Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (novels to read .txt) 📕

sun on our faces. I long for you to retrace those old paths, to rediscover the views we shared, to rekindle the flame that warmed those long nights beside the Bodensee. All this could – must – be ours again. Otherwise, my Isolde, all is madness.’

Hedvika, ever the actress, knew she’d drawn an audience. Too much wine had brought tears to her eyes. She was milking this scene, letting the last page of the letter flutter to the tablecloth, burying her head in her hands. Watching her, Nehmann had wondered whether she’d acknowledge the soft ripple of applause and was strangely gratified when she did. Goebbels himself would have expected no less. The wildest life, after all, is the most beautiful.

Now, next morning, Nehmann was beginning to wonder whether last night’s performance had been such a good idea. For the dozen or so fellow diners within earshot, there were enough clues in the letter to suggest that a senior Nazi might have been responsible. Conclude that it was probably Goebbels, and everything else would slip into place.

Hedvika spoke both German and Italian with a Czech accent. Lida Baarova, as Goebbels’ mistress, had caught the attention of Europe’s demi-mondefor more than two years. Indeed, Hedvika herself might easily have been mistaken for Goebbels’ jilted lover, using the occasion and the company to mock the man who had become the public face of Nazi Germany.

Nehmann’s feet found the bare boards beside the bed. He made his way to the window and pushed it wide open. The first lungful of air tasted of fresh pastries from the neighbouring bakery. His head was still thumping and the queasiness in his belly made him feel slightly sick. Something else had been bothering him, too, though it took a moment or two to remember exactly what.

‘Here—’

Hedvika had appeared at the open door, swathed in a bath towel. She had a sheaf of white paper in her hand.

‘What’s that?’

‘You told me you wanted to copy the letter.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. Last night. After we got back. So…’ she held out the paper ‘…this is what you need.’

Nehmann nodded. He was looking at the bed. They’d made love twice since he’d arrived, and possibly again last night, though he couldn’t remember. In any case, that wasn’t the point. Hedvika was noisy. She kept no secrets.

‘Your friend downstairs never leaves the house. Am I right?’

‘Rarely. And his name’s Fabio.’

‘And he’s really Carlo’s brother?’

‘He is.’

‘So, what might Carlo make of…’ Nehmann shrugged ‘…us?’

‘I’ve no idea. But Fabio won’t say a word, if that’s what worries you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he knows I’ll have the polizia here if he does. Avoiding military service is worse than a crime in this country. Many believe it’s a sin.’

‘And you’ve told him that?’

‘Of course.’ She let the towel fall to the floor. ‘I spent years in Berlin, remember. I know what buys silence.’

*

Afterwards, Hedvika made a pot of strong coffee and Nehmann sat at the table in the tiny kitchen downstairs, carefully transcribing Goebbels’ letter. He knew Hedvika was going to ask him why he was bothering and when she did he saw no reason to lie.

‘I may need it,’ he said. ‘Like it or not we live in a barter economy in Berlin. Is money important? Of course, it is. But knowledge can buy a great deal more.’

‘This is the gun you hold to Goebbels’ head?’

Nehmann sat back a moment. To his immense relief, the coffee was beginning to settle him down. He picked up the letter.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is the gun that might save my own.’

‘That sounds dramatic.’

‘You should know. You’re the actress.’

‘I am. And you’ll need this.’

She circled the table and bent for his pen. Nehmann drained the last of the coffee, watching her scribble an address on a new envelope and then slip the transcription inside.

Nehmann peered at it. Hedvika said it was an address in Rome. ‘3/14 Via de’Baullari?’ He looked up. ‘Have I got that right?’

‘Baullari. Emphasis on the last “a”. Don’t mention my name, by the way, when you see her. She needn’t know I run errands for Herr Goebbels.’

*

The train for Rome left in the early afternoon. Nehmann treated himself to a plate of antipasti in the restaurant car as the flat green fields of the Po Valley sped by. At Bologna, the war re-entered his life in the shape of four noisy infantrymen who crowded into the otherwise empty compartment. Young, thought Nehmann as a whistle blew and the train began to move again. Young and probably untested. One of them produced a pack of cards and what looked like a bottle of grappa. The bottle did the rounds from mouth to mouth but when offered to Nehmann he shook his head.

‘Genug.’ He tapped his head. Enough.

More troops joined the train at Florence. With all the compartments packed, they lined the corridor and blew kisses to the women on the platform. By now, the soldiers in Nehmann’s compartment were asleep. Sitting by the window, he slipped the copy of Goebbels’ letter from his jacket and checked the address on the envelope. At the terminus in Rome, he’d find a taxi to take him to Baarova’s apartment. According to Hedvika, Goebbels’ ex-mistress was days away from starting a new film at the studios in Cinecittà and he hoped that her stay in Prague, before the move to Italy, would have won her a little peace of mind.

Nehmann returned the envelope to his jacket and gazed out at the passing landscape. Was it really his job to disturb that peace? To trouble her with memories she’d probably prefer to forget? He knew that the answer was no but Nehmann, in a busy life, had never had much time for matters of conscience. Goebbels, he knew, had shown him doors in Berlin he’d never suspected existed. A favour like this was the least his master deserved.

The queue for taxis at the Rome terminus stretched deep onto the station concourse. Nehmann wondered briefly about finding a map and walking but decided against