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

prize. And hence, now, the churning deep in his gut when he thought of the schoolmaster, and his wife, and his infant daughter, and his drawerful of magical carvings. Since his days in the Condor Legion, flying against the Republicans over the mountains of northern Spain, Messner had paid lip service to how cruel war could be, but only now, marooned deep in this godforsaken steppe, did he begin to sense its real implications.

Renke roused him at dawn with a mug of tepid coffee. Messner peered up at him, rubbing his eyes against the brightness of the rising sun.

‘The SS officer?’ he mumbled. ‘His name again?’

‘Kalb.’ Renke was frowning. ‘Why do you ask?’

10

ROME, 10 AUGUST 1942

Werner Nehmann had never been to the film studios at Cinecittà. His only previous visit to Rome had been back in the early thirties when the notion of a huge movie-making complex had still been a gleam in Mussolini’s eye, but he knew that Goebbels had been much impressed and now, once he’d checked Baarova’s apartment, he needed to see for himself. There’d been no reply when he rang her doorbell and although her immediate neighbours spoke no German, he got the impression that she had, indeed, moved on. Nehmann, undaunted, still had a telephone number for the publicity executive at Cinecittà he’d talked to from Berlin. Even at this time in the evening, she might still be at her desk.

She was. Nehmann sat in the reception area, waiting for her to appear. According to the receptionist, tonight had been scheduled for the shooting of a key scene on the studio’s biggest set. Designers and craftsmen had been working all week to build a replica of a Carthaginian arena and, out on the studio lot, Nehmann could see a team of wranglers trying to corral a rogue elephant with no taste for the limelight. Goebbels, he knew, had a soft spot for the sheer scale of Cinecittà’s ambitions. Privately, the Minister regarded all Italians as children – easily amused, easily led – but they certainly knew how to muster the grander effects.

‘Herr Nehmann? Guten Abend. Willkommen in Cinecittà.’Good German. Wonderful legs.

Nehmann got to his feet as she extended a rather formal handshake and led him to a nearby lift. Her name was Nina. She occupied a corner office on the first floor and Nehmann stood at the window for a moment, glad to have another look at the elephant.

‘The second Punic War comes to Rome.’ Nina seemed amused. ‘We had a big success with Scipio Africanus.Let’s hope the sequel works. You found your Hedvika? She was pleased to see you?’

‘Very.’

‘And Venezia? Your first time?’

‘A film set. Perfect in every respect. Ten minutes in a gondola and for me the war never happened. If I ever lived there, I’d never leave.’

‘Of course. Sadly, the Venetians have let the rest of the world share the secret. Those people worship money. They’ve never stopped being traders. Carlos’s brother tells me it will be their death.’

‘You know Fabio?’

‘I do. The sweet man won’t even audition for the army. That might have consequences, too.’

‘He was an actor?’

‘Yes. But no talent. No talent, no money.’

‘And Carlos? He’s still in hospital?’

‘I’m afraid so. Emilio’s thugs broke both his legs and did unspeakable things to other parts of him. That’s what Emilio paid for, of course, so be warned.’ She smiled. ‘How can I help you?’

Nehmann mentioned Lida Baarova. His understanding was that she’d come to Rome to revive her movie career. Was that true?

‘Yes. She has an important role in a movie called Grazia.She’s popular here in Italy.’ That smile again. ‘Think of it as a thank you for giving us her time.’

Nehmann returned her smile. Grazia.Thank you. Clever.

‘So, when does she start?’

‘In two days’ time. Everything is in place. The script, alas, is in Italian but I can find you a copy if you’d like one.’

Nehmann turned the offer down. Studying the face across the table, he sensed that something had changed between them. He was right.

‘Why the interest in Lida?’ She was frowning. ‘Why come all this way when you could have used the telephone?’

Nehmann tried to make light of the question. It was August. Lately the weather in Berlin had been terrible. Constant rain. Unseasonal temperatures. A dark time for the soul.

‘You’re here on holiday?’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘And in a way, no? You’re a journalist. You don’t write like a German and I imagine Herr Goebbels likes that. I certainly do. Are you here on some kind of assignment? Has he commissioned an article on Lida? On his ex-mistress? Is that why you’re asking me these questions?’

Lida was a clue, thought Nehmann. Not Frau Baarova. Lida.

‘You know her well? You’re friends?’

‘Yes. She’s been here to the studio a number of times recently. I expect it helps that I admire her work.’

‘And how is she?’ Nehmann’s hand briefly closed over his heart. ‘In here?’

‘She’s well. She has a life of her own now.’

‘And does she share that life with…’ Nehmann shrugged ‘…anyone else?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not for you to ask. Nor me to answer. Is this you talking? Or your boss? If it’s the latter, I suggest you tell him that Lida is in good hands, that the script will do her nothing but good and that she loves the life here. She survived what happened in Berlin but only just. She’ll never go back.’

Nehmann nodded and wondered whether he should make a note or two. I did my best, but she never wants to see you again. And, to be honest, who can blame her?

‘Well, Herr Nehmann? Has this helped at all?’

Nehmann said yes. He liked this woman. He liked her directness and her guile. She knew exactly what he was doing here and she’d been very happy to pass a message back to Berlin on Baarova’s behalf. He glanced at his watch. Maybe a longer conversation over a drink or two? Or even a meal?

He was about to voice the invitation when he heard an alarm bell deep