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

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 liked 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