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

great deal of time for Frau Goebbels and doted on the three children, and when he told Goebbels that his affair with the Czech actress had to end, Goebbels had no choice in the matter.

The final reel in this heartfelt little romance was far from pretty. Goebbels worshipped his Führer. Hitler, as far as he was concerned, was the voice of providence, God’s presence on earth. And so he summoned Baarova to tell her that their life together was over. Days later, at Goebbels prompting, Berlin’s Chief of Police forbade her to apply for any other roles in German cinema.

With her private life and her professional career in ruins, Baarova attended the premiere of her latest – and last – German film. The movie was called Der Spieler,The Gambler, an adaptation of Dostoyevsky’s novel. Paid thugs wrecked the screening. Their jeers and abuse drove Baarova from the theatre and ended the movie’s public run before it had even begun. Hounded by the Gestapo, Lida Baarova had a nervous breakdown and fled to her native Prague.

Nehmann knew all of this, as did most of Germany, but Goebbels’ phone call was coming to an end now and it turned out that there was a great deal more to the story.

‘The Führer.’ Goebbels gestured at the phone. ‘His needs are many. As are mine.’

Nehmann didn’t know quite what to make of this.

‘Baarova?’ he ventured.

‘Indeed, my friend. Fate has dealt us both a poor hand. In life you seldom get a second chance, but I see no point in not trying. We Germans should make more room in our lives for the possibility of forgiveness. It can happen, Nehmann, and if it does it can be sublime. My wife will never forgive. My Lida? Here—’

From a desk drawer he produced a white envelope, heavily sealed, and gave it to Nehmann. It contained, he said, a letter for Lida Baarova.

‘You’re apologising?’ Nehmann was staring at the envelope.

‘I’m explaining. It may be the same thing.’

‘But to what end? Why now?’

‘Why now?’ Goebbels stared down at him. ‘Because I miss her.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know. Would I like to see her again? Of course I would. Would I like her back in my bed? In my heart? Yes, again yes. Look at me, Nehmann. Tell me I’m right. Tell me this is what must happen.’

‘I’m telling you you’re crazy. This is madness.’

‘I know. But does that make any difference? You know me, Nehmann. You know the way I am. Be honest. A man is a man. There are things he has to do. This is one of them.’

‘Get in touch with her again?’

‘Make sure she knows the truth.’

‘About what happened?’

‘About me.’

Nehmann was looking at the envelope, weighing it in his hand. Three sheets of paper, he thought. At least. Then his eyes were back on Goebbels.

‘You know where she is?’

‘In Italy. Rome, I think.’

‘You have an address?’

‘No’ – he’d put a hand on Nehmann’s shoulder – ‘but your Coquette does.’

*

Nehmann left the Promi nearly an hour later. He owed Goebbels two articles.They were both confections pitched at the outer edges of credibility, but they’d have Nehmann’s trademark briowhich was, after all, what Goebbels seemed to value. He’d done all the interviews for the first and most of them for the second, but the deadline was still a couple of days away and just now he needed to think.

Ten minutes in the late afternoon sunshine took him back to Guram’s apartment. An unmarked van was parked illegally outside and Nehmann was wondering how soon before the authorities arrived. He was still on the pavement trying to find his key for the door when he heard a voice behind him.

‘Herr Nehmann?’

He turned around. Three men were standing beside the van. Nehmann recognised the black uniform of the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police, drafted in to help Berlin’s regular force.

The taller of the two men stepped forward.

‘With the compliments of Graf von Helldorf.’ He nodded back towards the van. ‘Which floor?’

For a moment nonplussed, Nehmann hadn’t got an answer. Then he remembered. Von Helldorf was Berlin’s Chief of Police. More importantly, he was hand in glove with Goebbels. A couple of days ago Nehmann had been looking for a grand piano and had mentioned it in conversation on the phone. Goebbels told him to call off the search. The matter, he said, would be resolved. And so here he was, bareheaded on a Berlin street, watching three burly Ukrainians wrestling the body of a grand piano out of the back of the van. The legs, it seemed, would follow.

Nehmann opened the main door of the apartment block and stood aside as the policemen hauled the piano up the first two flights of stairs. Nehmann had left the windows open in the apartment itself and the moment he stepped inside he could smell the frangipani that Maria was cultivating on the sill.

‘Just there.’ He indicated a patch of carpet in the middle of the room. A Steinway, he thought. Perfect.

Two of the men returned to the street to fetch the legs and the stool. The officer in charge had produced a notebook.

‘One box of Chablis. Five of claret. Ten of champagne.’ He looked up. ‘Agreed?’

‘This is for the piano?’

‘For the boss. Another box of champagne for the workers would be thoughtful.’

Nehmann nodded. He’d no idea what the barter rate for a grand piano might be but Guram’s cellar was extensive.

‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Where does the piano come from?’

‘House clearance.’

‘It belonged to an Isidor?’

‘Of course,’ he smirked. ‘We’ll be going back for the rest later.’

The men returned with the legs and the piano stool. Once the Steinway was in one piece again, Nehmann cleared a space against the back wall, beyond the reach of the sunshine. Then he led the way to the closet where Guram kept his wine. Seventeen boxes. Just over a hundred bottles. For a grand piano? Nothing.

The officer in charge was the last to leave. His men were still ferrying the boxes down to the street.

‘You play?’ He nodded at the