Read The Madagaskar Plan Online
Authors: Guy Saville
Burton watched the foam from its trail settle till the river lay lapping and luminous, bathed in a yellow-and-pink light, like the sunrises he used to watch on the farm with Madeleine. Battenberg skies, she called them after the similarly colored cakes she enjoyed so much. They had both been wounded, wandering people for so long that neither quite believed that the farm, with its sturdy quince trees, was their new home. Sometimes they talked all night, not realizing the hour till the sky had lost its darkness; they’d knot their fingers together to greet the new day.
The unexpected beauty of the scene stilled Burton’s breath. Despite everything they had lost, he sensed the durability of what he had made with Madeleine. He vowed not to start another day without her.
“I’m going to Antzu,” he said, turning to the hovercraft inside the warehouse. The pilot’s seat was empty.
Rapid footsteps approached him through the gloom. Next moment Burton was swept off his feet, fists clobbered his face. He took the blows, remembering this ritual from the Legion. “Pricking,” Patrick used to call it: a drop of blood to draw Tünscher’s mood. His knuckles were barely warm before he stopped. He stood panting for several moments, then offered his hand and yanked Burton up.
They stared at each other, Burton wondering how his old friend would react when he discovered the truth about the diamonds. It would take more than a pricking then, for sure. Burton broke from his gaze. The interior of the warehouse was bare, its walls blackened; the only source of light was the hole in the roof, which cast a ragged oval of dawn on the ground.
“What is this place?” he asked. There was a faint stench of rotten fruit.
“How am I supposed to know.” Tünscher reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, sighed. “I guess it was part of the rebellion. They must have shipped the workers to the reservations.” He lit up.
“You should have told me about the Bayerweeds,” said Burton.
“These are the least of your worries.”
“So what next?”
Above them the birds had returned to the rafters; they were cooing and shitting.
“You haven’t left me with much choice.” Tünscher took a cheek-hollowing drag. “We get to Antzu, find your woman.”
“I thought you were going to bribe your way home.”
His friend shrugged. “The only thing that matters are those diamonds. Remember the stakes in the Legion?
À
quitte ou double.
” Everything—or nothing. Gambling for cash met with severe punishment, so vast quantities of dates exchanged hands. “Unless you want to pay me now.”
Tünscher had the same woebegone look Patrick had worn in Kongo when he realized the extent of what he’d been sucked into. Burton felt a wash of guilt, then anger at himself for depending on a lie. “What about getting Maddie and me off the island?”
Tünscher stubbed out his butt and walked to the hovercraft. “You’d better hope I can think of something. Maybe the fishing fleet at Varavanga.” For the first time, Burton noticed that he was clutching his right flank.
“You okay, Tünsch?”
“Ecstatic,” he replied and hauled himself inside, rooting around for equipment that might be useful, checking the dead gunner’s pockets. He handed Burton a compass, canteen, packet of jerky, medical kit.
From outside came gunfire. The sound rolled over the rafters, scooping up the birds and scattering them noisily. It was impossible to tell how close it was.
“We’d better go,” said Burton.
“The river’s too dangerous,” Tünscher replied. “We should head inland. It’s a five- or six-hour march.”
Five or six hours: it sounded like nothing to reach Madeleine. “You know the way?” When Burton had been here before, as a mercenary, it was in Tana; he wasn’t familiar with this part of the island.
“We keep due southeast through the jungle.” Tünscher donned his cap, placing it at a rakish angle. “After that we should be able to see the governor’s house. That will guide us in.”
They were already outside, darting between the buildings, when Tünscher stopped.
“Wait,” he said. “I got an idea.”
He hurried back to the warehouse and dragged the body of the gunner from the cockpit, then the spent MG48 casings on the floor and any other junk he could find. Burton looked on in bemusement as Tünscher collected a helmet and a postcard of Hitler in Tyrolean costume that had been tacked to the control panel.
“The partisans used to do this in Siberia, after they’d ambushed our patrols.”
“What does it mean?” asked Burton.
“Fuck knows.” Brass shells glinted in his fingers. “We’d waste hours trying to make sense of it. If they find the hovercraft, it might buy us more time.”
They left as soon as he was finished, following a muddy track into the forest; tendrils of mist were gathering around the tree trunks. Burton was aware of a bounce to his boots.
Behind them the gunner sat propped up against the hover pad: helmet back to front, one hand cupping his groin, left leg jackknifed, boot and sock removed. Dotted around him were geometric shapes made from the empty casings and the word
KÜRBIS.
Pumpkin. The postcard of Hitler had been ripped in two: one half rolled up between the gunner’s toes, the other poking out of his mouth.
Sofia Dam, Western Sector (North)
20 April, 10:45
HOCHBURG STARED AT the file on his lap, oblivious to the din and the cramped cockpit of the helicopter. He was trying to imagine the color of Madeleine’s eyes. She would be his by the end of Führertag: the bait with which to capture Burton. He looked forward to talking to the boy again, maybe reminiscing, before his punishment began. If Burton’s body could endure it, the years ahead would be long. The gifted practitioner of pain understood both cruelty and palliation.
“Can you imagine the blacks doing anything so bold?” Kepplar was squeezed in the rear of the Flettner, his voice heard through his headphones.
Hochburg glanced up. They had flown from Tana, their final approach taking them through the Mandritsara Valley, over a dense grid of barracks and the trickle of the Sofia River, to the dam that blocked it. Overnight, Jews had defaced the wall of the dam with streaks of paint fifty meters long. As Hochburg deciphered the shape of the graffiti, his mouth curled in amusement. This was the island’s northern reservation: the Sofia Reservation.
“Jews are more technically minded,” he replied, thinking of Feuerstein; the scientist would be flying over DOA by now. “That’s what makes them dangerous.”
Hochburg ordered the pilot to circle the dam and its orange-red reservoir, and caught sight of Globus. He was dressed in riding jodhpurs and a short-sleeved shirt, cowing men with orders as he strutted along the top of the dam. Spurs winked on his boots.
On the highest ridge overlooking the valley was the control center for the hydroelectric plant. There was a cluster of pylons and a landing pad; extra flags had been raised for Führertag. The Flettner touched down next to a trio of other helicopters, one an American Bell 47 with diplomatic markings.
“Why do we need Globus’s permission?” asked Kepplar as they disembarked.
“He’s bound to be testy about Antzu,” said Hochburg, stretching. “And we are going to commandeer his men. Better to stick to the formalities; it keeps the Reichsführer happy.” The valley below swayed with mist. “Wait here.”
Inadvertently, it was Hochburg who was responsible for Madagaskar’s dams. Although Tana and Diego were illuminated after dusk, most of the island remained black, and in the darkness, Globus feared, the population could plot against him. Coal was too expensive to import, and the SS forestry department wanted the native trees for lumber and profit, not lighting up Jews. Then, on his return from the Windhuk Conference, Globus had taken a night flight and seen the cities of central Africa twinkling beneath him: Hochburg had harnessed the continent’s rivers. The Inga Dam, powered by the cataracts of the Kongo River, was the largest in the world. Globus commissioned a team of engineers to survey Madagaskar for its hydroelectric potential. Several rivers were identified as possibilities, though their tendency to silt raised doubts about their viability. Globus ignored the naysayers and, as part of his Idle Hands project, set the population to work building the Sofia Dam in the north, Betroka in the south.
Along the top of the dam was a two-lane road that linked the sides of the ravine. Crews of workers were preparing cradles to be lowered over the edge. Behind them, the reservoir was at maximum level because of the rainy season. Up close its surface was the color of rust, the air pungent with brine. Globus stood apart from the workers, conferring with a man in a suit. He looked as irate and defensive as he had a few days ago, on the steps of his palace.
“Here he is,” said Globus. The reek of stale alcohol billowed from him. “While Oberstgruppenführer Hochburg is visiting, he’s the most senior official on the island. Perhaps he can explain things.” Globus introduced the man in the suit with a barely disguised resentment: “This is Herr Nightingale, the American envoy to Madagaskar.”
When Washington had intervened to safeguard the records on the Ark, it had also established a small diplomatic mission, partly to reassure American Jews with familial connections to the island. It joined the Council of New Europe’s and the Red Cross’s representation in Tana, all three housed in the old colonial quarter of the city.
“He’s new,” continued Globus. “Wants to make a name for himself.”
Nightingale stepped forward, his palm hovering, unsure whether it should be offered to shake or raised in a Führer salute. Hochburg spared him his predicament and grasped it. There was something effeminate, almost pretty about the American. His skin was so smooth it looked as if he shaved before every meal. He had feathery silver hair falling halfway down his forehead, tinged with sweat.
Globus fixed Hochburg with hungover, bloodshot eyes. “Have you heard the terrible news? The Ark burned down last night. How could such a disaster have happened?”
“The ship was gutted,” said Nightingale in a soft, sticky German. “Hundreds of thousands of records destroyed, maybe millions. It contravenes every agreement we signed.”
“Hochburg visited the Ark yesterday,” said Globocnik. “And the day before. Perhaps he knows what happened.”
“I left it perfectly intact.”
Globus turned on the American. “You see. The Oberstgruppenführer had special permission to visit. Other than that, it’s out of bounds. Be careful what you imply, Herr Envoy. You’re new to the island and don’t understand how things work yet.”
“Unlike my predecessor?”
“At least he enjoyed our hospitality.”
“The situation is unacceptable,” replied Nightingale. “I’ve had firsthand accounts of SS officers boarding the ship. Reports of sabotage.”
“And how did you come by this? The Jew lies as he breathes. I swear it’s a conspiracy to stir the muck between us.”
“I have informed Washington and regret to say that a military response has not been ruled out. We might have to send a warship to the region, like we did in forty-seven.”
The American’s tone remained measured, but Hochburg heard the conviction; he waited for Globus to explode. Instead the governor of Madagaskar offered a careless snort. He hooked his thumbs into his jodhpurs, pressed his belly out.
“And I’ve told Germania that the Jews were to blame for the Ark. They’re using it as an excuse to spread their rebellion. Look what they did here last night. But they will fail. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have work to do.” He stalked off to supervise his men, the spurs on his boots jangling with each step.
Hochburg went to follow, but Nightingale stopped him. “Can I speak privately with you? It’s important.”
“I don’t have the time.”
“Your troops in Kongo will not thank you if you walk away.”
Hochburg frowned, curious, and let himself be guided toward the far end of the dam. Nightingale lowered his voice and spoke in English.
“I know who you are, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, I know you have Himmler’s ear. I need you to pass on a word of caution.”
“I’m not an errand boy.”
“This is unofficial.”
The mist below had become patchy, offering glimpses of the valley. Near the base of the dam were the barracks Hochburg had flown over: thousands of huts nestled among the rocks, built from new logs, the thatched roofs still green in places. Globus’s dam scheme had been an epic waste of toil: as the experts warned him, the Sofia River carried too much silt to drive turbines. After an initial burst of power, the dam’s reservoir turned from blue to yellow-brown and then orange as the sediment built up and the electricity stopped. The same happened in the south. Then the second uprising began, and Globus found a better use for his follies. Any community that offered resistance was transported wholesale to the dam valleys, where, confined by the geography, they were easy to control. In the distance the river curved out of sight to Mandritsara and its hospital, a place Hochburg knew only by reputation. The doctors there occasionally shared their research with their colleagues in Muspel, some of it reaching Hochburg’s desk; it made for grisly reading.
“I don’t think Governor Globocnik appreciates the severity of the situation,” said Nightingale. “Or the potential consequences. Every day I receive news of summary executions, food being restricted, whole towns and factories transported around the island as if they were toys. The reservations were meant as a short-term measure.” He indicated the city of huts below; the sound of hammers drifted up through the mist. “They look permanent to me.”
“He has a rebellion on his hands,” replied Hochburg. “What do you expect?”
“The reservations have to stop. At this rate every man, woman, and child will be cooped up in them.”
“Tell Globus, not me.”
“I tried. His answer is to send me girls and hard liquor.” In the rising humidity, Nightingale loosened his collar. “Now the Ark. We both understand the significance of the names.”
“Then let me reassure you: he had no hand in it.”