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

Nehmann outlined the story: the crowded platform in the Metro, the approaching train, doubtless a scream or two from the women who witnessed what followed.

‘So, who died?’ he asked.

Goebbels wouldn’t answer, not at first. Instead, he wanted to know about Stalingrad, about the state of Paulus’s army, about the sturdy bridge Goering’s Ju-52s had built to the supply dumps in the west.

‘The whole thing’s a shit heap,’ Nehmann said. ‘The Ivans fight like tigers. We don’t have enough aircraft. If anyone tells you different, they’re lying.’

‘But is that a surprise? Everyone has his breaking point, his line in the sand. This happens to be Stalin’s. That helps us, Nehmann. That means the gloves are off. Every play, every novel, every opera has its final act. This is the moment we have to prevail. Stalin knows it, and the Führer knows it. It’s simply a question of will.’

‘Schwerpunkt,’ Nehmann said lightly. ‘The military swear by it.’

‘Exactly. We gather ourselves. And we fall on the enemy. Remember when we went into France? Remember Sevastopol? The impregnable fortress? Stalingrad is simply more of the same but happily, once the city has fallen, we can turn our attentions elsewhere. You’re right about the Ivans. To give them a little credit, they’re tougher than we anticipated. But once the Volga is ours, we can deal with Leningrad. And then Moscow. You know what the Führer thinks?’ Goebbels leaned forward, his voice lower. He wanted to beckon Nehmann into the inner sanctum. He wanted to share a secret. ‘The Führer is convinced Stalin will sue for peace. That partly comes from something Ribbentrop said and partly from somewhere else. Ribbentrop’s a fool, of course, but at least he understands how to negotiate with these people. Stalin will be on his knees and then the whole Bolshevik racket will collapse like a pack of cards.’

‘Somewhere else?’

Goebbels nodded, said nothing. The past month or so had deepened the hollows in his face but there was a strange gleam in his eye. Nehmann was still waiting for an answer. Goebbels lifted his glass.

‘A toast, Nehmann.’ He smiled. ‘To Providence.’

‘Providence? This is where the message came from?’

‘Indeed. Our people are primitive. With a little of the right kind of help, Nehmann, they believe in the sublime. They acknowledge a higher calling. In a setting like this, words fail us. Even you, Nehmann, even you with all your gifts might be challenged. Is it a deity we reach out to? A god? Or should we simply be grateful that he’s taken human form and moves among us?’

Nehmann held his gaze, appalled. Madness, he thought.

‘You’re talking about Hitler?’

‘About the Führer, Nehmann. About the voice of Providence.’

‘And that will take care of Stalingrad?’

‘Of course, Nehmann. And of everything that follows. I’ve known it since the early days. Our apostle of truth, Nehmann, our helmsman, our voice in battle, our exemplar, our Leader.In two days’ time he will launch the Winter Appeal in the Sportpalast. It will be an opportunity, Nehmann, for the nation to draw its breath and check its bearings. Do we need clothing? Sturdy boots? Woollen greatcoats? Of course, we do. But we need something else, Nehmann, infinitely more precious. We need faith, a shared belief in our destiny.’He got up and stepped behind the desk. From a drawer, he produced a handful of typed sheets. ‘The first draft, Nehmann. That’s why I’ve called you back. I want you to be the first to read it. I need your thoughts, your opinions. Then, together, we can start work on the second draft and – if need be – the third. The Führer will have a day or so to make his own mark. He may decide to rip the whole thing up. He might want to make a fresh start. But something tells me that won’t be the case. Listen, Nehmann. Bear witness. Be with us when we conquer our demons.’

His body shifted slightly behind the desk, a tiny movement that Nehmann only remembered later, and then, through the still-open door, came piano chords from somewhere deep in the house, sombre at first, then more playful, teasing out this first theme before exploding in a wild cascade of notes. Nehmann listened, spellbound. Beethoven, he thought. The sonata Maria called the Pathétique.

‘Go and find her, Nehmann.’ Goebbels gestured towards the door. ‘Reintroduce yourself. Make yourself known. Enjoy…’

Nehmann left the study. Another passage led deeper into the house. The music was growing louder and louder, the playing as deft and delicate as ever, and finally he came to another door, likewise open, and he pushed softly, making no noise, no disturbance, as the music built to a crescendo and then died.

This was the far end of the big dining room. There was a mirror on the wall and Maria had watched the door opening. She got to her feet and stepped across to him. She was wearing an embroidered waistcoat over the same blue skirt he remembered from that final Sunday when they were to take a boat and sail away across the Wannsee.

He kissed her, held her, ran his fingers through her hair, kissed her again. Then he nodded towards the piano.

‘Don’t stop,’ he murmured. ‘Play the rest for me.’

They rejoined Goebbels half an hour later. He was still in his study, bent over the speech Hitler was to make in the Sportpalast. He barely lifted his head as Nehmann appeared at the door.

‘The car’s still outside.’ He gestured at the draft speech. ‘Come to the Ministry tomorrow.’

Nehmann nodded. He had one question.

‘The article,’ he said. ‘On the pillow.’

A frown briefly clouded Goebbels’ face. He seemed to have forgotten about the death at Montparnasse. Then he looked up.

‘It was Guramishvili, Nehmann, that friend of yours. I understand he upset some of those French swine. If it’s any consolation that apartment of his belongs to us now. Consider yourself our guest, eh?’

*

The driver took them back to the Wilhelmstrasse. Nehmann and Maria sat in the back of the big Mercedes. He