Last Flight to Stalingrad

by Graham Hurley

  Messner said he understood. The Russians fired Katyusha rockets from the back of flatbed trucks. Like the T-34s, their equipment was rugged and rarely broke down. If intelligence reports were accurate, they also seemed to have more and more of them, inexhaustible supplies that appeared from nowhere and could make life on the steppe extremely difficult.

  ‘We have well over a thousand aircraft, gentlemen, and you’ll be pleased to know they’ll all be available on your behalf.’

  There was an exchange of nods around the table. One officer even permitted himself a brief smile. Messner sat back, wondering just how much more he should reveal. The total of serviceable aircraft had come from Richthofen last night. He’d also said that most of them would be overflying Sixth Army to bomb Stalingrad. Of the Don River crossings, he’d made no mention.

  ‘And resupply?’ The Oberst again. ‘You have good news on that front as well?’

  ‘I do.’ Messner paused, looking round, taking his time. ‘Three thousand tons a day. How does that sound?’

  The officer nodded. He made a rapid calculation on the pad at his elbow, crossed out a line of figures, arrived at a new total, showed it to his neighbour, then looked across at Messner.

  ‘This assumes a fighting advance? Until we get to Stalingrad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then three thousand tons might suffice. Assuming, of course, that we can rely on a figure like that. You’re offering us a guarantee?’

  Messner shook his head. He could recognise a trap when he saw one.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘We can’t predict the weather. We might have mechanical problems with some of the aircraft.’

  ‘And the Ivans? Up in the air?’

  ‘We have fighters of our own. And some excellent pilots.’

  ‘So still three thousand tons a day? Or thereabouts?’

  ‘We’ll do our best.’

  The officer nodded, seemingly satisfied. For a brief moment there was silence. A truck ground past on the dirt road outside. Then another of the figures around the table stirred. For the first time, through the fog of cigarette smoke, Messner realised that he didn’t belong to Sixth Army. Instead, he was wearing the Feldgrau uniform and lightning flashes of an SS Standartenführer. His cap, with its unmistakeable death’s head symbol, lay on the table in front of him. His hair was beginning to recede over a bony forehead, and he had a cast in one eye.

  ‘You’re here on behalf of Generaloberst Richthofen? Is that what we are to understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So when will he pay us the honour of a personal visit?’

  ‘Very soon. I suspect.’

  ‘Before we move out of here? Before we cross the river?’

  ‘I imagine so. You have a question for him? Can I help at all?’

  ‘Maybe yes. Maybe no. You have plans to bomb Stalingrad?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And do you know when?’

  ‘Soon. Very soon. Maybe you saw what we did to Sevastopol. Stalingrad isn’t a place you’d want to be just now.’

  ‘Good.’ The Standartenführer produced a handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘Very good. How many aircraft?’

  ‘As many as necessary. If we can smash the city before you get there, I imagine it will save you gentlemen a great of time and effort.’

  Messner paused. He’d no idea where these questions were leading, and he suspected the rest of the officers around the table were equally mystified.

  The Standartenführer returned the handkerchief to his pocket and reached for his cap before checking his watch and getting to his feet. He had a face, Messner later realised, that was bred for madness: the cast in his eye, the tightness of his mouth, the thin sprout of unrazored hair beneath his nose that appeared to serve as a moustache.

  ‘One aircraft, Messner.’ He tried to force a smile. ‘That’s all we’d need.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Myself. And my Gruppenführer. It will be a pleasure to do business with your Generaloberst.’

  8

  VENICE, 10 AUGUST 1942

  The bed was empty by the time Nehmann finally woke up. He lay still for a while, listening to the muted clamour of the city through the open window: iron-shod wheels on the cobblestones outside the house, the mewing of gulls from the lagoon, an occasional parp from one of the passenger liners he’d seen moored on the seaward end of the Grand Canal.

  Back in Berlin, it was impossible to ignore a widespread contempt for the Reich’s Axis partner. Only last year, Mussolini had suffered a bad bout of indigestion after trying to gobble up Albania and it had taken German steel and German blood to bail him out. The shortest read in history, went the word on the Wilhelmstrasse, must be the Book of Italian War Heroes.

  This would guarantee a chuckle in most Berlin bars but here in Venice, Nehmann wasn’t entirely sure that the joke wasn’t on the Germans. A decade of frantic rearmament, huge rallies and the ever-tighter chokehold of a police state had certainly delivered the spoils of war, but most Italians, it seemed to Nehmann, had altogether different priorities.

  Nehmann stretched and closed his eyes. He and Hedvika had got drunk last night in a hotel restaurant she often used. The dining room belonged to an elderly Italian maître d’ of immense charm, plainly smitten by Hedvika, and he’d reserved a table beside the window with a dramatic view of the Grand Canal and the Accademia Bridge. Nehmann had bought a bottle of champagne and then another, while he and Hedvika took it in turns to murmur passages aloud from Goebbels’ letter.

  Hedvika, who’d met Goebbels on a number of occasions, had caught the Minister’s voice perfectly. As a gifted public speaker, spot-lit on countless stages, he was capable of an immense range of effects from whispered pathos to chest-beating frenzy, but over the crisp white tablecloth beside the window, Hedvika had cleverly imagined herself into the head of this demagogue, driven to plead his case at the feet of a woman he swore he’d never ceased to love. These laboured endearments had turned heads at neighbouring tables, adding to a surreal sense of theatre that Nehmann knew he’d never forget.

  The letter was briefer than Nehmann had expected. It was handwritten, two and a half pages of Goebbels’ tightly meticulous script, and it had taken him an hour or two up in the bedroom to decipher every word. The opening passages, they both agreed, belonged in one of the cheap novelettes now available on Kraft durch Freude cruise liners.

  Goebbels missed his Czech mistress more than he could ever have believed. His submission to his wife, and by implication his Führer, was an act of the most contemptible weakness. He’d treated Lida worse than badly and now – as he should – he was paying the price. But the truest love, the only love that really mattered, was beyond price. It was something immeasurable, something eternal, and he wanted his Czech treasure to know that he would meet any bill, risk any consequence, in order to share time again together. I am your Tristan, he’d written. And you? Du bist meine Isolde.

  The heart of the letter, its denouement, came on the last page. By now, the maître d’ had signalled for their plates to be cleared away and their glasses recharged. Hedvika, hunched over the letter, desperate, intimate, pleading, ignored the scurrying waiters.

  ‘My body was yours to conquer. To you, Liebling, I was terra incognita, virgin earth, yours for the taking. You planted your standard and stated terms for the glorious peace that followed our first lovemaking. The land is bare now, the rains long overdue. Nothing grows, not even a single flower. I’m a parched man in a dry land, happy only in our memories. I long for your return. I long for the 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-monde for 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 it. The queue shuffled forward, one step at a time. It was nearly six o’clock before Nehmann found himself at the kerbside.

  He was about to duck his head and get into the waiting cab when he felt a pressure on his arm.

  ‘Do you mind sharing? It might help these good people behind.’ Excellent German. Berlin accent.

  Nehmann glanced round. He hadn’t been aware of this stranger, not the last time he’d looked. He was tall. He wore a lightweight summer suit, beautifully cut, and had a raincoat folded over one arm. Mid-forties, Nehmann thought. Maybe older. No luggage.

  ‘How did you know I was German?’

  ‘The leather jacket, my friend. I have a jacket like that myself.’ He named a specialist tailor with a long list of influential clients.

  The driver was getting impatient. Nehmann held the rear door open and stood back to let this stranger take a seat before getting in himself.

  ‘You speak Italian?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Here.’ Nehmann gave him the address Hedvika had scribbled down earlier on the envelope. ‘You mind telling the driver? Afterwards the taxi’s yours.’

  The stranger bent forward and gave the driver the address. His Italian was fluent. The taxi began to move.

  ‘You’re here on business?’ the stranger enquired.

  ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘Excellent. Rome has turned her back on the war. You’ll find it a deeply pleasurable city, if you know where to go.’

  Nehmann said nothing, staring out at the swirl of traffic. He knew when he’d fallen into a trap. He could smell danger at a thousand metres. Der Überlebende, he thought. The Survivor.

  ‘So who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘That needn’t concern us.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  The stranger said nothing. Then he gestured down at the envelope.

  ‘This is Baarova’s address. It would save us both a lot of time if you told me why you’re paying her a visit.’

  ‘You’ve been following me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘From Venice?’

  ‘No need.’

  Nehmann nodded. Easy, he thought.

  ‘Someone phoned ahead,’ he suggested. ‘Someone gave you a train time and a description. That’s all it would take. Then you suddenly find yourself in a taxi queue.’ Nehmann smiled to himself. ‘You’re good. I’m
flattered.’

  The stranger returned the smile. The raincoat was folded in his lap. He moved it slightly, revealing the dull barrel of a Luger automatic.

  ‘Here?’ Nehmann was looking at the gun. ‘You want to kill me in the back of this cab?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ The stranger nodded down at the envelope. ‘This is the letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the Minister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He wrote the address himself?’

  ‘No, I did.’ Nehmann watched him slipping the envelope into his jacket. Then the stranger leaned forward and muttered something to the driver. The cab began to slow, before drawing to a halt at the kerbside.

  ‘One question,’ Nehmann said. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘What business is this of yours? Why go to so much trouble?’

  The stranger smiled again. The gun had disappeared.

  ‘Sometimes we have to save Herr Goebbels from himself,’ he murmured. ‘If you’re still thinking of paying Fraulein Baarova a visit, I suggest you spare yourself the trouble.’

  ‘You’ve moved her out?’

  ‘She’s decided to live elsewhere.’ A parting smile. ‘Enjoy Rome.’

  9

  KALACH, 10 AUGUST 1942

  Messner, to his intense irritation, was obliged to spend the night at Kalach. It was the orderly who’d met him who brought the news about the little Fieseler Storch. Messner had asked for it to be refuelled. This had been done but the engineer who’d attended to the aircraft had noticed a crack at the bottom of one of the undercarriage struts. Messner was welcome to risk a take-off but there were no guarantees that the strut would survive any more punishment from an airfield as rough as Kalach’s.

  The orderly, whose name was Klaus, had contacted the mechanics who were busy repairing Panzer tanks on the battlefield. The pressure to get the tanks back in working order was intense but Klaus had secured a promise that a weld on the damaged Storch would be in place by the following morning.

  By now it was late afternoon and Messner had completed the round of meetings Richthofen had ordered him to attend. All of them had taken place inside the tent and he’d been counting the hours until he could finally emerge and take a breath or two of fresh air. Beside the dirt road, the sun was still high, the sky cloudless, perfect conditions for the return flight to Mariupol.