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

‘Not at all, Minister. Stalingrad has taught me many things, not all of them pleasant.’

Goebbels caught the change of mood at once. Nehmann very rarely called him ‘Minister’. Indeed, a faux-camaraderie had always been the very essence of their relationship: two buccaneering artists pushing propaganda to its limits.

‘What’s the matter, Nehmann?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You still regard me as a friend? A colleague? A supporter?’

‘Of course, Minister.’

‘Then read this.’ He pushed a magazine across the desk. It was an advance copy of the January edition of Das Reich. The article, authored by Goebbels, was headlined Totaler Krieg.Total War.

The article was brief. Nehmann understood the thrust of it in seconds. The nation had to understand that war could be ugly, and costly, and painful. The quicker the whole business was over, the better. Wise, therefore, to devote every particle of the nation’s effort to winning. At whatever cost.

‘Total War, Nehmann.’ Goebbels rapped the top of the desk with his knuckles. ‘There’s no other way. People have to understand that this war will never be won in Horcher’s or the Rivoli. It demands total commitment. From every single one of us. You agree?’

Nehmann nodded, said nothing. Horcher’s was Hermann Goering’s favourite Berlin restaurant and he knew Goebbels had been trying to close the place down for months. The Rivoli was a cinema that specialised in screening lavish movies, many of them sponsored by the Promi, to packed houses.

‘You agree, Nehmann?’ Goebbels said again.

‘Of course. And the answer is yes, Minister.’

‘Then attend to this shit. Make it bolder. Use the bodies. Make us feel the bite of those bone saws the pathologists use. I’ve cleared a space in next week’s VB. The Führer is half convinced but he needs a little push and that’s where you come in, Nehmann. What a way to launch the New Year, eh?’

‘How many words, Minister?’ VB was the Völkischer Beobachter.

‘Five hundred. Anything longer, people lose their way. Come on, Nehmann, for God’s sake, you used to know all this.’ Goebbels pushed the text of Nehmann’s account towards him. His gaze was unwavering. ‘Well?’

‘You want me to do it now?’

‘I do, Nehmann. I do. I want you to do it now, here. I want it sharper. I want it better. I want to imagine half of Germany reading it and nodding and realising that there’s no other way. Total War, Nehmann.’ He rapped the table again. ‘Or nothing.’

Nothing. Nehmann reached for the text and took the proffered pen. He’d finally realised what was going on. He’d finally recognised the sub-text to this conversation, the reef buried beneath the pleasantries, and the readied bath, and the change of clothes, and all the Third Reich nonsense afterwards. This was humiliation on a subtly grand scale, a reminder of just where he, Werner Nehmann, wordsmith and jester, belonged in the ranks of the mighty. He was back at school, master and pupil, here to do Goebbels’ bidding. And then what? He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought.

He began to go through the text, changing a word here, adding a detail there, trying to catch the pathologist’s turn of phrase, trying to remember exact anatomical details, trying to do justice to yet another stack of Stalingrad corpses. Goebbels watched him, affecting indifference, toying with his glasses. Soon, it was done. The Minister scanned it quickly, nodding when a new phrase caught his eye, then smiling at the end where Nehmann had added the line about death never taking time off.

‘Excellent.’ He sat back. ‘You never let me down, Nehmann. I’m glad to say your work is done.’

‘Done?’

‘Indeed. Will the Reich need you again? Of course, it will. No nation wages Total War without a great deal of effort and, dare I say it, wit. That’s your job. That’s where little Werner Nehmann comes in. But for now, my friend, you and your lady must enjoy the rest of Christmas. I’m glad Stalingrad was kind to you. Best to forget the worst of it, eh? My driver will be glad to take you back to the city. That little bookshop on Kopernikusstrasse? Am I right?’

He got to his feet, one hand outstretched. But then came the creak of the door opening. For a moment Nehmann thought it might be the promised meal, but it turned out to be Magda. She said she felt a little guilty. It was, after all, Christmas. Was there anything she might be able to find for him in the way of a present? Nehmann gazed at her for a moment then mumbled that it was a kind offer but that he had nothing to offer in return.

‘Nonsense, Nehmann.’ This from Goebbels. ‘You’ve brought yourself, graced us with your presence, what more could we possibly want?’

Nehmann held his gaze. Goebbels had always been half in love with sarcasm, but this was far too clumsy.

‘Well, Herr Nehmann?’ Magda was still waiting for an answer.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, I’d like a present. Could you manage a little collection of spices? What your cook has in the kitchen? A little salt? A decent pinch of pepper? Hungarian paprika, as hot as you can manage? Cayenne, maybe? Nutmeg? Cloves? And some herbs, too? Dill? Chives? Parsley?’

‘That’s quite a list, Herr Nehmann.’ Magda was looking surprised.

‘I’m sorry.’ Nehmann started to apologise but Goebbels cut him short.

‘He gets carried away, darling. That’s part of his charm.’ He tore a sheet of paper from the pad on his desk and reached for a pen. ‘Give me that list again, Nehmann, and we’ll see what we can do.’

*

The Mercedes was waiting, as promised, outside. Nehmann, clutching a bag of herbs and spices, went through the pantomime of farewells, first a courtly kiss for Magda on both cheeks and a murmured thank you for the present, and then a stiff handshake for the Minister. Goebbels gave his hand a little squeeze before letting go, the significance of which was lost on Nehmann.

‘Be good at New Year, Nehmann.’ He was beaming again. ‘Take care of that lady of yours.’

Nehmann got in