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

‘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 was 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