Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (simple ebook reader .TXT) 📗

of paperwork on the carpet beside his chair and he picked up the top document before tossing it aside.

‘Children, Nehmann, everywhere. Novices, incompetents, grains of sand in the machine. You’ll know about the Ministry for the East. A sensible idea. But put someone like that lunatic Rosenberg in charge and we end up with the Ministry of Chaos. All these people have the same problem. With every particle of good news, every next victory, they think the war’s over. They think we’ve won. These clowns should learn to read a map. Russia isn’t small. The winters are evil. We have a very long way to go. And then you get someone like von Choltitz. He did well at Sevastopol. Everyone did well at Sevastopol. But who in his right mind pays tribute to the Bolsheviks for their “fighting spirit”? Am I the only one who has to take this up with the Führer? The Ivans, like most animals, have a primitive survival instinct. Confusing that with courage, with something you respect, is a simpleton’s error.’

The bobbing foot, for a second or two, was still. When a secretary tapped lightly on the door, Goebbels waved her away. Then he rearranged his legs and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. It was an intimate gesture, increasingly rare, and Nehmann wondered what was coming next.

‘Loneliness, Nehmann. Have you ever felt that? Has it ever crept into that life of yours? Have you ever woken up one morning, regardless of who might be lying beside you, and realised just how alone you are?’ He paused a moment, his eyes holding Nehmann’s gaze, his voice soft. ‘You’re shaking your head. Am I surprised? No. You’re resilient, Nehmann. You come from the toughest stock and I admire that. You’re also the master of adaptation, of camouflage, of hiding your real self away, and I admire that, too. We make a good team, Nehmann, and in times like these that knowledge can keep a man afloat.’

Nehmann was astonished. More to the point, he was also extremely wary. Over the years that he’d known him, he’d recognised that Goebbels was far less sure of himself than he liked other people to believe. You could read the clues on his face, in the pallor of his skin, in the occasional eruptions of eczema, in unguarded moments when his whole body seemed to sag. At times like these, it paid to listen very hard because intimacy was always the prelude to something else. Support in some arcane turf war. Sympathy over the unceasing workload here in the Promi. Or, it seemed in this case, a favour.

‘Hedvika, Nehmann. Your little Czech coquette.I know about the business in Italy. The spoils of war, Nehmann. Here today, gone tomorrow. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen her lately? Talked on the phone, perhaps? Exchanged billets-doux?’

‘No.’

‘But you could. The tingle, the electricity, is still there. Am I right?’

‘On my part?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the answer has to be no. On hers? I’ve no way of finding out.’

‘Really? Then allow me to tell you. The film director’s name is Emilio. He’s tall, and good-looking and quite able in his way, but he’s also a man who can’t pass a mirror. Vanity, Nehmann, is too small a word. He’s in love with himself and he’s also hopeless in bed. Your Coquette is used to proper rations. Emilio offers nothing but crumbs. Does she regret those nights in the Wilhelmstrasse? She does, but only because they’re over.’ A chilly smile. ‘Am I making sense, Nehmann?’

Nehmann said nothing for a moment. Then he stirred.

‘A man moves on,’ he said.

‘Of course, and what a talent she has, what breadth of taste. Schubert impromptus? Kurt Weill? Just a little hint of Negro music on Friday nights when the clientele at that club of hers seem in the mood? My congratulations, Nehmann. I’ve seen the photos. As ever, you have impeccable taste and – to be frank – your courage has never been an issue. Just one question, do you mind?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Are both her parents Isidors?’

Isidor was Promi-code for Jewish. Nehmann, who should have seen this coming, shook his head.

‘Goyim,’ he said.

‘You know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Because she told me. Her father hated Jews and priests alike. Her mother is a devout Catholic.’

‘Paperwork? Birth certificates? Dull, I know, but it might pay to take a precaution or two.’

‘In case…?’

‘In case you fall in love with her, Nehmann. In or out of bed, life is a battle. I’m your friend, your Kamerad, your brother-in-arms. Maria’s a pretty name. I don’t want to see either of you hurt. And I want you to believe that.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘Don’t be. There’s also another matter, I’m afraid equally delicate. You can keep a confidence, Nehmann?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good’ – the smile again – ‘because we’ll need to trust each other.’

At this point there came another delicate knock at the door. Birgit, one of the secretaries, reminded the Minister that he had an important visitor waiting downstairs. Goebbels waved the appointment aside. He’d attend to matters when he was ready. Birgit nodded and withdrew.

‘I want to talk about Baarova.’ Goebbels had turned back to Nehmann. ‘My Lida. You have time, Nehmann?’

‘Of course.’

Another interruption, this time a phone call. Watching Goebbels’ face, Nehmann sensed it was someone important. The Minister tapped his watch, mouthed an apology. Give me time, please. Have patience.

Nehmann nodded. He knew a lot about Baarova, Indeed, half the nation did, partly because she’d been a leading Czech actress in countless movies, but mainly because Goebbels had made no secret of the fact that she’d become his mistress. Before the war they appeared together in public on countless occasions. They shared an extensive love nest in the woods north of Berlin. Then came the moment when Herr Goebbels, patriarch and husband, had proposed a ménage à trois,hoisting his mistress into the very middle of one of the Reich’s showpiece families.

Magda Goebbels had been unimpressed by the proposition but what had truly shaken her husband was the wrath of Adolf Hitler. The Führer had a