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

opening bars of ‘Das Wolgalied’,the Song of the Volga, the anthem adopted by Sixth Army as the nights got ever colder and the river began to freeze.

Es steht ein Soldat am Wolgastrand

Hält Wache für sein Vaterland…

Some of the men were linking arms now, swaying left and right, while others picked up the melody.

There stands a soldier on the Volga’s shore

Standing the watch for his Fatherland.

Nehmann stole a look at Schultz. He’d never met anyone less sentimental in his life, but in the candlelight he swore he could see the gleam of a tear on one battered cheek.

Motionless, the steppes lie dormant…

Abruptly, the music stopped. Nehmann looked round, feeling a blast of even colder air. The church door was open again and from the shadows emerged four figures. Their greatcoats and peaked hats offered not the slightest concession to the evening’s theme but what turned them into figures from a nightmare were the four identical balaclava woollen face masks, black, holes cut for eyes and lips. The crowd seemed to melt in front of them. They stood in a loose semi-circle, eyeing the pageant, unmoved and unmoving. Then one of them, the biggest, seemed to respond to a signal from another and he gestured the violinist towards him. The crowd parted, making way. The violinist looked at first confused, then rueful, then frightened.

Schultz beckoned Nehmann closer.

‘SS,’ he murmured.

Nehmann, drunk, was looking at the one who seemed in charge. He was maybe five metres away. His eyes were flicking left and right. Then he gestured to the musician. That violin of yours. Give it to me.

The violinist was uncertain. He tried smiling. He tried backing away. Then the biggest of the SS men took a step towards him and seized the instrument, handing it to his boss. His boss studied it a moment, plucked a single string, let it fall to the floor. The violinist muttered an oath and bent to retrieve it but two of the SS men had closed on him, pinioning his arms, making room for the boss.

For the first time, Nehmann caught the gleam of silver in the mouth of the balaclava. Messner had told him about the silver tooth. Kalb, he thought. Kalb from Tatsinskaya. Kalb with the truck. Kalb the keeper of the bodies.

Kalb was still gazing at the violin. Then he took a half-step forward and stamped on the body of the instrument with his boot. Nehmann heard the wood splintering, and a gasp from the violinist. Then came the pipe of another instrument, a flute this time, a penny whistle. The fourth SS man was playing the Badenweiler,the Führer’s favourite march. Kalb had picked up the rhythm, stamping with the same foot that had just destroyed the violin, gesturing to everyone else to join in. No one moved. No one said a word. They were staring at men in the balaclavas. They showed neither fear nor respect, only curiosity. The SS were the real grotesques. These were creatures from another planet. They came from deepest space. They belonged in the coldest, darkest place imaginable. There wasn’t an ounce of music in their bones and everyone knew it.

Schultz was closest. Kalb held his gaze, unblinking.

‘Get out of here,’ Schultz growled. ‘Before these men eat you alive.’

Kalb ignored him. He’d spotted the Leutnant from the Feldgendarmerie.Like the SS, he was still wearing service uniform. He wanted to know the whereabouts of the prisoner. No name, no rank, just ‘the prisoner’.

‘Down there, Herr Standartenführer.’ He pointed at the floor.

‘It’s locked?’

‘Of course.’

‘Komm mit uns.’

Kalb turned on his heel, gesturing to his SS colleagues. The Leutnant followed them out of the church, closing the door carefully behind him. The moment of silence that followed was broken by Schultz. The pistol he carried in the waistband of his trousers had appeared in his hand. He glanced at Nehmann and then nodded in the direction of the door.

Outside, it was colder than ever. Beneath the building was a damp basement room that had served as a vestry. A door on the side of the church was open. A flight of stairs led into the darkness and Nehmann could hear murmured fragments of conversation from below. Then came something sharper, the slap of flesh on flesh and a sudden gasp of pain.

‘Kirile,’ Schultz said. ‘That’s where they keep him. That’s where I pick him up every morning. Poor little bastard.’

Schultz was checking his automatic while Nehmann tried to imagine how this scene could possibly end. The mathematical odds, five to two, were hopeless. Every SS man would be carrying a weapon, probably the Leutnant as well. He knew what these men were capable of. He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. Were matters to be resolved downstairs? In the vestry? Or might it be better to stage some kind of ambush up here, in the open, where they at least had the advantage of surprise?

Schultz was evidently determined to intervene. Kirile was getting a beating now, the SS staging a little anniversary celebration of their own, and Schultz had taken a first step into the darkness when other figures appeared. There were dozens of them, then more. They were streaming out of the church, still wearing their Stalin masks and their crude make-up, and they’d paused only to pick up whatever weapon came to hand. Some had the knives they always carried, the blades unsheathed and gleaming in the moonlight. One or two had firearms. Several had paused to pick up half-bricks or small rocks from the drift of debris outside the church. One of them, wearing a trophy fur hat, had seized a candlestick from the altar.

The beating had stopped now and Nehmann could hear footsteps ascending from the vestry. First into the open air was Kirile, his wrists tied together, his face webbed with fresh blood. Schultz had the gun in one hand. With the other, he pushed the Georgian towards Nehmann.

‘Yours, my friend. Tell him it’s going to be fine. Tell him we’ll take care of everything.’

Kalb was