Last Flight to Stalingrad

by Graham Hurley

  Two and a half weeks later, Werner Nehmann was summoned to the Ministry of Propaganda. Lately, Goebbels had been sleeping especially badly and it showed. The pools of darkness around his eyes were deeper than ever. He occupied one of two armchairs in the office and he had one leg crossed over the other. If his foot was beating time with his pulse, Nehmann thought, then the Minister needed medical attention.

  Goebbels told him to shut the door and pull up the other chair.

  ‘Richthofen,’ he said, ‘has been appeased. The Führer announced his promotion this morning. Chief of Luftflotte 4. He flies to Mariupol tomorrow morning to take charge. Rostov should be ours within the week. You want to guess how much operational territory Richthofen now controls? Think of the Reich and treble it. Think Napoleon with wings.’

  Nehmann did his best. It was an awkward image.

  ‘And Mount Elbrus?’ he asked. ‘Messner’s little triplane?’

  ‘I talked to Manstein. A detachment of one of his Mountain divisions will be on the summit in weeks before they push on down towards the Black Sea. You were right; it’s the tallest peak in Europe. Plant the war flag on the top and you’re looking at an image we’ll be sending round the world. My congratulations, Nehmann, a brilliant concept on your part. Messner’s little triplane, as well? Consider it done.’

  The prospect of yet another propaganda coup seemed to brighten the Minister’s mood. Then his hand strayed to a pile of paperwork on the carpet beside his chair and he picked up the top document before tossing it aside.

  ‘Children, Nehmann, everywhere. Novices, incompetents, grains of sand in the machine. You’ll know about the Ministry for the East. A sensible idea. But put someone like that lunatic Rosenberg in charge and we end up with the Ministry of Chaos. All these people have the same problem. With every particle of good news, every next victory, they think the war’s over. They think we’ve won. These clowns should learn to read a map. Russia isn’t small. The winters are evil. We have a very long way to go. And then you get someone like von Choltitz. He did well at Sevastopol. Everyone did well at Sevastopol. But who in his right mind pays tribute to the Bolsheviks for their “fighting spirit”? Am I the only one who has to take this up with the Führer? The Ivans, like most animals, have a primitive survival instinct. Confusing that with courage, with something you respect, is a simpleton’s error.’

  The bobbing foot, for a second or two, was still. When a secretary tapped lightly on the door, Goebbels waved her away. Then he rearranged his legs and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. It was an intimate gesture, increasingly rare, and Nehmann wondered what was coming next.

  ‘Loneliness, Nehmann. Have you ever felt that? Has it ever crept into that life of yours? Have you ever woken up one morning, regardless of who might be lying beside you, and realised just how alone you are?’ He paused a moment, his eyes holding Nehmann’s gaze, his voice soft. ‘You’re shaking your head. Am I surprised? No. You’re resilient, Nehmann. You come from the toughest stock and I admire that. You’re also the master of adaptation, of camouflage, of hiding your real self away, and I admire that, too. We make a good team, Nehmann, and in times like these that knowledge can keep a man afloat.’

  Nehmann was astonished. More to the point, he was also extremely wary. Over the years that he’d known him, he’d recognised that Goebbels was far less sure of himself than he liked other people to believe. You could read the clues on his face, in the pallor of his skin, in the occasional eruptions of eczema, in unguarded moments when his whole body seemed to sag. At times like these, it paid to listen very hard because intimacy was always the prelude to something else. Support in some arcane turf war. Sympathy over the unceasing workload here in the Promi. Or, it seemed in this case, a favour.

  ‘Hedvika, Nehmann. Your little Czech coquette. I know about the business in Italy. The spoils of war, Nehmann. Here today, gone tomorrow. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen her lately? Talked on the phone, perhaps? Exchanged billets-doux?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you could. The tingle, the electricity, is still there. Am I right?’

  ‘On my part?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the answer has to be no. On hers? I’ve no way of finding out.’

  ‘Really? Then allow me to tell you. The film director’s name is Emilio. He’s tall, and good-looking and quite able in his way, but he’s also a man who can’t pass a mirror. Vanity, Nehmann, is too small a word. He’s in love with himself and he’s also hopeless in bed. Your Coquette is used to proper rations. Emilio offers nothing but crumbs. Does she regret those nights in the Wilhelmstrasse? She does, but only because they’re over.’ A chilly smile. ‘Am I making sense, Nehmann?’

  Nehmann said nothing for a moment. Then he stirred.

  ‘A man moves on,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, and what a talent she has, what breadth of taste. Schubert impromptus? Kurt Weill? Just a little hint of Negro music on Friday nights when the clientele at that club of hers seem in the mood? My congratulations, Nehmann. I’ve seen the photos. As ever, you have impeccable taste and – to be frank – your courage has never been an issue. Just one question, do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are both her parents Isidors?’

  Isidor was Promi-code for Jewish. Nehmann, who should have seen this coming, shook his head.

  ‘Goyim,’ he said.

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because she told me. Her father hated Jews and priests alike. Her mother is a devout Catholic.’

  ‘Paperwork? Birth certificates? Dull, I know, but it might pay to take a precaution or two.’

  ‘In case…?’

  ‘In case you fall in love with her, Nehmann. In or out of bed, life is a battle. I’m your friend, your Kamerad, your brother-in-arms. Maria’s a pretty name. I don’t want to see either of you hurt. And I want you to believe that.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. There’s also another matter, I’m afraid equally delicate. You can keep a confidence, Nehmann?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good’ – the smile again – ‘because we’ll need to trust each other.’

  At this point there came another delicate knock at the door. Birgit, one of the secretaries, reminded the Minister that he had an important visitor waiting downstairs. Goebbels waved the appointment aside. He’d attend to matters when he was ready. Birgit nodded and withdrew.

  ‘I want to talk about Baarova.’ Goebbels had turned back to Nehmann. ‘My Lida. You have time, Nehmann?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Another interruption, this time a phone call. Watching Goebbels’ face, Nehmann sensed it was someone important. The Minister tapped his watch, mouthed an apology. Give me time, please. Have patience.

  Nehmann nodded. He knew a lot about Baarova, Indeed, half the nation did, partly because she’d been a leading Czech actress in countless movies, but mainly because Goebbels had made no secret of the fact that she’d become his mistress. Before the war they appeared together in public on countless occasions. They shared an extensive love nest in the woods north of Berlin. Then came the moment when Herr Goebbels, patriarch and husband, had proposed a ménage à trois, hoisting his mistress into the very middle of one of the Reich’s showpiece families.

  Magda Goebbels had been unimpressed by the proposition but what had truly shaken her husband was the wrath of Adolf Hitler. The Führer had a great deal of time for Frau Goebbels and doted on the three children, and when he told Goebbels that his affair with the Czech actress had to end, Goebbels had no choice in the matter.

  The final reel in this heartfelt little romance was far from pretty. Goebbels worshipped his Führer. Hitler, as far as he was concerned, was the voice of providence, God’s presence on earth. And so he summoned Baarova to tell her that their life together was over. Days later, at Goebbels prompting,
Berlin’s Chief of Police forbade her to apply for any other roles in German cinema.

  With her private life and her professional career in ruins, Baarova attended the premiere of her latest – and last – German film. The movie was called Der Spieler, The Gambler, an adaptation of Dostoyevsky’s novel. Paid thugs wrecked the screening. Their jeers and abuse drove Baarova from the theatre and ended the movie’s public run before it had even begun. Hounded by the Gestapo, Lida Baarova had a nervous breakdown and fled to her native Prague.

  Nehmann knew all of this, as did most of Germany, but Goebbels’ phone call was coming to an end now and it turned out that there was a great deal more to the story.

  ‘The Führer.’ Goebbels gestured at the phone. ‘His needs are many. As are mine.’

  Nehmann didn’t know quite what to make of this.

  ‘Baarova?’ he ventured.

  ‘Indeed, my friend. Fate has dealt us both a poor hand. In life you seldom get a second chance, but I see no point in not trying. We Germans should make more room in our lives for the possibility of forgiveness. It can happen, Nehmann, and if it does it can be sublime. My wife will never forgive. My Lida? Here—’

  From a desk drawer he produced a white envelope, heavily sealed, and gave it to Nehmann. It contained, he said, a letter for Lida Baarova.

  ‘You’re apologising?’ Nehmann was staring at the envelope.

  ‘I’m explaining. It may be the same thing.’

  ‘But to what end? Why now?’

  ‘Why now?’ Goebbels stared down at him. ‘Because I miss her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know. Would I like to see her again? Of course I would. Would I like her back in my bed? In my heart? Yes, again yes. Look at me, Nehmann. Tell me I’m right. Tell me this is what must happen.’

  ‘I’m telling you you’re crazy. This is madness.’

  ‘I know. But does that make any difference? You know me, Nehmann. You know the way I am. Be honest. A man is a man. There are things he has to do. This is one of them.’

  ‘Get in touch with her again?’

  ‘Make sure she knows the truth.’

  ‘About what happened?’

  ‘About me.’

  Nehmann was looking at the envelope, weighing it in his hand. Three sheets of paper, he thought. At least. Then his eyes were back on Goebbels.

  ‘You know where she is?’

  ‘In Italy. Rome, I think.’

  ‘You have an address?’

  ‘No’ – he’d put a hand on Nehmann’s shoulder – ‘but your Coquette does.’

  *

  Nehmann left the Promi nearly an hour later. He owed Goebbels two articles. They were both confections pitched at the outer edges of credibility, but they’d have Nehmann’s trademark brio which was, after all, what Goebbels seemed to value. He’d done all the interviews for the first and most of them for the second, but the deadline was still a couple of days away and just now he needed to think.

  Ten minutes in the late afternoon sunshine took him back to Guram’s apartment. An unmarked van was parked illegally outside and Nehmann was wondering how soon before the authorities arrived. He was still on the pavement trying to find his key for the door when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Herr Nehmann?’

  He turned around. Three men were standing beside the van. Nehmann recognised the black uniform of the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police, drafted in to help Berlin’s regular force.

  The taller of the two men stepped forward.

  ‘With the compliments of Graf von Helldorf.’ He nodded back towards the van. ‘Which floor?’

  For a moment nonplussed, Nehmann hadn’t got an answer. Then he remembered. Von Helldorf was Berlin’s Chief of Police. More importantly, he was hand in glove with Goebbels. A couple of days ago Nehmann had been looking for a grand piano and had mentioned it in conversation on the phone. Goebbels told him to call off the search. The matter, he said, would be resolved. And so here he was, bareheaded on a Berlin street, watching three burly Ukrainians wrestling the body of a grand piano out of the back of the van. The legs, it seemed, would follow.

  Nehmann opened the main door of the apartment block and stood aside as the policemen hauled the piano up the first two flights of stairs. Nehmann had left the windows open in the apartment itself and the moment he stepped inside he could smell the frangipani that Maria was cultivating on the sill.

  ‘Just there.’ He indicated a patch of carpet in the middle of the room. A Steinway, he thought. Perfect.

  Two of the men returned to the street to fetch the legs and the stool. The officer in charge had produced a notebook.

  ‘One box of Chablis. Five of claret. Ten of champagne.’ He looked up. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘This is for the piano?’

  ‘For the boss. Another box of champagne for the workers would be thoughtful.’

  Nehmann nodded. He’d no idea what the barter rate for a grand piano might be but Guram’s cellar was extensive.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Where does the piano come from?’

  ‘House clearance.’

  ‘It belonged to an Isidor?’

  ‘Of course,’ he smirked. ‘We’ll be going back for the rest later.’

  The men returned with the legs and the piano stool. Once the Steinway was in one piece again, Nehmann cleared a space against the back wall, beyond the reach of the sunshine. Then he led the way to the closet where Guram kept his wine. Seventeen boxes. Just over a hundred bottles. For a grand piano? Nothing.

  The officer in charge was the last to leave. His men were still ferrying the boxes down to the street.

  ‘You play?’ He nodded at the piano.

  ‘Of course.’ Nehmann patted him on the shoulder. ‘Why else would a man part with so much champagne?’

  In truth, Nehmann was a stranger to the keyboard. The piano was a gift for Maria. Nehmann went across to the window. The Ukrainians had levered open one of the wooden boxes there on the street and were helping themselves to a couple of bottles each. He shook his head and then glanced back at the piano. Week by week, Berlin was emptying of Jews but if you looked the other way and asked no questions you’d hardly notice. Just another vacated apartment, stuffed to the brim with a lifetime’s possessions. Just another dusty space where a grand piano had once been.

  Goebbels had another term for these looted treasures. He regarded them as rightful tribute for the master race, payback for centuries of usury. A Jew, he’d once told Nehmann, had the soul of a banker and the conscience of a thief. Only National Socialists knew how to deal with such vermin.

  Conscience? Nehmann settled at the piano, deep in thought. Since the last days of peace had brought him to Berlin, he’d been aware of the special place he’d won for himself in Goebbels’ boiling wake. Articles he’d published in the handful of independent publications to survive the Party’s chokehold had caught the attention of the Minister for Propaganda. He’d liked Nehmann’s tone of voice, the way he let his imagination off the leash, even his adopted name. Mikhail Magalashvili would have carried a troubling gust of Slavdom in certain quarters of the Reich. Werner Nehmann – bold, simple, declamatory – was near-perfect.

  So far, so good. Goebbels had always been the prisoner of his own schedule, forever criss-crossing the country to roar at his millions of followers, but somehow he’d managed to find the time and the private space to build a relationship with the little Georgian. There was more than a decade between them, but the age difference had never seemed to matter. They both took liberties with the truth. They both loved the company of women. And they were both happy to push their own luck to breaking point. Most important of all, at a level of government where trust and friendship carried serious risks, Nehmann’s company became not only welcome but invaluable.

  Sounding board? Drinking companion? Raconteur? Nehmann was never quite sure of his precise role in this relationship but as the war began in earnest, and the men in field grey helped themselves to country af
ter country across Western Europe, the dizzying series of victories felt like a party without end. Nehmann had loved this interlude, wild, full of opportunities, ungoverned by anything but a crushing workload and a raging thirst, but as that first proper winter came and went, and the attention of the Greater Reich turned towards the east, the mood had become a little more sombre.

  Sevastopol had certainly fallen, and there seemed no reason why the oil wells beyond the Caucasus wouldn’t soon be in German hands, but Moscow and Leningrad were still offering stubborn resistance and the sheer size of the Soviet Union defied the gods of resupply. Hitler’s appetite for yet more conquest, yet more territory, was insatiable. Yet the tanks and the aircraft were running out of fuel and ten thousand horses needed more fodder than anyone had ever suspected. And now, remember, it was still summer.

  Was this why Goebbels had launched this afternoon’s conversation? With that acute intelligence of his, could he sense events running out of control?

  Nehmann thought it more than possible. The Goebbels he knew better than most men was extremely thin-skinned. He lived on his nerves. He wanted, needed, the approbation of others. He lived for praise, for the constant assurance that he was the mastermind behind everything true and necessary and worthwhile that drove the resurgent Germany forward. A handful of men, all of them visionaries, had shaken the recumbent nation awake, but the Minister of Propaganda – in his own eyes – was the only one with the truly magical touch. Deutschland erwache! – Germany awake! – was the chant that launched a thousand newsreels. And all of them, one way or another, were the work of Joseph Goebbels.

  And yet the man was lonely. And forlorn. And just occasionally lost. And on these occasions, like this afternoon, he had only one name on his lips.

  Lida Baarova.

  *

  Maria arrived within the hour. It was early evening by now, but she didn’t have to be at work until nine o’clock and Moabit was only half an hour away on the tram. One of her fellow musicians at the club owned part shares in an allotment in Charlottenburg, and she had a basket half full of fruit.