Last Flight to Stalingrad

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Leave it to me.’ Schmidt, that same night, seemed untroubled. ‘You want him crippled but alive? My pleasure.’

  Nehmann said he was grateful. He’d finally thawed out and when the little sniper disappeared into the night he retreated to the bare comforts of the basement storage where he slept. He’d been back in Stalingrad now for nearly two weeks. He’d done his best to put Berlin, all of Berlin, behind him. He didn’t want to dwell on Goebbels, or Guram’s wrecked apartment, or the moment he’d knocked on the bookshop door and found Maria elsewhere. All that, he told himself, was part of a life that had gone. Stalingrad was where he’d ended up, and the very lack of a future was – in some strange way – a comfort. His whole life he’d tried to resist making assumptions. Assumptions – about anything – were the shortest cut to disappointment. Make the very best of whatever happens. Do what Georgians have always done. Live a little.

  Until now, he’d resisted opening Goebbels’ letter. For once, because Schultz had finally run out of vodka, he was completely sober. The letter was still in the breast pocket of the jacket he’d worn the night he’d flown back from Berlin. He fetched it out and stared for a long moment at the envelope.

  How much of the last few months, maybe much longer, had been shaped by this letter? Without this gun to Goebbels’ head, what else might have happened? Would he and Maria still be together in Guram’s apartment, untroubled by a Nazi chieftain desperate to reclaim his mistress? Had he been crazy to bend the knee, and play the messenger, and take the train south to Italy? To all of these questions he knew there was only one answer, the Georgian answer, the answer of the apprentice butcher who’d turned his back on the mountains and sought a life elsewhere. You do what you do. And face the consequences.

  He used a penknife he’d acquired from Schultz to open the envelope. Inside, as expected, he found three folded sheets of paper. He slid them out and flattened them in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp. Anticipating paragraph after paragraph of Goebbels at full throttle, he found himself looking at three sheets of music. This was a language he didn’t speak. His eyes tried to follow the notation at the top of the first page. Hopeless. There were no clues to what this music, this tune, might be, but the implications were only too clear, and he realised at last why Maria, in Berlin, had been so close, and yet so far.

  For whatever reason, she’d betrayed him.

  33

  STALINGRAD, 16 JANUARY 1943

  Nothing to lose, Nehmann told himself.

  The sniper, Schmidt, reported to the bus depot an hour or so after dawn. He was wearing camouflage, entirely white. His journey on foot, he said, had taken more than two hours and every next step had revealed more evidence of the army disintegrating in front of his eyes. Infantrymen pissing on each other’s hands. Reinforcement companies turned away from the field hospital, limping towards the front line. How strange a man looked when he’d lost his ears to frostbite.

  Nehmann, only too aware that the battle might be over within days, was impatient.

  ‘We have to do this thing,’ he told Schultz, ‘before the Ivans get here.’

  Schultz agreed. There was half a tank of fuel left in the Kübelwagen. They went outside into the cold. Snow was forecast and the first flakes were swirling in the wind. Schmidt was looking dubious. With no visibility and a wind like this, a clean shot would be impossible.

  ‘Then get closer,’ Nehmann said. ‘Give me the rifle and I’ll do it myself.’

  They drove to Tsarytsin. The snow was still holding off. Schultz followed Nehmann’s directions and brought the Kübelwagen to a halt fifty metres from the remains of Kalb’s commandeered quarters. It turned out that Schmidt had already paid this place a visit, noted the well, paced the distance to the frozen stream. Impressed, Nehmann extended a hand over the back of his seat.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Schmidt checked his rifle, wiped a smear from the telescopic sight, and got out of the car. Nehmann watched him walking away, back down the road. Schultz wanted to know where the fuck he thought he was going.

  ‘He’ll circle round,’ Nehmann said. ‘He thinks of everything.’

  Schultz grunted something Nehmann didn’t catch, then got out of the car and propped up the rear flap that exposed the engine. No one in this city cared any more about a broken-down Kübelwagen, but if the Chain Dogs arrived Schultz needed a reason to be here.

  ‘And now?’ He was back in the car, blowing on his hands.

  ‘We wait.’

  Nothing happened. From time to time, not often, Nehmann caught the distant bark of anti-aircraft fire and then the distinctive drone of a Tante-Ju that must have made it through to the emergency airfield at Gumrak. Once, a horse and cart appeared, heavily laden with wounded. The horse plodded past, the lone driver barely lifting his head to acknowledge the presence of the Kübelwagen. Most of the soldiers, lying prone in the back of the cart, appeared to be dead.

  ‘Seventeen.’ Nehmann smothered a yawn.

  ‘Bodies?’

  ‘Ribs.’

  Schultz gave him a look. Lately, thought Nehmann, he has the eyes of an old man.

  ‘You counted them? The ribs of the horse?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Verrückt.’ You’re crazy.

  Nehmann nodded. He agreed with crazy. Maybe nineteen, he thought. Maybe twenty. Maybe a hundred ribs. Who cares any more? He tried to stretch his legs in the cramped chill, staring out through the windscreen. A film of ice blurred the view but it seemed to him that the sky, full of snow, was getting darker by the minute.

  To the right, across the whiteness of the steppe, he could see no sign of Schmidt but he expected nothing less because the man had mastered the arts of invisibility. In his white camouflage, he could literally disappear, become one with the savage emptiness of this ruined landscape until the moment came to steady his rifle on its little tripod, and settle the cross-hairs on the folds of Kalb’s greatcoat, and take the lightest breath before squeezing the trigger. Who would ever notice in a city like this? Just one more rifle shot? Just one more body in the snow? Who’s counting any more?

  Except that Kalb wouldn’t die. Not out there in the snow. Not yet. Nehmann had found a spade in the workshop at the back of the bus depot. Very similar to the spade that had maimed Kirile, it looked nearly new, not a trace of rust on the gleaming blade, and he’d tossed it into the back of the Kübelwagen. Anticipation, he told himself, bred excitement and with excitement came a fierce adrenaline rush that kept him warm. Events had become unreal.

  Nehmann had loved the theatre all his life. He loved sitting in the darkness with the play unfolding before him. He adored the clever feints of a good script, the cut and thrust of well-shaped dialogue, the dangerous surprises that lay in wait for cast and audience alike. And here, now, in the moonscape that was Stalingrad, he sensed that the final act was at last upon them.

  A Soviet victory, regardless of whatever might follow, was now inevitable. The men of Sixth Army would stumble into captivity and most of them would probably die. Not from the kindness of a Russian bullet but from exhaustion, and starvation, and disease, and most of all from the merciless embrace of the weather. But in the meantime, in the precious hours and days that were left, there might still come just a flicker of redemption.

  ‘It’s snowing.’

  Nehmann blinked. Schultz was right. The windscreen was suddenly white with snowflakes.

  ‘You think he’s in there? At home?’ Schultz nodded in the direction of Kalb’s quarters, now invisible in the blizzard.

  Nehmann said he didn’t know. All he could think about was Schmidt, flat on his belly as the snow fell, blinded by white. White through his sniperscope. White when he lifted his head to peer over the rifle. An eternity of whiteness, a shroud falling over everything, obliterating everything. Schmidt would know what he and Schultz knew: that the forecast was promising two metres by midnight, and that the blizzard was here to stay.

  ‘We have to take him.’ I
t was Schultz again. ‘And we have to do it now.’

  Nehmann didn’t even bother to agree. Schultz had brought a machine pistol. He also kept a Luger under his seat. He checked the magazine, worked a round into the chamber and gave the gun to Nehmann. Outside, the wind tore through every layer of clothing in seconds.

  Nehmann had the spade from the back of the Wagen.

  ‘You’re going to bury the fucker?’ Schultz was shaking his head.

  Step by step they made their way towards the well. From there, Nehmann would know exactly where to head in order to find Kalb’s quarters. The blizzard was becoming heavier, more violent, visibility down to a couple of metres. Then, abruptly, Nehmann caught sight of a shape looming before them, something dark, formless, sprawled in the snow. He stopped for a moment, Luger in one hand, spade in the other. There was fresh blood pinking the snow around the folds of the Russian greatcoat and, as he stared at it, Nehmann caught a flicker of movement and what might have been a groan. One arm raised, then fell again, the gloved fingers flexing.

  ‘Hilf mir.’ Help me. An order, not a plea. It was Kalb. It had to be.

  Schultz bent to check, grunting with the effort as he rolled the body over. Kalb’s pale face stared up at them.

  ‘In here.’ He gestured helplessly at his abdomen. ‘I’ve been shot.’

  ‘Schmidt.’ Schultz shook his head in disbelief. ‘And we never heard a fucking thing.’

  Nehmann nodded. A canvas bucket with a rope handle lay beside Kalb.

  ‘The Wagen, ja?’ He looked across at Schultz. ‘Follow our footsteps back.’

  Schultz muttered something Nehmann didn’t catch and disappeared into the blizzard, his head down. Nehmann was already kneeling beside Kalb. He’d never seen the face beneath the balaclava. The Standartenführer was freshly barbered, his chin and cheeks perfectly shaved around the stamp-sized moustache, and as Kalb struggled for breath Nehmann thought he caught a hint of something sour, foul-smelling, with just a hint of menthol, that seemed to come from deep within him.

  ‘Hang on,’ Nehmann said urgently. ‘We can take you to Gumrak. Hang on. Don’t give up. Don’t die. Verstehst Du?’

  Kalb seemed to nod but Nehmann knew he was bleeding out. Not a knee shot at all but something far more serious.

  Moments later, a figure emerged from the driving snow. Assuming it was Schultz, Nehmann got to his feet but of the Kübelwagen there was no sign. Then he realised he was looking at the Leutnant from the Feldgendarmerie. He’d come to give Kalb a hand at the well.

  ‘What’s going on?’ He was staring down at the blood in the snow, at Kalb.

  ‘Fuck knows. We can get him to Gumrak. We’ll need a hand.’

  The Leutnant was a policeman. He was looking now at the Luger, at this stranger, at the tiny black-rimmed hole in the greatcoat.

  ‘So who are you?’ he demanded.

  Nehmann was spared having to answer. Schultz had arrived in the Kübelwagen. He opened all four doors and struggled towards them through the snow.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ He snapped the Leutnant a salute. ‘Oberst Schultz. Abwehr. This man is badly injured. We need to get him to Gumrak.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he hooked his big hands beneath Kalb’s armpits and told the Leutnant to take his feet. The Leutnant began to protest but Schultz cut him short with a look.

  ‘You want the man to bleed to death?’

  They carried Kalb to the Kübelwagen between them. Kalb’s eyes were closed but he appeared to be still breathing.

  ‘Schnell, ja? As quick as you can.’

  They folded Kalb into the back of the Wagen. The Leutnant was demanding Nehmann’s details.

  ‘He’s with me,’ Schultz grunted. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

  He gestured for Nehmann to get back into the Wagen, offered the Leutnant another salute, and then settled heavily behind the wheel. Moments later, the Wagen was on the move again and, looking back, Nehmann could see nothing but whiteness.

  Schultz was adjusting the rear-view mirror with his right hand. When he’d finally got a proper look at Kalb, Nehmann, twisted in his seat, had failed to find a pulse.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got much time.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Nehmann shook his head, wouldn’t say. He wanted Schultz to keep driving away from the well, just a couple of minutes, no more. Schultz nodded, tense at the wheel, his face inches from the windscreen. The single wiper had broken, a thin black stripe heaped with snow. They were moving at no more than walking pace, the Wagen ploughing slowly onwards, lurching from tussock to tussock.

  ‘Here,’ Nehmann said.

  The Wagen came to a halt, rocking in the blast of the wind. Nehmann forced his way out. Kalb, he judged, had probably been dead for less than ten minutes. His body would be cooling already and once out in the snow his exposed flesh would quickly freeze.

  ‘Help me, Willi.’ Nehmann had got the rear door open and was trying to extract Kalb by his booted feet.

  ‘You want him out?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘The fucker’s dead.’ Schultz was looking up at the rear-view mirror. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No.’

  Schultz shrugged and struggled out. Between them, they laid Kalb’s body on the snow. Nehmann knelt beside him, undid the buttons on his greatcoat, pulled it back. Underneath, Kalb had been wearing his SS field uniform. Beneath the stiff serge, God knows what else.

  ‘You’ve got that knife of yours?’ Schultz nodded. He’d given up asking questions. He dug beneath the belt of his trousers and Nehmann found himself looking at the hunting knife Schultz kept sharpened for every kind of emergency. The top edge was serrated with saw teeth while the cutting blade, lightly oiled, was razor-keen.

  ‘You don’t have to watch, Willi.’ Nehmann nodded towards the Wagen. ‘Just pass me the bucket and the spade.’

  Schultz did what he was told. Nehmann was already unbuttoning the front of Kalb’s uniform jacket. Beneath, he used the blade to slide through the layers of wool and cotton, peeling them back, exposing Kalb’s bony chest. He did the same with the trousers, cutting down the line of the crease then folding back the material. The blade had already scored a line through the flesh beneath and blood was seeping out among the black hairs on Kalb’s skinny legs. Within minutes, in a nest of torn clothing, the Standartenführer lay naked beside the Kübelwagen.

  Schultz hadn’t moved. Without a word, he passed Nehmann the canvas bucket. Nehmann looked up at him for a moment, wiping the snow from his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Nehmann ran this thumb the length of the blade, the lightest touch. He was back in the abattoir his uncle owned in Svengati. Both cattle and sheep were suspended from meat hooks before the coup de grâce and moments afterwards, as an apprentice, Nehmann had always paid special attention to that first thrust of the butcher’s knife, the one that split the animal’s belly from top to bottom.

  He remembered the spill of guts onto the tiled floor, the brightness of the yellows and greens and shades of indigo violet you never saw in any book. He remembered, too, the hot gust of shit and offal that stayed with you for hours afterwards, clinging to your hands, to your hair, to everywhere. This, he knew, was going to be different. There were no hooks. He couldn’t rely on gravity to loosen Kalb’s guts. And, when the moment came, the cold might steal away the stink of the man.

  Aware of Schultz still standing beside him, Nehmann straddled the body, paused a moment, and then plunged the hunting knife into the tiny depression beneath Kalb’s breastbone. The thrust was perfect, no obstructions, nothing solid, and he used both hands to rip the blade towards him, cutting cleanly through the layers of fat and muscle, until he found the hard ridge of the pelvis. Exposed to the driving snow, Kalb’s guts were steaming. Schultz’s big hand covered his nose but he didn’t look away.

  Nehmann had abandoned the knife for a moment. With gloves on, he knew that what he had to do next wou
ld be difficult, maybe even impossible, and so he pulled them off and left them in the snow before plunging his right hand deep into Kalb’s body, up beneath the ribcage, feeling his way through the tangle of blood vessels and connective tissue until his fingers found the twin sacs of Kalb’s lungs. They were still warm, slippery to the touch, and nestling between them he recognised the shape of what he’d come to find.

  ‘Here—’ Schultz was ready with the knife.

  Nehmann reached up for it. Then, one by one, he slashed through the major vessels and moments later he pulled Kalb’s heart free. He held it in the palm of his hand for a moment. Blood was still seeping from the chambers inside. That, too, felt warm.

  ‘In the bucket?’ Schultz needed no prompting.

  Nehmann gave him the heart. Next came the liver. This, to Nehmann’s relief, was easier. He could see it glistening, webbed with fatty imperfections, and he carved it out with a deftness that would, he suspected, have impressed his uncle.

  ‘Legs? Thighs? Something to chew on?’ Schultz had put the liver in the bucket.

  Nehmann nodded. The temptation was to separate both legs from the pelvis but even under perfect conditions this operation would call for patience as well as skill. Kalb’s temperature was dropping fast. Better for Nehmann to carve off as much as he could before the flesh froze solid. His lightly muscled thighs yielded three decent slices each to the hunting knife, and Nehmann took more from both calves. Finally, with the addition of handfuls of intestines from Kalb’s abdomen, the bucket was full.

  Nehmann got to his feet, admiring his handiwork. There’d been moments when life had tapped him on the shoulder and delighted him, but he’d seldom tasted anything as sweet as this. First he’d helped kill this man, and now he’d torn out his heart. For a moment, euphoric, he tried to find the words to describe the way he felt, and he decided that a kind of primitive bliss was the closest he’d ever get. The American Indians did this on the plains of the Midwest. And now he knew exactly why.