann knew the Ministry driver well. More importantly, he was always first to pick up important gossip.

  ‘So, what’s happened?’

  ‘The Führer’s chewing the carpet again. It’s something to do with a bunch of mountaineers and he wants to kick the Minister’s arse.’

  ‘This is about a mountain?’ Nehmann felt nothing but relief. Not Baarova, after all.

  ‘Out east.’ The driver nodded, then glanced across at Nehmann. ‘The Caucasus?’

  Nehmann began to understand. Mount Elbrus, he thought. He was trying to remember the name of the pilot he’d met out on the airfield at Schönwalde. Wrecked face. Wrecked marriage. But a nice little house out at Wannsee with an ex-wife to match.

  ‘They got to the top, these people?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. We’ve been promised photographs, but they haven’t arrived yet. The Minister will know. Ask him.’

  Goebbels was alone in the house. It was barely half past seven and he met them at the door, barefoot. The red silk dressing gown, a size too big, might have belonged to his wife. He told the driver to prepare the speedboat and invited Nehmann to come in. Already, Nehmann could smell fresh coffee.

  Goebbels led the way through to the kitchen. When Nehmann enquired about the mountaineers, he confirmed that the highest peak in Europe was now German property.

  ‘So, they made it up there?’

  ‘They did.’ The Minister was pouring the coffee. ‘Can you imagine the battle flag? The views? The faces of the men themselves? You can have too much of campaign footage, Nehmann. On this occasion, I’m assured, there isn’t a body in sight.’

  ‘And the Führer?’

  ‘The Führer has a mountain of his own to climb. I was with him three days ago, out east, and he couldn’t have been happier, but sometimes I think we expect too much of him.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you telling me?’

  ‘I’m telling you he cares too much, thinks too hard, takes too much on. Russia is the boldest stroke. There are bound to be moments of difficulty.’

  ‘And this mountain? Elbrus?’

  ‘A triumph, Nehmann. By the weekend every newspaper, every magazine, will be carrying the photos. And then the Führer will come to realise exactly what we’ve done for him.’

  ‘So, no need to worry?’

  ‘Absolutely none. Drink your coffee. Afterwards I’m proposing a swim.’

  Goebbels limped away, leaving Nehmann alone in the big kitchen. Through the window he could see the Ministry driver preparing the property’s speedboat, tied up beside the wooden jetty. Nehmann knew that every minute of the Minister’s time was dedicated to state business. His diary was full for weeks, months, to come. Nehmann knew he owed Goebbels an account of his dealings in Italy but what – apart from the weather – could possibly justify a leisurely swim?

  Goebbels was back with a couple of towels. He was still wearing the dressing gown.

  ‘Here—’

  Nehmann took the proffered towel, swallowed the remains of his coffee and followed Goebbels back into the sunshine. On the dock, the driver reached up to help them into the speedboat. When he began to cast off, Goebbels told him not to bother. He and Nehmann would attend to it. Go back to the house and wait for us there.

  Goebbels took the wheel. There wasn’t a whisper of wind to disturb the mirrored calm of the lake. Nehmann sat back, one arm draped over the varnished woodwork, and decided to enjoy himself. Already, the sun had warmed the plush leather seats and he gazed round, marvelling at how money and influence could conjure this tiny pocket of peace in the very middle of a war spreading to every corner of Europe.

  A flight of geese appeared overhead, perfect V-formation, cackling softly to each other. Fish rose, breaking the surface, eager for a midge or a mayfly. Did they know about the gathering carnage in the east, wondered Nehmann. About the sun rising on yet more air-raid damage? About ration cards and three grams of meat a week and endless queues of thin-faced Hausfrauen waiting patiently for a bakery to open?

  ‘There, Nehmann.’ Goebbels was pointing at a yellow buoy, hundreds of metres out from the shoreline. He throttled back and told Nehmann to make fast with a coil of rope in the bow. Once the boat was secured, Nehmann nodded at the towels.

  ‘We swim?’

  ‘We talk, Nehmann.’ A thin smile. ‘About your adventures in Italy.’

  Nehmann knew the question was coming. Sooner or later he’d have to account for his failure to deliver the letter to Baarova. Since leaving Rome he’d explored a number of explanations, some inadequate, some implausible, others frankly baroque. None of them owed anything to the truth but now – for once in his life – he sensed there was no point in lying. This man knew more about lying than anyone else on earth. When it came to deception, no one was in his league. When the next Olympics came around, he could be certain of a gold medal. Truly, the Prince of Liars.

  ‘I fucked up,’ Nehmann said.

  ‘I know. Someone from the Foreign Ministry paid me a visit last night. One of Ribbentrop’s associates. Very discreet. No prior warning. In my world, Nehmann, that doesn’t happen very often.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He showed me a letter. He seemed to think it was from me. Happily, that can’t have been possible, as I was very glad to point out.’ Goebbels paused for a moment. His eyes were very black. ‘Your handwriting, I think. Not mine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Might you care to explain?’

  Nehmann did his best. He described the queue for taxis at the Rome terminus, the suited figure who’d helped himself to a seat in the back, and his surprise to be looking at a gun beneath the folds of his expensive raincoat.

  ‘He threatened you?’

  ‘He warned me off.’

  ‘Did he explain why?’

  ‘No. I had an address for Baarova. He told me she’d moved. He also demanded the letter. I’m sorry but I had no choice.’

  ‘How did he know the letter existed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘And that’s the truth?’

  Nehmann didn’t answer. He knows, he thought to himself. He knows everything.

  ‘There’s a hotel on the Grand Canal,’ Goebbels said softly. ‘I happen to know it. It’s called the Al Codega. They serve an astonishing crème brulée. You were there with your actress friend. And you were probably drunk. You’re an inventive man, Nehmann. You understand the power of language, of make-believe, and so does your little Czech friend. It was a game you were playing that night. You wrote the script. She performed it. Sadly, the audience included one of Ribbentrop’s associates. And, for whatever reason, he jumped to the wrong conclusion.’ Goebbels leaned forward, intense, his eyes never leaving Nehmann’s face. ‘Ribbentrop’s people will do anything to attack me, to hurt me. You handed them the perfect weapon. Sadly, from their point of view, they were duped.’

  ‘By?’

  ‘You. Why? Because they believed you. Because you caught my tone of voice on the page and your actress friend was clever enough, or drunk enough, to do the rest. Do we understand each other, Nehmann? Or must I go through it all again?’

  Nehmann was staring at him. Perfect, he thought. The perfect cover story. The perfect explanation. The perfect way to keep Ribbentrop’s attack dogs at arm’s length. A work, in its own small way, of genius. He was about to answer Goebbels’ question, but the Minister hadn’t finished.

  ‘You were never house-trained, Nehmann, and some days I should lock you in a cage, but the fact that you belong in the wild is an asset. That’s why I employ you, believe it or not. You’re different. I know I can depend on that. You also take sizeable risks. Risks, alas, have consequences. But first we swim.’ He gestured at the water. ‘Agreed?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Goebbels stood up. Underneath the dressing gown he was naked. He put the garment carefully to one side, balanced briefly on the seat in the stern and then dived ove
rboard. Nehmann stripped and joined him. The water was colder than he’d expected but it didn’t seem to bother Goebbels. The Minister beckoned him closer, wiped the water from his eyes and suggested they swim to the bottom together.

  ‘A pebble each, ja? Last to surface wins.’

  Nehmann nodded assent. Goebbels was first to submerge. Nehmann took a tiny lungful of air and then jack-knifed to follow him, smooth, powerful strokes driving him ever deeper into the murky water. He could see the Minister kicking downwards in front of him but as the light faded, and the water grew colder still, nothing remained but the pale soles of his feet. One of them, he noticed, was twisted inwards. Then the darkness engulfed everything, and he was gone.

  Nehmann pinched his nose and blew hard to clear the pressure in his ears. He’d learned to swim in the mountains in water far colder than this but there was still no sign of the bottom and he was beginning to feel the first shivers of panic when, out of nowhere, he found it. At this depth, everything was pitch-black. Nehmann’s fingers closed over a handful of mud and pebbles and then he pushed hard against the bottom, kicking upwards, fighting the urge to open his mouth and fill his bursting lungs. That way, he knew, lay certain death.

  It was getting lighter now, tiny bits of vegetation in the water, the temperature rising, and then came the moment when his head broke the surface, and he lay on his back, grateful for the sun on his face, sucking air deep into what felt like his belly. Finally, he opened his eyes. Goebbels was floating an arm’s length away, breathing normally. Nehmann showed him the pebble from the bottom of the lake.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t make it?’

  ‘No.’ The Minister smiled. ‘You win.’

  *