Messner shook his head. There had to be an alternative to this obscene rationale but just now he couldn’t offer Kalb an answer. Just to engage in a conversation like this filled him with shame. He felt dirtied. He needed to get out of this foulness, he needed to erase the memory of these alabaster faces. He needed to climb back into Klaus’s car, and fire up the Storch, and fly away. Nobody he knew in uniform had commissioned people like Kalb to do anything like this. Only when you saw the evidence could you believe that such a thing was possible.
‘Well, Herr Oberst?’ Kalb was waiting for an answer. ‘How many can you take?’
‘None.’ Messner turned to leave. ‘We drop bombs, not people.’
‘They’re dead, Herr Oberst. That’s the whole point.’
‘Dead or alive?’ Messner was at the foot of the steps. ‘What’s the difference?’
Kalb wouldn’t answer. For a moment, Messner anticipated a farewell salute but mercifully he was spared. Instead, Kalb checked his watch and then stepped closer. Even his breath, foul, pungent, smelled of death.
‘Is this a decision you should be taking, Herr Oberst? Or might we expect to be hearing from Generaloberst Richthofen?’
14
BERLIN, 23 AUGUST 1942
Nehmann loved Sundays and this one, he’d promised Maria, would be special. The spell of fine weather showed no signs of coming to an end and yesterday’s encounter with Goebbels, much to his relief as well as his surprise, appeared to have cemented his position as a maverick in the Ministry’s stable of reporters. For once in his life he’d relied on the truth to protect him. And, for now at least, it seemed to have worked. In anyone else’s world, Goebbels’ parting shot – the hint that something unpleasant lay down the road – might have stirred a moment or two of anxiety but Nehmann had never seen the point of worrying himself without very good cause. The Fates had always treated him better than well. And now would be no different.
He left the apartment early to find supplies for a picnic. He had contacts in a number of restaurants across the city and even at this hour he could rely on a favour or two. By mid-morning, laden with cold meats, wedges of Spanish tortilla, warm rolls and a bag of freshly picked raspberries, he returned to the Wilhelmstrasse. Maria, who’d been playing at the club in Moabit past three in the morning, was still asleep. Nehmann sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at her. Half awake at last, she reached sleepily up for him. They kissed for a while and then he felt her fingers loosening the buttons on his shirt.
‘It’s Sunday,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to go to work.’
Afterwards, he made coffee. What he loved about this woman wasn’t simply her wants, which were commendably varied, but her instinctive ability to meet his own needs. She had a deftness, a lightness of touch, that went way beyond the physical. In a previous life, he sometimes told himself, she might have been a sorceress or a fortune teller. She seemed to have an almost supernatural knowledge of who he really was. That this might extend to his dalliances with Hedvika in Venice hadn’t worried him in the slightest. What was beginning to occur to him was the possibility that he’d fallen in love.
Was this something that happened by accident? Did this have to do with a chance alignment of the stars? He’d no idea but the realisation warmed the very core of him, a much-protected corner of his psyche that no one else had ever visited. Women liked him. Some of them enjoyed him. Like Goebbels, he could make them laugh. But Maria was different because Maria, unlike any other woman he’d ever met, was somehow able to control their relationship. When she wasn’t there, he missed her. Worse still, he wanted to know what she was up to.
Still naked, he padded around the flat, in and out of the kitchen, assembling plates, cutlery, napkins, a bottle of Guram’s fast-depleting stock of Bordeaux claret. One of Maria’s seemingly few possessions was a wicker basket she’d picked up in the market in Prenzlauer Berg. They’d agreed that the banks of the Havel, out beyond Spandau, would be a fine choice for a Sunday picnic. They could eat and drink to their heart’s content and afterwards, if the fancy took them, they might hire a sailing dinghy at the little jetty at Wilhelmstadt and venture into the open water beyond.
Dressed at last, they were about to leave when the phone rang. Nehmann turned his back on the instrument but Maria suggested he answer it.
Just as well. Joseph Goebbels had never before rung Nehmann in person, but always through a secretary.
‘Ja?’ Nehmann could think of no other response.
Goebbels was in his office. He was alone all day and he needed a conversation.
‘You’re telling me you’re bored?’ Nehmann was staring at the phone.
‘Far from it.’
‘This is important?’
‘I think you’ll agree it is. There’s some kind of problem?’
Nehmann mentioned the picnic. The weather was wonderful. It was Sunday. What else would anyone half-sane want to do but get out and enjoy the sunshine?
‘We’re just about to leave,’ he added.
‘We?’
‘Myself. And Maria.’
‘Ah… then tell her the C minor was wonderful.’
‘The what?’
‘The C minor.’ Goebbels was laughing now. ‘Ten minutes, Nehmann. Ten minutes to get here and ten minutes for us to have our conversation. How does that sound?’
Nehmann was about to answer but realised there was no point. The Master of the Hunt had hung up.
He looked round. Maria was sitting in one of Guram’s armchairs, the wicker basket at her feet.
‘The C minor?’ he queried.
‘It’s a Beethoven sonata. The Pathétique. I played the slow movement last night.’
‘Where?’
‘In the club.’ She was staring at him. ‘Where else?’
*
Nehmann was at the Ministry within minutes. The sentry on the door, whom he knew well, expressed surprise that Herr Nehmann should be turning his back on this wonderful weather. Nehmann nodded and for once said nothing. His early confidence that all would be well had evaporated. Dread was something new in his life. Not now, he kept telling himself. Not when everything’s going so, so well.
The door to Goebbels’ inner office was open. A solitary secretary at one of the desks outside was bent over her typewriter and barely spared him a glance.
‘Sit…’ Goebbels waved Nehmann into the chair that had been readied in front of the desk. Official business, Nehmann thought. This gets worse and worse.
Goebbels had been making notes of some kind. His pen returned to what looked like a film script. A framed photograph was hanging on the wall behind him. Nehmann had seen it before but never in this office.
He was looking at a family group. Goebbels and his wife were there with their three children. Hitler was standing between them, dominating the background. The group was stiffly posed, designed for a particular occasion, and the photo had appeared in newspapers and magazines across the Reich.
Nehmann remembered it well. October 1938, with the Czech crisis resolved to the Chancellor’s entire satisfaction, Hitler’s considerable energies were now devoted to sorting out his Minister of Propaganda’s family affairs. Send your mistress back to Prague. Dress up the children. Call in the photographer. Assure us all is well.
Goebbels was still working on the script and Nehmann realised that the photograph, so prominent behind him, was for his benefit. The Minister, as ever, was sending a message. No more secret missions. No more intimacies between them.
‘You were at the club last night? In Moabit?’ Nehmann asked. The last thing he wanted to discuss was Lida Baarova.
‘I was, Nehmann. You’re right. Transcendence is very rare, especially in someone your young lady’s age. Beethoven might have written that sonata specially for her. He’d have cherished every note, every pause, every tiny nuance in that performance. She must have been there when he wrote it. She had us in the palm of her hand. You know how old she is?’
‘Twenty-eight.
It was her birthday just recently. That’s why I bought her the piano.’
‘She’s twenty-five.’ Goebbels at last looked up. ‘She was born on 23 October 1917.’
Nehmann was staring at him.
‘When?’
‘23 October 1917. We were starting to lose the war. My father used to talk about how gloomy people were that year.’
Nehmann’s heart sank. This man knows more than I do, he thought. And in matters like this he never makes mistakes.
‘Anything else you’d like me to tell me?’ Nehmann was trying to hide the concern in his voice.
‘You said she was Austrian. I think you mentioned a village down near the border.’
‘Villach. She was born near Villach.’
‘Wrong again, I’m afraid. She’s from Warsaw. Her real name’s Szarlota Kowalczyk.’
‘You’re telling me she’s Polish?’
‘Partly. Her father’s German. He used to teach music at the university in Warsaw. The marriage didn’t work out. He’s living back here. He was already in his forties when Maria was born. He’s an old man now.’
‘And her mother?’
‘Dead, I’m afraid. Gone.’
‘When?’
‘Last month. You only just missed her.’
‘You’re telling me she was Jewish?’ Nehmann was watching him carefully.
‘Alas, yes.’
‘And there was other family? In Warsaw?’
‘Two sisters. They were on the first transport, too. Treblinka. My sympathies, Nehmann. This business might be necessary, but it will never be pretty.’
Nehmann was lost for words. He knew about what was happening in Warsaw, about the hundreds of thousands of Jews penned in the Jewish ghetto. More recently, he’d heard rumours of mass deportations to the east where he assumed there must be holding camps. Treblinka, he thought. Wherever that might be.
‘They died of hunger? They got sick?’
‘They died. As I said, you have my sympathies.’
‘I never knew them.’
‘Of course, you didn’t. But your Maria did.’
The silence stretched and stretched. Goebbels had put down the pen and abandoned the script. At last Nehmann stirred. Did Maria know about what had happened to her mother? To her two sisters? And, if not, was it his job to tell her? For once in his life he felt helpless.
‘So, what next?’ he said.
Goebbels was taking his time. Nehmann had seen him like this before, but always with other people. It meant that he had a plan, that he was in control of the conversation, and that he was enjoying himself. Something had changed between them. Goebbels was very definitely in charge.
‘Where might we find Maria tomorrow morning?’ he asked.
‘At home. With me.’
‘Sadly not. You need to be at Tempelhof by eight in the morning. A driver will collect you.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘An airfield called Tatsinskaya. It’s in Russia. It’s belonged to us for several weeks now. The battle for Stalingrad begins tomorrow. Sixth Army is a sorry outfit, but General Paulus assures the Führer that the city will be in our hands by the end of next month. The Propaganda Companies will be sending footage back, of course, but that won’t be enough. As I’m sure you agree, they can be a liability as well as a blessing.’
‘You have something specific in mind? For me?’
‘I do, Nehmann. Here—’
Goebbels opened and drawer and extracted a yellow file. He briefly checked the contents before sliding it across the desk.
‘Read it,’ he said. ‘Master it. And then bring me something special.’
Nehmann opened the file. The first photo, in colour, was striking. In extreme close up, the cameraman had caught the subject smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a braided Luftwaffe cap. His brow was furrowed. He appeared to be deep in thought but what made the image so special was the cigarette. It was a roll-up and it was held between the second and third finger of the left hand. No one could possibly arrange a shot like this, and the effect was startling. Nehmann had rarely seen a senior commander look so intimate, so interesting, so real.
‘Von Richthofen,’ he said. ‘The sainted Wolfram.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Never.’
‘You will. The man was a giant in Spain. Then he tore the French apart when we settled their nonsense a couple of years ago. He would have done the same to the British if Goering hadn’t been in the way. Sevastopol was his work. Stalingrad will be Sevastopol all over again, but better. Warsaw? Rotterdam? London? The world has seen nothing until Richthofen attends to Stalingrad.’
‘You want me to interview him?’
‘Yes. He has an aide. Oberst Messner. I understand you’ve met him already.’
‘I have. Briefly. Smashed himself up in a traffic accident.’
‘Ja?’ Goebbels wasn’t interested. ‘Messner will meet you at Tatsinskaya. He knows you’re coming. By the time you get there the first day’s raids will be over but part of Richthofen’s charm is that the man never stops. We can rely on more raids, more bombs. Did you ever box, Nehmann? Were you ever in the ring? Richthofen always opens with an uppercut. He wants the Ivans on the canvas from the start. Then he waits for his man to get up and jabs and jabs until the moment comes for another uppercut and then it’s over. Richthofen is an artist, Nehmann. He paints in blood. He delivers for the Reich. Our people love him already, but I want you to turn him into something truly special. You find the words. The rest you leave to me.’
Nehmann held his gaze. The commission, he had to admit, was beguiling but the unvoiced question on his lips mattered a great deal more.
‘And Maria?’ he said.
‘I have plans, Nehmann, as you may imagine. She plays like a goddess. She deserves a much bigger audience and that, may I say, will be my pleasure to arrange.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Did I promise you ten minutes?’ He smiled, then nodded towards the window. ‘And is the sun still shining?’
*
Nehmann was back outside the apartment. He let himself in and climbed the stairs to the first floor. Half expecting to hear Maria at the keyboard, he was surprised by the silence. He hesitated outside the door, and then realised it was already open. He stepped inside. The big lounge was empty. He called her name. Silence. Her wicker basket was exactly where he’d seen it last, on the carpet beside her armchair. He went from room to room, expecting to find her in the bathroom or perhaps in the bedroom deciding on a change of skirt, but there was no sign of her anywhere. Neither had anything been disturbed. Nor, he realised with a sinking heart, was there a note.
Where should he look next? There was a shop that sold milk on the corner. Should he check there? He was heading for the stairs again when the phone began to ring. He returned to the apartment and snatched at the receiver. She was calling from one of the public boxes on the Wilhelmstrasse. She’d be back in no time at all.
He bent to the phone, recognising the voice at once. Goebbels.
‘She’s quite safe, Nehmann. We’ll take very great care of her. You have my word. I’m afraid I misled you about Tempelhof. You’re leaving today, not tomorrow. A car should be with you shortly. Gute Reise.’
The line went dead. Nehmann rocked on his heels, exactly the way a boxer might. Goebbels, like Richthofen, fought to win. Jab, jab, jab. These men were animals, he thought. Nothing interested them but the taste of victory, and the roar of the crowd. It had been madness on his part to play games with a burned-out mistress, and now Nehmann had to pay the price.
He returned to the bedroom. The bed was still unmade. He gazed down at it for a moment, then shook his head. Szarlota. Polish, not Austrian. And half Jewish, as well. The irony was so sweet it brought a smile to his face.
This was the age of the lie, big or small. Truth filleted for what might be useful and then tossed aside. Deception practised on the grandest scale. Whole nations, millions of Volk, misled, manipulated, lied to. Nehmann wa
s part of that. He understood the power of the lie, the artful sleight of hand, the dark sorcery that turned black into white, and good into evil. That’s how he’d made his reputation. That’s how he’d won the precious freedoms offered by – yes – the Minister of Lies himself. Yet here he was, still staring at the bed he’d shared with a woman he thought he’d known. The duper duped, he thought. The master of levitation well and truly fucked.
Did it matter? Not at all. If anything, he felt even more for her. Lies were the currency of this crazy time. It was the way you got ahead, made your name. And if you had a problem, if you were half Jewish with the looks to match, it might even be the way you stayed alive. He didn’t blame her in the least for hiding bits of herself away. In her position, he’d have done exactly the same. Was Maria her real name? He shook his head, knowing that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care. Whatever her real name, wherever she’d come from, she’d remain Maria and the fact was that she’d swallowed him whole.
He brightened at the thought. He knew what Goebbels was up to. He’d taken her hostage against the day when he and the Minister would have to settle their accounts. Because he was clever, as well as devious, he might well invest some of the Ministry’s resources in her talent, bring her to the promised wider audience, tempt her with flattery and fame, and he hoped she’d have the strength to keep her bearings in the giddy world of Reich stardom. But in the meantime, provided he survived whatever was to come, he had to protect both their interests.
He left the apartment again and began to climb the stairs. On the shadowed landing at the very top of the building, a door offered access to the roof. The caretaker carried a key but Nehmann knew where he hid the spare. On his knees, he felt behind the radiator and retrieved it.
Out in the sunshine again, he made his way across the ribbed lead roof. A pair of pigeons scattered at his approach. A big water tank stood beside the chimney stack, supported by blocks of concrete at each corner. It fed every apartment in the block and Nehmann knelt again, disturbing the scabs of rust beneath it. He knew they’d be back to search Guram’s apartment the moment he was en route to Tempelhof. Goebbels wanted his letter back and he had a couple of men he trusted for work like this. And so Nehmann needed to check it was still safe.
Last Flight to Stalingrad Page 13
