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

the chicken away and wiped his hands. ‘How did you know she was on?’

‘We got word from the Promi.’

‘From Goebbels himself?’

‘From a secretary, a woman called Birgit. She said the Minister thought you might be interested.’

Nehmann nodded. The music had faded after the introduction and now the presenter wanted us to meet the young pianist who had Berlin on its feet. He used her full name, Maria Gaetani. She’d been discovered, he said, playing in a Moabit nightclub and now, thanks to the good offices of the Promi, he was able to bring her talents to a much bigger audience. The young Abwehr staffer responsible for cooking the chicken had caught on that there might be a connection between Nehmann and this distant goddess. The knowledge seemed to put the little Georgian in a new light.

Maria was describing the thrill of being back home in the shadow of the mountains. Life these days, she said, was full of uncertainties, but she felt truly spoiled to be among the people she’d grown up with. As a child, harvest festival had been one of the highlights of her year, a time laden with plump fruit, and pastries heavy with cream, and the promise of a dance once the village band got themselves in tune. Berlin, with all its promise, all its opportunities, was any woman’s dream, but this little village with all the familiar faces was where her heart belonged.

The presenter said he knew exactly what she meant. He, too, came from the country, Franconia this time, and there was nothing warmer in the world than a welcome from the entire village and a visit to the local patisserie. Maria laughed. Then came more piano music, an upbeat jazz version of ‘Tea For Two’,before Schultz nodded at the radio set.

‘Enough?’

‘Ja.’

‘Homesick?’

Nehmann didn’t answer. The entire programme had, typically, been a lie. Her name wasn’t Maria Gaetani and – as Goebbels himself had pointed out – she’d never been anywhere near any Austrian village. The recording had probably been made in Berlin, maybe in one of the studios in the Promi’s basement.

‘He’s sending you a message? That boss of yours?’

‘Of course.’

‘And what does the message say? You want to share it with us, Nehmann? Or is it too painful?’

‘He’s telling me he has everything under control.’

‘You mean Maria?’

‘I mean Szarlota. That’s her real name. She’s Polish. And her mother was a Jew.’

Schultz offered a low whistle, and the aide wrestling the chicken into the pot pulled a face, but oddly enough Nehmann didn’t resent sharing any of this knowledge. One of the puzzles of this city, this battle, was the way it brought you together. He could feel it already. No secrets. Only the collective knowledge that, one way or another, you were there to make it through.

‘Goebbels and our Jewish friends?’ Schultz pulled a face. ‘Oil and water. You think he’s fucking her? Is that why she’s still alive? Famous? Rich?’

Nehmann said he didn’t know. The broadcast, he said, meant nothing. Goebbels was clever. He was the Reich’s puppet master. He’d learned how to pull life’s strings. That’s why he was so powerful. He specialised in control. A promising pianist from Warsaw who happened to be half Jewish? An entire Volk? It made no difference. Goebbels had set out to take both of them hostage and he’d largely succeeded.

‘A hostage, Nehmann? Is that what she is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Against what?’

Nehmann shook his head. Despite everything, he was prepared to go no further. If he ever got back to Berlin, if he managed to avoid the attentions of Kalb, he’d try and resolve things but in the meantime, thanks to Goebbels’ clever little sleight of hand, he knew she was still alive. And that, of course, had been the real thrust of the programme’s message. Keep thinking about her. Keep worrying about her. And when the Minster asks for that letter back just hand it over.

23

STALINGRAD, 18 SEPTEMBER 1942

That evening, the temperature rose again. With the snow beginning to melt, the intensity of the artillery barrage grew and grew, a constant soundtrack behind every conversation, but the Luftwaffe didn’t fly at night and there was no bombing. The chicken seemed to take an age to cook properly but there was plenty of vodka and Schultz warmed the evening with a series of stories about his days in Kyiv. Once the war had moved on, the city was lawless – Stalingrad with functioning trams and a thriving black market for anything you might happen to need – but there was plenty of extra trade in the shadowy margins of the intelligence world and he’d never been bored. Once you understood the darkness of the Ukrainian soul, he said, Kyiv was the kind of place that would never disappoint you.

Nehmann, who was the first to recognise a fellow survivor in the madness of these times, wondered quite what Schultz meant by disappointment, but when he put the question there was no answer apart from the last centimetre of vodka in the bottle.

‘Drink up, my friend. We’re back to work.’

Schultz had a couple of fur hats he’d acquired from passing prisoners. Nehmann struggled into a greatcoat that was several sizes too small even for him and he joined Schultz among the puddles outside. It was still teeming with rain but there was an icy wind blowing from the east and Nehmann could feel the raindrops turning to snow once again. Rasputitsa,he thought. An entire city disappearing beneath an ocean of mud.

To Nehmann’s relief, they were spared the open-topped Kübelwagen.Instead, Schultz had laid hands on an ancient lorry that appeared to be Russian. They clambered up into the cab, Schultz behind the wheel. Neither of the windscreen wipers worked and Nehmann could see nothing but the blur of the rain through the filth of the glass.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Not far. Here—’ He produced a torn length of what felt like cotton and gave it to Nehmann.

‘What do I do with this?’

‘It’s a blindfold. We take our young friend for a little