Last Flight to Stalingrad

by Graham Hurley

  Never truly comfortable with physical contact, he became obsessed by Olga’s dexterity, and her repertoire of little tricks, and her shameless appetite for more and more of him. He wrote to her constantly, a letter most days, scribbled in haste but adolescent in the rawness of his passion. He wanted, needed, every inch of her, and in snatched moments together she was more than happy to oblige.

  In the end, of course, in the words of his one close friend, he’d crashed and burned. He’d hidden Olga Helm from Dieter Merz exactly the way he’d hidden this secret life of his from everyone else. But Olga had been careless with his letters and, in someone else’s hands, they’d come back to haunt him. By now, he was in hospital recovering from the blackout accident that had nearly killed him. In every respect, he was a changed man – remote, solitary, frequently aggressive – and by the time he was physically ready to go home it was far, far too late.

  A shocked Beata had sensibly changed the locks at the family home. His infant daughter became a near-stranger. And only the offer of a posting with FK VIII gave his life any discernible purpose. Hence that single-minded devotion to duty that Richthofen seemed to prize. And hence, now, the churning deep in his gut when he thought of the schoolmaster, and his wife, and his infant daughter, and his drawerful of magical carvings. Since his days in the Condor Legion, flying against the Republicans over the mountains of northern Spain, Messner had paid lip service to how cruel war could be, but only now, marooned deep in this godforsaken steppe, did he begin to sense its real implications.

  Renke roused him at dawn with a mug of tepid coffee. Messner peered up at him, rubbing his eyes against the brightness of the rising sun.

  ‘The SS officer?’ he mumbled. ‘His name again?’

  ‘Kalb.’ Renke was frowning. ‘Why do you ask?’

  10

  ROME, 10 AUGUST 1942

  Werner Nehmann had never been to the film studios at Cinecittà. His only previous visit to Rome had been back in the early thirties when the notion of a huge movie-making complex had still been a gleam in Mussolini’s eye, but he knew that Goebbels had been much impressed and now, once he’d checked Baarova’s apartment, he needed to see for himself. There’d been no reply when he rang her doorbell and although her immediate neighbours spoke no German, he got the impression that she had, indeed, moved on. Nehmann, undaunted, still had a telephone number for the publicity executive at Cinecittà he’d talked to from Berlin. Even at this time in the evening, she might still be at her desk.

  She was. Nehmann sat in the reception area, waiting for her to appear. According to the receptionist, tonight had been scheduled for the shooting of a key scene on the studio’s biggest set. Designers and craftsmen had been working all week to build a replica of a Carthaginian arena and, out on the studio lot, Nehmann could see a team of wranglers trying to corral a rogue elephant with no taste for the limelight. Goebbels, he knew, had a soft spot for the sheer scale of Cinecittà’s ambitions. Privately, the Minister regarded all Italians as children – easily amused, easily led – but they certainly knew how to muster the grander effects.

  ‘Herr Nehmann? Guten Abend. Willkommen in Cinecittà.’ Good German. Wonderful legs.

  Nehmann got to his feet as she extended a rather formal handshake and led him to a nearby lift. Her name was Nina. She occupied a corner office on the first floor and Nehmann stood at the window for a moment, glad to have another look at the elephant.

  ‘The second Punic War comes to Rome.’ Nina seemed amused. ‘We had a big success with Scipio Africanus. Let’s hope the sequel works. You found your Hedvika? She was pleased to see you?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And Venezia? Your first time?’

  ‘A film set. Perfect in every respect. Ten minutes in a gondola and for me the war never happened. If I ever lived there, I’d never leave.’

  ‘Of course. Sadly, the Venetians have let the rest of the world share the secret. Those people worship money. They’ve never stopped being traders. Carlos’s brother tells me it will be their death.’

  ‘You know Fabio?’

  ‘I do. The sweet man won’t even audition for the army. That might have consequences, too.’

  ‘He was an actor?’

  ‘Yes. But no talent. No talent, no money.’

  ‘And Carlos? He’s still in hospital?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Emilio’s thugs broke both his legs and did unspeakable things to other parts of him. That’s what Emilio paid for, of course, so be warned.’ She smiled. ‘How can I help you?’

  Nehmann mentioned Lida Baarova. His understanding was that she’d come to Rome to revive her movie career. Was that true?

  ‘Yes. She has an important role in a movie called Grazia. She’s popular here in Italy.’ That smile again. ‘Think of it as a thank you for giving us her time.’

  Nehmann returned her smile. Grazia. Thank you. Clever.

  ‘So, when does she start?’

  ‘In two days’ time. Everything is in place. The script, alas, is in Italian but I can find you a copy if you’d like one.’

  Nehmann turned the offer down. Studying the face across the table, he sensed that something had changed between them. He was right.

  ‘Why the interest in Lida?’ She was frowning. ‘Why come all this way when you could have used the telephone?’

  Nehmann tried to make light of the question. It was August. Lately the weather in Berlin had been terrible. Constant rain. Unseasonal temperatures. A dark time for the soul.

  ‘You’re here on holiday?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘And in a way, no? You’re a journalist. You don’t write like a German and I imagine Herr Goebbels likes that. I certainly do. Are you here on some kind of assignment? Has he commissioned an article on Lida? On his ex-mistress? Is that why you’re asking me these questions?’

  Lida was a clue, thought Nehmann. Not Frau Baarova. Lida.

  ‘You know her well? You’re friends?’

  ‘Yes. She’s been here to the studio a number of times recently. I expect it helps that I admire her work.’

  ‘And how is she?’ Nehmann’s hand briefly closed over his heart. ‘In here?’

  ‘She’s well. She has a life of her own now.’

  ‘And does she share that life with…’ Nehmann shrugged ‘…anyone else?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not for you to ask. Nor me to answer. Is this you talking? Or your boss? If it’s the latter, I suggest you tell him that Lida is in good hands, that the script will do her nothing but good and that she loves the life here. She survived what happened in Berlin but only just. She’ll never go back.’

  Nehmann nodded and wondered whether he should make a note or two. I did my best, but she never wants to see you again. And, to be honest, who can blame her?

  ‘Well, Herr Nehmann? Has this helped at all?’

  Nehmann said yes. He liked this woman. He liked her directness and her guile. She knew exactly what he was doing here and she’d been very happy to pass a message back to Berlin on Baarova’s behalf. He glanced at his watch. Maybe a longer conversation over a drink or two? Or even a meal?

  He was about to voice the invitation when he heard an alarm bell deep in the building. Seconds later, the phone on Nina’s desk began to trill. She picked it up, listened for a moment, then had a brief conversation Nehmann couldn’t follow.

  The call at an end, she got to her feet.

  ‘We have a problem with the elephant. It’s gone berserk. Two people injured on set so far and no one with any idea what to do next. I’m glad you’re here.’

  She said there were a dozen German children trapped on the set. They’d been on a studio tour all day. Their teacher was one of the injured. Might Nehmann be able to help in their mother tongue?

  ‘Of course.’

  He followed her out of the office. The alarm bell was ringing again and the corridors on the ground floor were choked with people fleeing the building. In the distance, very faintly, Nehmann thought
he could hear the howl of a siren.

  They were outside the biggest of the studio sets now. The huge wooden doors were closed but Nina led the way through a maze of passages until she paused beside a small access door. She inched it open very slowly. Nehmann offered to take her place but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  Finally, the door was open. The view across the studio was hidden behind scaffolding that held part of the set in place but there was no mistaking the deep bass roar of the elephant. As a kid, back in Svengati, Nehmann had haunted the travelling circus when the Big Top came to town. He’d seen these animals at close quarters, and he knew how volatile and unpredictable they could be. No one in his right mind would argue with three thousand kilos of elephant.

  He and Nina crept around the scaffolding. Men were shouting orders to each other and some of the children were screaming. That ripeness in the air, thought Nehmann: definitely elephant.

  The moment they rounded the scaffold, the set yawned before them. Nehmann stopped, astonished. He loved magic. In his own small way, he adored casting spells. The business of illusion fascinated him. But what he saw before him defied description. He was looking at one half of a tiny coliseum from the Punic War. The semi-circle of terraced steps, artfully stone-like, seemed thousands of years old. Palm trees flanked an imposing portico and even the sand on the studio floor looked ancient. In the middle of this space, the elephant reared on its hind legs, trumpeting its rage while half a dozen men tried to cage it behind a thicket of spears. Two of them, obviously actors, were dressed as Romans. The rest, equally brave, were scene hands.

  Nina was looking at the children. They were trapped halfway up the terrace of steps, the younger ones plainly terrified. Every time the elephant turned in their direction, lumbering towards them, stopping, roaring, they seemed to physically shrink, trying to make themselves smaller.

  ‘You need a gun,’ Nehmann said. ‘Shoot for the legs. Drop the animal. Put it on the floor.’

  Nina spared him no more than a glance. She was off again, hurrying along the back of the scaffolding, looking up at the lattice of steel tubes, trying to find a way of getting the children off the terraced steps, but it was Nehmann who found the solution.

  ‘There,’ he said.

  He’d spotted a wooden ladder propped against the studio wall. With Nina’s help he manhandled it across to the back of the scaffolding. Propped against the top rail, it might be possible to ferry the children down to safety.

  Nehmann began to climb. Every time the elephant reared up on the studio floor, he could feel the ladder shaking beneath him. At the top, a panel of painted canvas blocked access to the steps. Nehmann tore at it with his bare hands, pulling as hard as he could, trying to wrestle it free. He was cursing the efficiency of Italian carpenters when it finally gave way, nearly tipping him backwards, but he clung to the ladder, aware of the sweat cooling on his upturned face.

  Then, very suddenly, came a shot, and then another, and the entire set seemed to move bodily with the weight of the elephant collapsing against it. The children were screaming again, much closer this time, and Nehmann inched himself onto the topmost step of the terrace, staring down at the elephant lying in a widening pool of its own blood. The bullets had taken it in the chest, not the legs. The animal’s eyes were open, but lifeless, and a last breath bubbled crimson onto the sand.

  The man with the rifle was wearing a pair of blue overalls. He circled the elephant, keeping his distance, then put a final bullet into its head. Two of the girls on the steps below Nehmann were hiding their eyes. The rest were weeping.

  *

  Mercifully, there was no need to use the ladder. Nina appeared in the area and climbed towards the children, beckoning Nehmann to join her.

  ‘Tell them everything’s going to be all right,’ she said. ‘Tell them they’ll be safe with us.’

  Nehmann talked to the tallest boy among them. He checked that no one had been physically hurt and told them to follow the lady out of the studio. When the boy asked about the teacher, Nehmann said that he, too, would be in good hands.

  Nina led the way to the dressing rooms. A handful of make-up staff had appeared and fussed over the children. Keys appeared. Doors were unlocked. An older woman arrived with a tray of fizzy drinks and a huge plate brimming with pastries and sweets while Nehmann and Nina moved from child to child, offering whatever comfort they could. Then, looking up, Nehmann noticed the name on one of the dressing room doors. Lida Baarova, it read.

  The children were beginning to calm down. One or two of them, pale, were plainly in shock and, as they began to talk to Nehmann, to open up to him, it was obvious that this experience had been doubly horrible. First, the rampaging elephant. Then the man in blue who had so casually killed it.

  ‘Warum?’ wailed one little girl. ‘Warum musste er es tun?’

  Why? Why did he have to do it?

  Nehmann did his best to explain but then felt the lightest touch on his arm. It was Nina. Transport had at last arrived for the children. The studio, she said, was deeply grateful for everything Nehmann had done but now she had to get her charges off the premises.

  ‘And the schoolteacher?’

  ‘Nothing serious. He was doing his duty. He was trying to protect the children. He’ll be there at the hostel by the time they get back.’ She smiled, then beckoned him closer before kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘Thank you,’ she said again.

  Nehmann watched them all leave. The moment they’d gone, he stepped across to Lida Baarova’s dressing room and closed the door behind him. This, he assumed, would be her professional home over the weeks of shooting to come. There was a pile of neatly folded towels beside the single wash basin. A selection of soaps and shampoos. Trays of make-up. Umpteen shades of lipstick. Even a pile of new-looking Czech fashion magazines in case she was feeling homesick.

  Nehmann studied himself in the mirror for a long moment. This, he knew, was the moment of decision. Goebbels’ billet-doux was still in his jacket pocket. He could leave it beside the magazines and knew that it would be safe here. She’d walk in to find everything ready, everything prepared, and then her eyes would drift to the envelope. Her name on the front. Something personal. But what?

  Nehmann tried to imagine her slipping her finger under the flap, easing the envelope open, spreading the pages inside. She’d recognise Goebbels’ crablike, schoolboy script. She’d probably weather the first paragraph or two. She might even be curious enough to make it through to the end. But if she was half the woman Nina had implied, there’d be absolutely no prospect of this drivel getting her back to the Minister’s arms. Hedvika had been right. Joseph Goebbels had been talking to himself.

  Nehmann hesitated a moment longer, then he reached for one of the lipsticks. It was the deepest crimson. It spoke of passion, and abandon, and Nehmann knew that Goebbels would have gone for it without a moment’s thought.

  He stepped towards the mirror, aware of raised voices outside. He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then he reached out to the mirror, neat little loops, two perfect lines of text, as close to Goebbels’ hand as he could manage.

  Gute Jagd, meine Isolde. Immer dein, immer Tristan.

  Good hunting, my Isolde. Always yours, always Tristan.

  11

  MOUNT ELBRUS, 21 AUGUST 1942

  The joint twenty-three-man team rose early, an hour before dawn. These were elite mountain troops, some from the First Mountain Division, the rest from the Fourth. Led by Hauptmann Heinz Groth and Hauptmann Max Gammerler, both veterans of countless alpine ascents, they brewed coffee, struck camp and set off for the last steep kilometres that would take them to the summit of the highest peak in Europe. With them, they carried the Reich War Flag, as well as a pair of divisional standards.

  Both Gammerler and Groth knew that the rest of Army Group ‘A’ were doing less well below them, moving at snail’s pace through the mountains, plodding south towards the Black Sea, but the mood among the climbers was buoyant. They’d been
acclimatising to the thinness of the air for days but even so it was wise to move slowly, one step at a time, enjoying the first long shadows on the surrounding icefields, cast by the rising sun.

  At altitude, nearly five and a half thousand metres, it paid to take regular breaks, huddling against the biting wind, watching the little moguls of powdered snow snaking up the mountainside towards them. From a perch like this, a man could get a very different perspective on this unending war. The climbers nodded to each other, exchanging smiles before heading upwards again. Wirklich grossartig. Truly magnificent.

  They reached the summit shortly before mid-morning. The mountain peaked on a steep shoulder of rock sheathed in snow. The honour of planting the War Flag belonged to the man who had carried it up the mountain. Steadied by a friend, he reached up and drove the base of the flagpole through the crust of ice and deep into the packed snow beneath. The moment the pole was vertical, the War Flag streamed out in the stiff wind, the swastika and its blood-red background the starkest message against the blueness of the sky.

  To the cheers of his Kameraden, the mountaineer who’d planted the flag stepped back, raising his right arm in the Führer salute. The climber charged with recording this moment asked for a tiny shuffle to the left to make the most of the endless spread of mountains beyond. Then, to more applause, he pressed the shutter.

  Gammerler was carrying a bottle of schnapps. He went from man to man, offering them each a tiny glassful. The schnapps was ice-cold but Gammerler had insisted on 84 per cent proof, the strongest he could find, and each man tipped back his head as the clear spirit burned its way down his gullet and kindled a fire deep in his belly. The bottle empty, he stowed it carefully in his pack. Then, almost as an afterthought, he opened the flap again and produced a tiny wooden aeroplane.

  This, like the schnapps, came as a surprise to most of the men. They gathered round, curious, passing the little triplane from hand to hand. Gammerler didn’t have the full story but told them it had come from Generaloberst Wolfram von Richthofen. As a fighter pilot he’d cut his teeth with his uncle’s squadron over the trenches in the last war and – as a favour – he’d asked the climbers from Army Group ‘A’ to find a niche for the Fokker on the very top of Mount Elbrus. The Red Baron, he said, would doubtless be looking down. Listen hard for his applause.