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

at the sea of faces. He wanted his people to celebrate. And he wanted to offer a guarantee. ‘If you can be sure of anything,’ he roared. ‘You can be sure of this. That no one will ever get us away from this place again!’

The auditorium erupted. Thousands were on their feet, their arms outstretched, bellowing the Führer’s name. Textbook Nuremberg, Nehmann thought, noting the broadness of the smile on Goebbels’ face.

Minutes later, after an appeal for clothing and other comforts to carry the nation’s warriors through the coming winter, the speech was over. The Führer departed, attended by his Minister for Propaganda who half turned and signalled for Nehmann to follow.

He caught up with them in a smallish anteroom behind the stage. Space was tight and Nehmann found himself beside Hitler. He was still perspiring after the speech and Nehmann caught the rank sourness that came in waves as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. It was a smell that would stay with Nehmann for the months to come, the smell – as he interpreted it – of a body in revolt, of a man taking leave of his senses, of the stench of megalomania seeping ever outwards.

Goebbels was on hand with a fresh handkerchief. He introduced Nehmann, who had never met the Führer before.

‘A colleague from the Ministry, Mein Führer,’ Goebbels said. ‘I think I mentioned him earlier.’

Hitler nodded. His eyes were still glazed, a man in a trance. Then he blinked and gave his forehead a final wipe with Goebbels’ handkerchief. He seemed to recognise Nehmann’s name.

‘Stalingrad, Nehmann. The Minister passed on your impressions. He told me how well we’re doing out there. I’m grateful. Keep up the good work, ja?’ His hand briefly fell on Nehmann’s shoulder. Then he was gone.

*

Maria had listened to the speech at the apartment. A car from the Ministry was already waiting at the kerbside, waiting to take her out to the airfield at Tempelhof. Goebbels had secured her a seat on one of the Führer Squadron’s Ju-52s. She was flying down to Munich where this evening she’d be playing at a special concert to launch the Winter Appeal in Bavaria.

Nehmann kissed her. She looked radiant and she smelled even sweeter. Shalimar by Guerlain, he thought. The bottle must be nearly empty.

‘Our Leader?’ Nehmann held her briefly at arm’s length. ‘What did you think?’

‘I thought of all those letters you wrote me.’ She nodded towards the bedroom. ‘They’re in one of the drawers. I’ve kept them all. Show them to Goebbels. Make Hitler read them. Maybe there are two Stalingrads and you were in the other one. There has to be an explanation. Might that be possible?’

She smiled at him. She said she had to go. With luck she should be back in Berlin tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, certainly by the weekend. Whatever happened, the weather might be kind.

‘Wannsee?’ She’d half turned to leave. ‘Maybe a sailing boat?’

Nehmann nodded. He told her he needed to find a decent bookshop. He’d been away for a while. Things changed so quickly in Berlin. Any ideas?

‘Ja.’She paused at the door. ‘There’s a little place called Lies mich.It’s in Kopernikusstrasse, off Warschauer Strasse. It’s easy to miss but there’s a tree outside. I was in there recently. Wiedersehen, ja?’ She blew him a kiss and left.

*

Lies mich. Read me. Sweet. The bookshop was a couple of minutes’ stroll north of the tangle of railway lines that fed the Hauptbahnhof.It was small, dwarfed by the five storeys of apartments above it, but the tree was the clue. Nehmann waited for a horse and cart to pass before crossing the street, enjoying the slant of late afternoon sun on his face. Schultz had asked him to lay hands on a German–Russian dictionary, nothing fancy. We’re going to be here for a while, he’d said. His Russian was barely adequate, and it would certainly pay to learn a little more.

At first, Nehmann thought the shop must have closed. There were a couple of dusty-looking novels propped up in the window, and a much thumbed guidebook to the glories of Potsdam. He lingered a moment, and then tried the door. A bell sounded deep inside as he stepped in. The place smelled musty. Bookshelves packed with titles receded into the gloom. Then he heard the faintest meow and a cat materialised from nowhere. It was plump, old, well-fed, three words you’d rarely attach to any animal in this city.

The cat wound itself around Nehmann’s ankles and he bent to fondle the little bony recess beneath its cheek. The cat responded at once, lifting its head and starting to purr.

‘Can I help you?’ An oldish voice.

Nehmann looked up. A man had appeared beside the little desk that served as a counter. He was in his sixties at least. He wore a pair of old corduroy trousers and a grey flannel shirt loosely tucked in. He hadn’t shaved for several days and the grey felt slippers were fraying at the heel. In the breast pocket of his shirt, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.

Nehmann asked about dictionaries. The books here looked second-hand.

‘Which language?’

‘Russian.’

‘Ah…’ The old man had a lovely smile. ‘An accent like yours, I’m surprised you need one.’

‘It’s not for me. It’s for a friend.’

‘But you’re Russian, nein?’

‘Georgian.’

‘Same thing, isn’t it? Your age, you’d speak Russian from the cradle. Or did you say Niet?’

Nehmann laughed. He’d always liked the informality of Berlin, but this ageing bookseller already seemed to regard him as a family friend. Under the regime, conversations like this could quickly become uncomfortable but the old man had a companionable sense of mischief that Nehmann rather liked.

‘You have a choice of dictionaries, I’m glad to say.’ He left Nehmann beside the table and disappeared towards the back of the shop. Moments later, he returned with two books, one big, one small. The smaller one looked brand new.

‘You might recognise this.’ He weighed it in his bony hand a moment. ‘If you want a dozen, I’m