Last Flight to Stalingrad

by Graham Hurley

  Nehmann acknowledged the question with a smile. He glanced at the hanging blanket that offered them just a little privacy and then lowered his voice and said he had no faith whatsoever in generals. The ones he’d met, he said, were an excuse to dress up in fancy uniforms and get pissed on looted wine every night. They spent other men’s lives the way a gambler might spend his winnings.

  Kirile was frowning again. He looked, if anything, slightly shocked.

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I do. Is General Paulus, an exception? Yes, he is. He doesn’t drink much and he’s fussy about losing too many men but he’s slow, and he’s cautious, and that, too, makes him a liability. War is madness, Kirile. You know it and I know it and that makes us both good Georgians. I like you. You’re my countryman. I believe you should have a future.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that I will arrange for your escape. This very night. You’ll be taken out of custody and released.’

  ‘Released where?’

  ‘Just short of the front line. Fifty metres to your brethren, Kirile. A specially chosen place. Pitch darkness. And all those unpainted tanks just waiting to make life safe again.’

  ‘They’ll kill me,’ he said at once. ‘They’ll put a bullet through my head.’

  ‘Who, Kirile? Who will kill you?’

  ‘The Commissars. The NKVD. Anyone who comes back they kill. It happens all the time. They trust no one. They’ll think I’m a spy, a traitor. I got taken prisoner. You whispered in my ear.’ He shook his head, buried his face in his hands. ‘This is a death sentence. They’ll kill me.’

  Nehmann did his best to look concerned. Then he put a hand on the boy’s knee. He could feel him trembling beneath his touch.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it tonight. This is a gesture, just us, you and me, one Georgian to another. Liberty, Kirile. Freedom. Is there a better present in the world?’

  That evening, Schultz returned from God knows where with a live chicken. Kirile had been handed back to the Feldgendarmerie for safekeeping and Nehmann, after a brief discussion with Schultz, planned to talk to him again towards midnight.

  Now, the Abwehr man tossed the chicken across to Nehmann and told him to get it ready for the pot. He’d also managed to lay hands on a bucket of potatoes and a beetroot he’d liberated from the woman who used to clean the bus depot.

  Nehmann hadn’t killed a chicken since his days in his uncle’s abattoir. He chased it around the makeshift office while Schultz’s staff looked on. One was cheering for the chicken. The others were hungry. Nehmann finally trapped it in the corner beside the field stove, gentled it in his arms for a moment or two, and then, with a single twist of his wrist, broke its neck. The bird went limp in his arms and then, in one last spasm, defecated all over his trousers. Even Schultz was impressed.

  ‘This butcher shit.’ He was laughing. ‘I never believed you.’

  Nehmann asked for boiling water from the kettle on the field stove. He decanted the water into a bucket, added a little cold, then dunked the bird head-first in the water. Some of the feathers came off at once. The rest he plucked by hand, starting with the legs, before putting the chicken to one side to be gutted.

  Schultz kept a bottle of vodka for early evenings. He poured two glasses and then checked his watch. There was a small service-issue radio receiver on one of the two desks. The Promi ran a special series of programmes for serving personnel the length and breadth of the Greater Reich and if you had nothing better to do, then it was easy to gather round the little sets and dream of home. Nehmann knew one or two members of the ground crews back at Tatsinskaya whose entire week revolved around a particular show or a favourite radio host. This evening, said Schultz, there was a programme offering a taste of new musical talent and he thought Nehmann might be interested.

  Nehmann had his right sleeve rolled up and was deep in the carcase of the chicken. The innards were still warm as his fingers separated loops of intestine from the smoothness of the ribcage; he was only half listening to the radio. The presenter had a Bavarian accent. He said he’d crossed the border into Austria and made his way to a tiny village down near the Italian border. There he was to meet a native of the village, a young pianist now living in Berlin whom he was certain was destined for fame, someone who’d found the time between concert engagements to pay friends and relatives a flying visit on the eve of the harvest festival.

  Nehmann paused. Maria had told him she came from a village near the Italian border. She also played the piano. And, as far as Nehmann knew, she still lived in Berlin. Coincidence? He glanced across the room. Schultz was studying him with some interest. Then he put one thick finger to his lips. Just listen, he seemed to be saying. Just enjoy what we’ve got for you.

  Nehmann had missed the introduction to the first piece of music but the moment he heard the opening notes he knew it had to be Maria. Her stool drawn up to the grand piano in the big lounge on the Wilhelmstrasse, he thought, her fingers dancing on the keyboard, her head bent, her eyes half closed.

  ‘Beethoven.’ Schultz was smiling. ‘She plays well, your friend. I listened to you in Kyiv, Nehmann, and now I think I understand. Is she always this good?’

  ‘Better.’ Nehmann pushed the chicken away and wiped his hands. ‘How did you know she was on?’

  ‘We got word from the Promi.’

  ‘From Goebbels himself?’

  ‘From a secretary, a woman called Birgit. She said the Minister thought you might be interested.’

  Nehmann nodded. The music had faded after the introduction and now the presenter wanted us to meet the young pianist who had Berlin on its feet. He used her full name, Maria Gaetani. She’d been discovered, he said, playing in a Moabit nightclub and now, thanks to the good offices of the Promi, he was able to bring her talents to a much bigger audience. The young Abwehr staffer responsible for cooking the chicken had caught on that there might be a connection between Nehmann and this distant goddess. The knowledge seemed to put the little Georgian in a new light.

  Maria was describing the thrill of being back home in the shadow of the mountains. Life these days, she said, was full of uncertainties, but she felt truly spoiled to be among the people she’d grown up with. As a child, harvest festival had been one of the highlights of her year, a time laden with plump fruit, and pastries heavy with cream, and the promise of a dance once the village band got themselves in tune. Berlin, with all its promise, all its opportunities, was any woman’s dream, but this little village with all the familiar faces was where her heart belonged.

  The presenter said he knew exactly what she meant. He, too, came from the country, Franconia this time, and there was nothing warmer in the world than a welcome from the entire village and a visit to the local patisserie. Maria laughed. Then came more piano music, an upbeat jazz version of ‘Tea For Two’, before Schultz nodded at the radio set.

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Homesick?’

  Nehmann didn’t answer. The entire programme had, typically, been a lie. Her name wasn’t Maria Gaetani and – as Goebbels himself had pointed out – she’d never been anywhere near any Austrian village. The recording had probably been made in Berlin, maybe in one of the studios in the Promi’s basement.

  ‘He’s sending you a message? That boss of yours?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what does the message say? You want to share it with us, Nehmann? Or is it too painful?’

  ‘He’s telling me he has everything under control.’

  ‘You mean Maria?’

  ‘I mean Szarlota. That’s her real name. She’s Polish. And her mother was a Jew.’

  Schultz offered a low whistle, and the aide wrestling the chicken into the pot pulled a face, but oddly enough Nehmann didn’t resent sharing any of this knowledge. One of the puzzles of this city, this battle, was the way it brought you together. He could feel it already. No secrets. Only the collective k
nowledge that, one way or another, you were there to make it through.

  ‘Goebbels and our Jewish friends?’ Schultz pulled a face. ‘Oil and water. You think he’s fucking her? Is that why she’s still alive? Famous? Rich?’

  Nehmann said he didn’t know. The broadcast, he said, meant nothing. Goebbels was clever. He was the Reich’s puppet master. He’d learned how to pull life’s strings. That’s why he was so powerful. He specialised in control. A promising pianist from Warsaw who happened to be half Jewish? An entire Volk? It made no difference. Goebbels had set out to take both of them hostage and he’d largely succeeded.

  ‘A hostage, Nehmann? Is that what she is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Against what?’

  Nehmann shook his head. Despite everything, he was prepared to go no further. If he ever got back to Berlin, if he managed to avoid the attentions of Kalb, he’d try and resolve things but in the meantime, thanks to Goebbels’ clever little sleight of hand, he knew she was still alive. And that, of course, had been the real thrust of the programme’s message. Keep thinking about her. Keep worrying about her. And when the Minster asks for that letter back just hand it over.

  23

  STALINGRAD, 18 SEPTEMBER 1942

  That evening, the temperature rose again. With the snow beginning to melt, the intensity of the artillery barrage grew and grew, a constant soundtrack behind every conversation, but the Luftwaffe didn’t fly at night and there was no bombing. The chicken seemed to take an age to cook properly but there was plenty of vodka and Schultz warmed the evening with a series of stories about his days in Kyiv. Once the war had moved on, the city was lawless – Stalingrad with functioning trams and a thriving black market for anything you might happen to need – but there was plenty of extra trade in the shadowy margins of the intelligence world and he’d never been bored. Once you understood the darkness of the Ukrainian soul, he said, Kyiv was the kind of place that would never disappoint you.

  Nehmann, who was the first to recognise a fellow survivor in the madness of these times, wondered quite what Schultz meant by disappointment, but when he put the question there was no answer apart from the last centimetre of vodka in the bottle.

  ‘Drink up, my friend. We’re back to work.’

  Schultz had a couple of fur hats he’d acquired from passing prisoners. Nehmann struggled into a greatcoat that was several sizes too small even for him and he joined Schultz among the puddles outside. It was still teeming with rain but there was an icy wind blowing from the east and Nehmann could feel the raindrops turning to snow once again. Rasputitsa, he thought. An entire city disappearing beneath an ocean of mud.

  To Nehmann’s relief, they were spared the open-topped Kübelwagen. Instead, Schultz had laid hands on an ancient lorry that appeared to be Russian. They clambered up into the cab, Schultz behind the wheel. Neither of the windscreen wipers worked and Nehmann could see nothing but the blur of the rain through the filth of the glass.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not far. Here—’ He produced a torn length of what felt like cotton and gave it to Nehmann.

  ‘What do I do with this?’

  ‘It’s a blindfold. We take our young friend for a little drive. In this weather he won’t be seeing much in any case, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘It’s theatre.’

  ‘Of course. You know us too well, Nehmann.’

  ‘A pantomime.’

  ‘Hardly. Not where we’re going. He’ll be handcuffed to you, by the way. Don’t let him lead you astray.’

  Schultz had yet to start the engine. Nehmann wondered what other surprises the evening might have in store.

  ‘He believes we’ll set him free?’ Schultz asked. ‘The boy?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It terrifies him. You’re right. The Ivans trust nobody. Our smell on his pelt and the boy is as good as dead.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Schultz fumbled for a cigarette. Then came a deafening explosion, the loudest yet, and the surrounding ruins were briefly silhouetted against the blinding flash of light on the horizon.

  ‘The grain silo,’ Schultz grunted. ‘Paulus is losing patience and not before time. You wouldn’t want to be an Ivan, not in that building.’

  There was the scrape of a match and Nehmann caught a glimpse of Schultz’s face as he ducked into the flame. Some men are born for nights like these, he thought, and I’m sharing a lorry cab with one of them.

  ‘So, what do we ask him? The boy? What’s the price for not letting him go?’

  The question seemed to amuse Schultz. He sucked in a lungful of smoke and then expelled it slowly, tapping ash onto the floor. He’d been talking to an analyst he trusted in Abwehr headquarters back in Berlin. He believed that Stalin was determined to hold the line on the Volga for exactly the same reason that Hitler demanded the city for himself. Symbols, for dictators, mattered a great deal and none – it seemed – was more important than this ever-growing pile of rubble beside the river.

  ‘You and me, Nehmann? And every other fucker out here? We’re realists. Maybe fatalists. You wake up in the morning. You count the buildings that have gone overnight. And you maybe wonder what all the noise is about. But sit behind a desk in Berlin or Moscow and you’re in a different world. You listen to people who only want to put a smile on your face. Everyone takes a look at the map and agrees that feeding an army nearly three thousand kilometres away is a piece of piss. We happen to know that’s not true, but who’s interested in us? This is a different game, Nehmann, and just now it’s our job to put ourselves in the head of the enemy.’

  Stalin, he said, was also a realist. He knew just how tough it was to bite the head off the German snake, even this far from home. To make any kind of stand, and maybe try to push the enemy west again, he’d need lots more troops, more artillery, tanks by the thousands, bridge-building equipment, the whole circus that went with the application of serious violence. Out on the steppe, especially in winter, it was impossible to hide deployments of this size, and by analysing Russian radio traffic, teams in the Abwehr had begun to detect a twitch or two in what Goebbels had recently described as the Soviet corpse.

  ‘Our Georgian friend may well have picked up similar rumours.’ Schultz reached for the ignition key. ‘So that’s where you might start.’

  *

  Kirile had been readied for collection. No coat. Nothing on his feet. The Leutnant from the Feldgendarmerie was waiting in the draughty shelter of what must once have been a church. Schultz and Nehmann hurried in from the rain, stepping over a drift of shattered glass and the splintered remains of the door. Nehmann had the blindfold and tied it tightly around the Georgian’s head, two turns, no chance of the slightest clue to what might happen next. Kirile said nothing. His face, as pale as ever, was a mask. From centimetres away, Nehmann sensed resignation as well as fear.

  An exchange of glances between Schultz and the Leutnant produced a sub-machine gun and what looked like grenades. With the machine gun came two spare magazines. Schultz cocked the gun, checked the chamber, then released the mechanism again. This time, Kirile flinched.

  ‘Alles gut?’ Schultz patted the Leutnant on the arm, a gesture of thanks, and made for the door. Nehmann followed him into the rain, leading Kirile by one arm, helping him clumsily up into the driving cab. The wooden bench seat ran the width of the lorry. There was room for the three of them. Just.

  ‘Here—’ Schultz had produced a pair of handcuffs.

  Kirile, drenched from the rain, had started to shiver. Nehmann shackled the boy’s skinny wrist to his own. Schultz restarted the engine, peering through the windscreen, then began to move again. The trick, Nehmann realised quickly, was simple. Five times round the grid of roads that surrounded the church, stop, start, stop, start, right, left, a grinding of gears, a lurch or two, then right again, a jigsaw of turns impossible to follow. At length, they were back where they’d started, the face of the watching Leutnant still v
isible in the vestibule of the church.

  Kirile, they both knew, spoke German.

  ‘I know the Oberst here,’ Schultz grunted to Nehmann. ‘He’s promised covering fire. You see the remains of the tree there? Just left of the abandoned tank?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Ivans. Explain it all to our friend. Tell him which way to run. They’ll have the vodka ready. Seventy metres? Probably less. Good luck, my friend.’ He gave the boy’s wet thigh a pat. ‘Christmas in Tbilisi, ja?’

  Schultz exchanged glances with Nehmann, then got out of the truck. With the door still open it was even colder.

  ‘Take it off.’ It was Kirile. ‘Please take the blindfold off.’

  Nehmann ignored him. He wanted to know about troop movements the other side of the river, about the reinforcements that Chuikov so desperately needed, about the measures Stalin might be planning to stop the hated Germans in their tracks and drive them out of the city.

  ‘You think I know stuff like that? You’re crazy.’

  ‘Try, tovarisch. Just try. Any hint. Any rumour. Any clue. You were in and out of the command HQ. I know you were. A fragment of conversation. A message on a desk. A whisper. Anything.’

  Tovarisch. Comrade.

  Kirile shook his head. This was beyond him. He was so frightened, so cold, so lost, he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t put a sentence together. Then came the nearby bark of a machine gun on automatic, rat-tat-tat, and he started to whimper.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t. Please…’

  Next came the flat, sharp, percussive blast of a grenade, just metres away. This had to be a blank, Nehmann thought. Even Schultz wouldn’t risk the real thing so close.

  Kirile was crying now, his spare hand trying to hide the tears. Nehmann could see the child he must so recently have been, and he shook his head, knowing that this pantomime was deeply, deeply shaming.

  He bent to the boy’s ear.