The Madagaskar Plan (27 page)

She knelt next to her so they were the same height. “I need your help,” said Madeleine in clumsy Yiddish. “I’ll lift you up, you look to see what’s happening.”

Danuta nodded.

She was lighter than a sack of twigs; Madeleine felt a wrenching for those afternoon teas with Alice where the scones and cupcakes were left to go stale. “What can you see?” she asked when the girl was in position. Danuta was able to squeeze her head through the bars.

“Lots of soldiers. They’re so angry. Or scared.”

“If they see you, jump down straightaway. What’s at the front?”

Danuta peeked farther through the window. “There’s a man on the tracks. He’s very fat, in guard clothes. A Sturm-shar-führer.” The word sounded ridiculous in the mouth of a child.

“What’s he doing?”

She answered in Yiddish, Madeleine able to understand only a few words. When she was growing up in Vienna, her father insisted that the family speak German. Yiddish, with its ironic humor, suffering, and superstition, was the language of the street. She knew enough to speak to vendors and beggars, no more.

“He’s fastened to a cross,” translated Jacoba. “Like a big X, in the middle of the track—”

It’s an ambush!

“—the soldiers are trying to untie him.”

The crack of a bullet, the sound rolling from left to right.

There were startled cries from the guards. Another shot. Then gunfire erupted on both sides of the train. Furious bursts from machine guns punctuated by the steady, distant snap of rifles. The earthy boom of a mortar roared over them; mud peppered the roof.

Madeleine dragged the girl away from the window. “He’s shot,” said Danuta, wriggling in Madeleine’s grip.

A bullet zinged through the carriage, leaving a spyhole in the wall inches from Madeleine’s head. She threw herself on the floor, covering Danuta with her body and pulling Jacoba down. The carriage erupted in a fight for floor space. More bullets punctured the side of the train, letting in shafts of greenish light. Someone howled in agony.

The gun battle lasted several minutes before the shooting became sporadic, then stopped. Madeleine listened for any commands in German. Nothing but the chug of the stationary train and occasional sighs of steam.

“Are you hurt?” she asked Danuta. It was good to have a child in her arms.

“The fat man got shot,” she laughed.

Madeleine stood beneath the roof hatch and heard no boots above. “Help me up,” she said to Jacoba.

“You don’t know what’s out there. We should wait.”

“This is our chance.”

The older woman muttered something and knitted her hands together. Madeleine slipped her foot onto them, used them as a step to the ceiling. She lifted the hatch a sliver to check for guards, then flipped it open.

“At least let one of the Poles go first,” said Jacoba, straining.

Madeleine clasped the sides of the opening and levered herself up the way she had done in gymnastics at school; it was one of her favorite classes. As a girl she dreamed of competing for Austria, till she realized she would never be good enough. Her innards threatened to buckle, but she managed to haul her body onto the roof. The air was mulled with cordite. She surveyed her surroundings—the world had never felt so broad or unbolted—then called below to Jacoba:

“Tell the others we’re safe. I’m going to open the doors.”

The train was littered with dead Nazis, most showing the single-shot wounds of snipers. Striding down the valley were parties of men, a few on horseback, rifles slung over their shoulders. Madeleine recognized them from their attire: stolen SS camouflage trousers tucked into socks, grimy white shirts, black waistcoats. Some wore trench coats that flapped around their heels. Every man had a flowing, wild mane. On an island where the length of your hair was dictated by bureaucrats, tresses were the first act of rebellion. In the markets of Antzu, Madeleine had seen wigs bartered for a month’s worth of food.

The men were Vanilla Jews.

Despite the failure of the first rebellion, and the mass executions that followed, Globocnik was unable to eradicate the Vanilla Jews completely. The privations of the island meant their numbers soon began to swell again, and this time they were stoked by the Zionist imagination. Zionism—the movement to create a Jewish state in Palestine—had no place in the new world order, so an alternative, pragmatic version had evolved. If inhabiting the soil of Israel was a lost dream, the possibility of self-determination remained an ideal to fight for.

Madeleine clambered down the ladder on the side of the carriage. She wanted to deliver the other passengers into the light and air, not the men strutting toward her. Flecks of soot pattered her cheek. She landed by the track and stumbled down the embankment, sliding to a stop next to the body of a dead soldier. He was facedown in the mud, lying protectively over his assault rifle. Ignoring the hole in his head, Madeleine checked his pockets for food, found a tin of candies, and stuffed a handful into her mouth. They were half-melted, with a sickly strawberry-toffee taste. She took some more and was debating how many to save for the journey ahead or whether to share any with Jacoba and Danuta when she sensed someone watching her.

Crouching beneath the wheels of the train was a guard, his uniform patterned with mud. Blood was running from beneath his cap to his chin, tracing his jawline. Madeleine reached for the weapon at her feet, tugging it from under the dead soldier. She’d never held a gun before. Its long, curved magazine gave it unwieldy heft, but it was lighter than she’d imagined, an arrangement of metal and wood that made her feel more substantial.

The guard was holding a rifle similar to Madeleine’s, the muzzle drifting toward her. She’d been to the pictures enough times with Burton to know that people died for want of releasing the safety catch; she risked a glance at it.

Her legs were weak and bandy, the weapon in her hands drawn to the ground as if the mud were magnetized. How often had she reveled in fantasies of justice and death? From watching Papa wipe away the spit from his face to lying hollowed out in the maternity ward. But the man in front of her wasn’t responsible; he was Ulm, a drone. She’d seen him joking with workers at the abattoir, offering them the stubs of his cigarettes; she’d seen him swipe the butt of his rifle into a back for sport, laugh as Jews slipped in overflowing vats of blubber.

Madeleine eased her finger through the trigger guard.

Ulm glanced over her shoulder and crept out from beneath the train. “I want to surrender.” His eyes were almost the same color as Burton’s.

He raised his gun toward her.

Madeleine stumbled backward. The trigger seemed immovable against the tip of her finger. Her eardrums were thundering. She concentrated on the German’s autumnal blue eyes.

There was a single shot, like the sound of a hunting rifle. It reminded Madeleine of the time Jared had taken her to the Highlands to hunt stags: the lone shots echoing across the fells while she stayed in the lodge. It was during that trip that Alice was conceived.

Ulm was blasted between the wheels. His body rolled over the tracks and vanished below the embankment. A spasm of breath caught in Madeleine’s throat; she turned. Behind her was a crowd of waistcoats and dark, billowing hair. One of the Vanilla Jews lowered his rifle. His face was a toothless leer.

Madeleine let the machine gun fall from her grip, bridling with shame.

*   *   *

The train was a relic from the French period, the engine powered by wood, not coal. With no one to stoke its firebox, the smokestack’s output withered to nothing. The cattle cars were unlocked, and passengers helped one another onto the trackside. It was stewingly hot, the sky solid gray and ready to rain.

The Vanilla Jews corralled them round a single carriage, saying that Ben-Ze’ev, the commander of this band, had important news to share. Madeleine hoped they also had some food. The candy had left her ravenous, and she needed some sustenance before trekking to Mandritsara. Next to her, Jacoba was twitchy and bad tempered; Danuta had found a spent bullet casing and was blowing on the tip as if it were a recorder. Madeleine wanted to clasp the girl’s bony body. No matter how betrayed by Alice she felt, she missed hugging her daughter, missed the glossy smell of her hair and her bumptious moods. It could only be Alice who’d told Jared about the farm, yet how could she blame a six-year-old? Madeleine understood that she was angry with herself for being so naïve, for not listening to Burton in the first place when he’d said not to bring her there. She stroked Danuta’s head, then fixed her hands behind her back.

A group of men had positioned themselves on the roof of the train. They wore black waistcoats that fitted perfectly, no missing buttons, some embroidered. They parted for their leader. He limped to the front and waited for the crowd below to fall silent. His face was fierce and scarred, enclosed by hair as long as a Hasidic’s and a wolf-colored beard that reached his belt. The brim of his hat kept his eyes in shadow.

Ben-Ze’ev summoned his breath. “My fellow Jews,” he said in German, his lungs sounding charred, “you have been freed, but you are not safe.” On the roof, two others began to speak, shadowing his words in Polish and Yiddish. “I wish to tell you of a place, the haven we all desire.” Some of his words weren’t loud enough to carry; the throng edged closer.

“It is a land where we govern ourselves,” he continued. “There are no sectors, no work camps, no summary executions. Gunships do not rain fire on us.” He peered out, seeking the eye of every man, woman, and child.
One of the demagogue’s tricks
, thought Madeleine; she remembered watching Hitler’s speeches before the
Anschluss
, captivated and not quite afraid enough to believe his words. Jacoba removed her hat and fanned herself as Ben-Ze’ev cast his gaze in their direction. His voice dropped: “Do you know where this place is?”

“Palestine!” shouted one of the Poles.

“Antzu!” called another. There was a ripple of laughter.

Antzu, where Madeleine had lived before she gave birth, was the capital of the Western Sector and seat of the Judenrat, the Jewish Council. It was also the island’s only free city. The Red Cross and American officials were encouraged to make inspections; Goebbels had allowed the BBC to film there.

Ben-Ze’ev glared into the crowd. “Do not think of Antzu as some paradise! Even there we live in the shadow of the green house, ruled by the regional governor with his enormous wife and five greedy children.” He spat the words out. “They have Jews for servants, Jews to tend their garden, Jews to muck out the stables—”

The mention of the stables roused Jacoba’s attention. She was proud of having worked there. Ben-Ze’ev continued:

“—their horses are better fed than us. In the city itself: disease and curfew, sewers open to the air, thick clouds of mosquitoes, neighbor spying on neighbor. Is that what it is to live?” He was overtaken by a fit of coughing and hunched over, his beard trailing his boots. One of the translators stepped toward him; Ben-Ze’ev flicked him away.

He resumed through gasps of air: “I speak of a land where no Nazi dares tread. Where the Ark holds the names of free men, not captives. Shall I tell you where this place is?”

Silence.

“Madagaskar. Our new homeland. But we have to seize it, we have to drive the Nazis into the waves.” He was panting. “Then the works we’ve undertaken, the road building, the factories and farms, the vanilla that has made men millionaires won’t be for the Reich—but ourselves. Now is the time! Thousands of our enemy are away fighting in Africa. They don’t have the numbers to control us.”

Once again he erupted into coughing; this time he couldn’t regain his breath. He stepped back, motioned for one of his subordinates to take over.

Jacoba shook her head. “Stupid, stupid,” she whispered. “Look what happened with the last rebellion. This kind of talk will get us killed.”

Another of the Vanilla Jews had taken the place of Ben-Ze’ev, looking awkward in front of so many people. He was a few years younger than Madeleine, scrawny and sunburned. Unlike many of the others, he wore his waistcoat half-buttoned. He massaged his jaw where the molars were, wincing occasionally. Speech welled in him, didn’t come, then burst out.

Tears pricked Madeleine’s eyes like when she’d imagined she had seen Burton in the abattoir. “Oh, my God…” she whispered, clutching Jacoba’s hand.

“W-we don’t ask the old to join us,” he said, “nor ch-children or anyone whose nerves are ruined. We understand what you’ve suffered. You will be escorted to Zimety, the Malagasy reservation in the northeast. We have a camp there; the conditions aren’t the best, but you’ll be safe till the island is ours.”

At first Madeleine couldn’t believe it was him; as soon as she’d heard him speak she knew it must be. He had the same nurring voice and hint of a stutter, only deeper now, older. She wondered if he was still furious with her.

“Everyone else, man or woman, should take up the cause. A second rebellion—the Pig Rebellion—has started; this time we cannot fail. If we strike hard enough, the Americans will help our struggle.”

“Like they did before?” cried a sarcastic voice from the crowd.

“They have a new president; he has already spoken out against this island. The American Jewish Committee is calling for intervention. We must fight heroically, endure loudly, so the world cannot ignore us. That’s why we waited for this train. We heard what you did in the slaughterhouse. You may have been canning meat, but there’s vanilla in your blood—”

“They shot the leaders,” shouted someone. “We’re just workers.”

“Then go to Zimety—there’s no shame in it. It’s ten days on foot.” He pointed behind himself; the clouds were at their bursting point. “Before you go, think on this: a generation from now, Tana will be our new Jerusalem. The Totenburgs won’t be monuments to the German dead but engraved in Hebrew. This island will be a beacon to our people wherever they roam. You will live safe, comfortable lives, and your children’s children will ask, What did you do?”

He finished on an expectant note, looking to the mob to be moved, for an ovation of mutiny and rage. Nothing except the echo of his words in Polish, then Yiddish, then the breeze.