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

‘Of course. Helmut. How is he?’

‘He isn’t, Nehmann. He’s dead.’

Nehmann, about to swallow the last of his coffee, was staring at Schultz. In a war like this there were a million ways a man could meet his end but already he sensed a complication.

Maybe enemy action. Maybe not.

‘Where did it happen?’

‘In Berlin.’

‘But where?’

‘Guess.’

‘Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse?’

‘Of course.’

‘In the basement?’

‘In the rear courtyard. A bullet in the back of the head. Very Ukrainian, Nehmann, and the way we hear it, the man had no chance to state his case. The war is getting ugly, my old friend. No time for the smaller courtesies.’

Nehmann sat back, grateful for the warmth of the coffee between his hands. Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse housed the Berlin headquarters of the Gestapo where a team of imported specialists, mainly Hungarian, honed their skills. Maybe Helmut was lucky to have been spared the journey to the basement torture cells, he thought. Maybe a brisk adieu in the courtyard had been a blessing.

‘He saw a truck full of bodies on the airfield,’ Nehmann said softly. ‘The truck belonged to the SS. According to Helmut, the bodies, the faces, were a mess.’

‘And?’

‘He took photos.’

‘Did he have a name at all? An SS officer, maybe?’

‘No. Just the photos.’

‘And the SS found out?’

‘Yes, I think they did.’

‘You know that?’

‘I checked where he kept them,’ Nehmann said. ‘The photos were in a locked box in his darkroom. They’d gone. As soon as Helmut found out, he was a different man.’

‘How?’

‘He was frightened. I think he knew they’d come for him.’

‘He was right. They did.’

Nehmann nodded. Said nothing. The photos, he thought, of the faces from the back of the SS truck. The sour sweetness of the developing bath that night had stayed with him ever since.

‘I have a name for you, Nehmann,’ Schultz said. ‘Jürgen Kalb. He’s a Standartenführer, SS of course. You want a guarantee? You’ll never meet another fucker as damaged as this one.’

‘You know him?’

‘I do. He set up shop in Kyiv after we moved in. I told you about the Einsatzgruppen?The killing squads?These people are off the leash. Kalb got a leg-up for his contribution to Babi Yar. Help kill thirty thousand people and you’re looking at a bigger pension. Kalb also had dealings with a woman I admired. She was English. What a fucking waste.’

Nehmann nodded. He wanted to know more about Kalb.

‘He was at Tatsinskaya? At the airfield?’

‘Yes. And at Kalmach beforehand. We took a lot of prisoners there, both military and civilian. Not all of them survived.’

‘And now?’

‘Now’s different.’

Nehmann blinked. Suddenly, it was so obvious.

‘And you’re telling me Kalb’s here? In the city?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Good question. The way I see it, the man believes the place is ours for the taking and he can’t wait to clean up afterwards. The SS will never admit it but they’re the detergent in the Reich bottle. They’re here to make Russia safe for us Aryans. It sounds twisted but people like Kalb regard their brand of butchery as a higher calling. It’s a priesthood. Except you pledge your oath in other people’s blood.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘And me? We’re talking my blood?’

‘Possibly. In this life it pays not to upset people.’

‘Like?’

Schultz wouldn’t say. Goebbels, Nehmann thought. It has to be Goebbels. Just in case Stalingrad doesn’t kill me, then the SS would take care of the job.

He was about to put this proposition to Schultz, but it was too late. The Abwehr man had already moved on. Time was tight. He wanted a decision about the Georgian lad. They’d wasted far too much time discussing scum like Kalb. Even this corner of the war, he seemed to be implying, could offer unexpected rewards.

‘Like staying alive?’ Nehmann enquired.

‘Like finding out what the Ivans are really up to.’

22

STALINGRAD, 18 SEPTEMBER 1942

Nehmann slept that night at the bus depot, sharing a small basement alcove with Schultz. The chorus of explosions rose and fell, some nearby, some more distant, but gradually he began to accept the Abwehr man’s word that they were as safe as anyone could be in this abattoir of a city.

Schultz, a scavenger of genius, had laid hands on a small pile of women’s fur coats which he shared with his five-man staff. Nehmann dozed fully clothed on a mattress on the floor, warmed by silver fox, trying to fend off thoughts about what the SS might have done to the bodies in the back of their truck on the airfield at Tatsinskaya. An otherwise colourful life had so far spared him the sight of this kind of obscenity, but it was hard to forget Helmut’s terror the night they’d both got drunk. It was the act of a decent man to try and make a record of crimes like these, but the SS viewed decency as a mark of weakness and in the end the gesture had got Helmut killed.

Next morning, Schultz despatched one of his staff to fetch the Georgian. He must have been held nearby because the prisoner was back within minutes in the care of a tall, cadaverous Leutnant from the Feldgendarmerie.The military policeman wore a metal gorget on a chain around his neck and deferred at once to Schultz when he wanted the prisoner’s wrists unshackled.

‘Of course, Herr Oberst.’

The prisoner couldn’t have been older than twenty. Like his captor, he was thin and pale. His eyes were deep-set, and he had tiny razor nicks where someone had recently shaved his head. Schultz had assigned another cubbyhole off the main basement space for the interview, two wooden boxes almost within touching distance, both stamped with Cyrillic characters, and Nehmann waited for the youth to settle before he took his seat. Schultz was nowhere to be seen, an absence that Nehmann regarded as a mark of trust.

The prisoner’s name was Kirile. He said he came from Tbilisi and the moment he started talking about the city in late autumn, the first snows dusting the heights overlooking the river, Nehmann had no reason to doubt him. He’d been to school in the Rustaveli district.