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

happy to oblige. For an order like that a Georgian gets a handsome discount. Please, see what you think.’

Nehmann had seen the dictionary before. The regime had printed nearly a million of them in the days following the start of Barbarossa.In the aftermath of last year’s operation, went the logic, any enterprising German would find themselves in the wake of the invading armies, doubtless keen to make the most of this sudden windfall.

Nehmann leafed through the opening pages. There were cartoons of German troops being nice to Russian peasants. Underneath, three sample questions that might prove invaluable.

Wie weit nach Moskau? How far to Moscow?

Ist das Ihr Haus? Is this house yours?

Wir kommen in Frieden. We come in peace.

‘You think that’s funny?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘And your friend?’

‘He’ll think it’s funny, too.’

‘You know the east?’

‘My friend does.’

‘But you, do you know it?’

‘Yes, a little.’

‘Where?’

‘Stalingrad.’

‘You’re in the Wehrmacht,maybe?’

‘No.’

‘You’re homesick for Russians? You miss the language? The food? The music? The good manners?’

‘Of course. But no.’

The old man apologised. He was curious, that’s all. He didn’t want to offend his new customer.

‘Maybe the proper dictionary? This one?’

He offered the bigger of the two books. Nehmann shook his head. The small one was fine. It would keep his friend amused for weeks.

‘Good.’ A nod of approval. ‘Laughter and a new language often go together. A good student is a happy student, didn’t you always find that? In your Russian classes?’

Nehmann ignored the question. For the first time, he’d noticed the small, boxy radio wedged on a shelf between rows of books.

‘You listened to the speech this afternoon?’ he asked. ‘From the Sportpalast?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded.

‘And what did you think?’

‘Me? What did I think about that speech? About every speech that man makes? You don’t think there’s a reason I keep the radio on the fiction shelf?’

Nehmann blinked. The questions were beyond reckless. In Berlin, like everywhere else, it paid to hold your tongue when it came to strangers. Nonetheless he liked this man and viewed the trust he’d vested in Nehmann as a compliment.

‘You know about Stalingrad?’ Nehmann asked. ‘You know the way it really is?’

‘I have a daughter,’ he said. ‘And she has a boyfriend.’

‘In the army?’

‘In Stalingrad.’

‘And what does this boyfriend say?’

‘He says the Russians are good fighters. He says the Russians will never give in. He also says that there are millions of them, billions of them. The city doesn’t belong to us and he doubts that it ever will. If he was here in this shop now, I’d suspect he’d buy the bigger dictionary. Does that answer your question, young man?’

Nehmann laughed. He loved this man’s courage, his refusal to bend to the regime, and above all he loved his wit. The bigger of the two dictionaries, he thought. Perfect.

‘I’ll take them both,’ he said. ‘You’ve been in this shop long?’

‘Just over a year. I bought it for a song. The previous owner had died. His wife turned out to hate him. The sale was a small act of revenge.’

‘For what?’

‘The man had got the shop for free. 1938? Kristallnacht? The previous owner was a Jew. The SA chased him out and the woman’s husband helped himself.’

Nehmann nodded. Kristallnacht: the Night of Broken Glass. Synagogues, shops and other Jewish properties had been smashed up in the wake of an incident in Paris. A young Jew had killed a German diplomat and Hitler had unleased the thugs of the Sturmabteilung to do their worst. At Hitler’s elbow, masterminding this orgy of violence? Joseph Goebbels.

‘He really got it for nothing? This woman’s husband?’

‘Nothing. Nichts. Nada. Rien. And you know the irony? He hated books. He didn’t even know how to read. She couldn’t wait to get rid of the place. Which made me lucky, too.’ He stared at Nehmann, contemplative, then he nodded towards the window. ‘You know what I still find when I get busy with my duster and my dustpan and brush?’

‘Broken glass.’

‘You’re right, my friend. Tiny fragments. And you know something else? That’s all this war is worth. That’s all we’ll be left with once it’s over.’

Nehmann nodded. He accepted the old man’s embrace and then stepped backwards.

‘So how much? For the books?’

‘A Reichsmark for the big one, my friend.’ The old man was smiling again. ‘And you get the comic for free. You’re going back to Stalingrad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your choice?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then take care.’ Another embrace, briefer this time.

Nehmann opened the door and was about to step out onto the street when the old man called him back. He had something for him, something he wanted him to have. Not a gift, exactly. More a memento of their conversation.

The old man was flicking through a pile of magazines. Finally, he found what he was after. Nehmann was looking at a copy of Das Reich, Goebbels’ monthly magazine.

‘It’s the May edition. Have you read it?’

Nehmann was trying to remember. He sometimes wrote for Das Reich but did his best not to take the relationship any further.

‘I doubt it.’ He took the magazine. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘The editorial, of course. Self-indulgence is a Goebbels speciality. Feast yourself, young man. And then take it to Stalingrad and show it around.’

*

Nehmann didn’t want to go home, not yet. It was dusk now, but still warm. Street sweepers were out in force on the Warschauer Strasse, tidying up beneath the tall elms, and Nehmann found himself a seat at a pavement café table as the offices along the broad boulevard began to empty out. He ordered a beer and lit a cigarette, watching two women, arm in arm, as they paused at the kerbside, waiting to cross to the tram stop on the other side. They were laughing at some joke or other and one was carrying a tiny bunch of what looked like roses. Half close your eyes, Nehmann thought, and the war might be over.

Goebbels, it turned out, had addressed the same thought. His editorial was headlined What’s It All For? A tall glass of beer arrived, and Nehmann sat back, the magazine open on his lap,