Last Flight to Stalingrad Graham Hurley (sight word books .TXT) 📖

*

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