Read The Madagaskar Plan Online
Authors: Guy Saville
… taking control of Madagaskar with the full agreement and authority of the RSHA and Reichsführer-SS; Diego Suarez will continue to remain under Kriegsmarine command.
The pilot sharpened the frequency.
Governor Globocnik has been temporarily relieved of his command. Any orders you have received in the past forty-eight hours are rescinded. The security situation is critical. All Jews are to be held where they are. Those in transit must be delivered to the reservations or, if feasible, returned whence they came. Extreme measures against the Jewish population, their settlements, and their property are expressly forbidden unless the lives of you or your comrades are under immediate threat. Gunships must return to base. Any man, of whatever rank, found disobeying these orders will face court-martial. I repeat: the security situation is critical; Jews are not to be harmed. Reinforcements will arrive shortly. Heil Hitler!
“Where are we?” Kepplar asked the pilot. He had no idea how long ago they had left Lava Bucht. His brain felt slurred.
“We’re almost there.”
Hochburg’s message repeated itself:
This is Oberstgruppenführer Walter Hochburg broadcasting from the Governor’s Palace in Tana. As of zero one hundred hours on 21 April I am taking control of Madagaskar with the full agreement and authority of …
Kepplar listened to the words loop again and again. His ear with the missing half was uncomfortable and hot inside the headphones. For the first time he was exhausted by the futility of his task, forever closing in on Cole but never apprehending him. All he wanted was to return to Kongo and the familiarity of his problems there. He had chosen Africa to purify it—in his grander moments, he strove to bring in the age of German civilization—not to chase a fellow white man, whatever his crime. How Burton Cole’s capture furthered that purpose remained obscure.
Unexpectedly, he felt a spark of resentment toward Hochburg for not trusting him enough to share the secret. The Oberstgruppenführer’s orders droned on in his ears. Resentment settled into despondency. He closed his eyes and tried to doze, but sleep had deserted him. He became aware of numerous physical discomforts: he was hungry, the muscles beneath his shoulder blades ached, there was stubble on his chin (he hated not shaving).
Nachtstadt emerged from the darkness like the cone of a volcano, a glowing circle that billowed vents of smoke. Kepplar shook his head, scolding himself. He was closer to discovering Cole than ever.
The helicopter landed.
“Refuel,” he told the pilot. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”
“What course?”
“I’m about to learn.”
The farm commandant waited by the landing pad, still fighting to sober up; his breath reeked of coffee and menthol. He had dithered when Kepplar demanded the use of a helicopter until Kepplar said he would have to answer to Globocnik if not. Now the commandant was unsettled by the orders coming over the wires.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “We’d already shot them. I thought it best to hide the evidence.”
The air was savory with the smell and pattering ash that reminded Kepplar of Muspel. He shrugged off the commandant and strode toward the punishment block, passing between huge flaming pyres.
The cell had been hosed down and a mattress found for Tünscher’s bunk. He was lying on it in a pair of trousers and nothing more, as carefree as the border guards at Rovuma Brücke. He had received the medical attention Kepplar requested. His flank was bandaged; the cuts on his face had been cleaned and stitched. A Bayerweed dangled from his mouth.
“Where do I find Cole?” said Kepplar.
“Straight down to business,” came the reply. “Good.”
“I want off this island as much as you do.”
Tünscher swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat. “Thanks for these,” he said, through a mouthful of smoke. “You get the money?”
Kepplar threw him the parrot. It landed in Tünscher’s lap.
“Is this a joke?”
His tone was so slovenly that something hot flared in Kepplar’s throat, as if he might beat the answer out of him after all. “Open it.”
Tünscher tried twisting the bird, then tugged at the head till it came apart in his hands. Gold coins scattered everywhere, tinkling and rolling around the concrete floor. Tünscher scooped up a handful and examined the hallmarks.
“Tell me where,” said Kepplar.
Uncertainty clouded Tünscher’s face as he voiced his thoughts: “Burton lied about those diamonds; it should be easy, but…”
“Cole had you here on false pretenses. Loyalty is not a hard bond to break.”
“What will happen to him?”
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“Will he die?”
“No,” lied Kepplar. He assumed—he hoped—that Hochburg would be true to his word and burn Cole alive, as he was determined to during the Kongo pursuit. Kepplar would relish the spectacle, lean close to his master and share a joke about paperwork. “I paid you, Obersturmführer; now tell me where to find Cole.”
The words emerged stickily from Tünscher’s broken lips: “The hospital.” He rolled a coin between his fingers; swallowed; then made up his mind. “At Mandritsara.”
Kepplar was familiar with its reputation. “Why on earth would he go there?”
“Ask him yourself when you catch him.”
Mandritsara was twenty minutes by helicopter. Should he inform Hochburg first or head directly there? Jubilation prickled through his chest, though not as noisily as it once would have done.
“Will his woman be with him?” asked Kepplar. He saw her again in the synagogue: the mucky knees and rancid hair.
“Maddie? You’re after her, too?”
“Yes.”
Tünscher was suddenly squeamish, unsure. “When you find them, don’t say it was me.” He crushed the cigarette he was smoking and knelt to gather the coins on the floor, his mood low. He glanced up at Kepplar watching him. “What did happen to your ear?”
Kepplar went to cover it, remembering the mess and shame of that day, then let his hand drop. “A nigger bit it off,” he replied, and laughed. “She was only young—twelve or thirteen—vicious little bitch.”
Tünscher joined his laughter. “Perhaps she was hungry. What did you do?”
“You mean to her?” The merriment was spreading through Kepplar. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so much. “My superior knows the Old Testament. An eye for an eye, he always tells me, a tooth for a tooth. It’s official policy in Kongo.” He wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. “I let her live—but she never heard again.”
This provoked Tünscher more; soon they were both howling.
Kepplar laughed till it had all spilled out of him and there was nothing more than spasms of his lungs. He felt empty and sordid, and turned to leave. He couldn’t be sure, but it was around the time of the girl that his estrangement from violence began.
“What about me?” said Tünscher, the last of his own laughter dying.
“You’ve got your money.”
“You can’t leave me here.”
“It’s unwise to trust a man who would betray his friend.”
Kepplar rapped on the door and was let out by one of the grooms. Once it had closed behind him, he spoke with Tünscher through the grille. “Assuming I find Cole in Mandritsara, I’ll come back for you. A guarantee of your honesty.”
“And if you don’t?”
“You’ll have to trust me,” said Kepplar, enjoying the moment. “I’ll make sure nobody mistakes you for a Jew.” He was about to leave when he stopped and fished out Tünscher’s locket. He handed it through the bars. “She’s not worth it—they never are.”
“This one is.”
Kepplar wasn’t listening. He needed to radio ahead, to the hospital, and prepare them for Cole.
Diego Suarez
21 April, 04:15
“MAJOR SALOIS!”
Salois recognized the voice. He watched two figures emerge from their hiding place inside the pipes. They were dressed in black, their faces smeared in oil. The mercury lights above cast them in an unearthly hue. For a crazy moment he thought it was Grace and Sergeant Denny, that they had survived the beach to join him.
“We didn’t know if you’d make it,” said Yaudin, chief of the Jewish Police. He was wearing soft boots and a black beret; an antique rifle was slung over his shoulder. Behind him came one of his wardens carrying a scythe.
Salois couldn’t remember the last time he smiled so warmly. After the horrors he’d witnessed, even the most fleeting joy felt like a betrayal to the dead.
Another warden appeared from the pipe and joined them. These men might lack military experience, but together the team was back to its original strength. Salois loosened the straps on the front rucksack. “You made the right decision,” he said.
Yaudin removed his beret. His thick black hair was shorn to the scalp. “We’re here to stop you, Major.”
“What?”
They spoke in violent whispers.
“After you burned the synagogue, the Nazis cleared a whole block of the city as a warning,” he said in his gruff, guttural voice. “They marched old women and kids to the Sofia reservation. People who thought they were safe in Antzu, who want no part in your rebellion. Since then Globocnik has tightened the noose. We saw towns ablaze on our way here; the air was thick with gunships.”
“All the more reason to fight.”
“Think what Globus will do if you hit Diego.”
“You’re too late,” said Salois. “The bombers are on their way. I can’t stop them.”
“Give it up now and they won’t get through.”
Salois’s reply was hot-blooded, exhausted. He was sick of having to explain the obvious to men who had deluded themselves that they alone would be spared; or maybe a tiny part of him doubted it, too. “The United States is the only hope we have.”
“If you do this, Major, all the Americans will find is bones.”
Salois leveled his BK44 at them.
“Do it: shoot.” Sweat ran down Yaudin’s huge jaw. “You’ll raise every sentry in the yard. If we can’t stop you, they will.”
“Then you’ll die with me.”
“Probably. But my family will have a chance.”
When Salois didn’t reply, Yaudin appealed to him: “I’ve two boys and a girl. A wife and mother. Aunts, uncles, neighbors.” He gestured at his two wardens. “We all have. They don’t deserve to die.”
“You saw my skin. None of them deserved it.”
Salois charged Yaudin, the weight of the rucksacks driving them both over. The Jupo chief clawed at one of the wardens as he fell. They all tumbled down, Yaudin grunting as the wind was knocked from him. Salois struggled to regain his feet. An arm locked around his throat as the other warden dragged him off. Salois sank his teeth into the man’s arm and kicked back with all of his force. They crashed to the ground, the warden’s leg catching on the rail track. Salois leapt up, the rucksacks threatening to topple him, and stamped on his knee.
The quiet of the yard was broken by screams.
Salois smashed the warden’s head with his rifle, knocking him unconscious, and ran, stumbling over tracks and cross ties, heading for the perimeter fence. He checked behind: Yaudin was on his feet, aiming a pistol.
At first Salois thought the bullet had missed … then he realized it was a flare gun, the shot traveling high above and exploding. A tiny orange sun hovered over the marshaling yard, washing everything in shades of tangerine and copper. The light was excruciating; it would summon every guard on the base.
Salois pressed himself against a cattle truck, his Kriegsmarine whites glowing. Somewhere a dog barked.
The flare began its slow descent, elongating the shadows as it fell. Salois saw the shape of his body on the earth, the explosives strapped to his front protruding like the belly of a pregnant woman. He ducked underneath the car, then sprinted across open ground to the cover of the next wagon and waited for darkness to return. Searchlights had come on and were skimming the yard. He heard brisk footsteps and Yaudin encouraging his warden to find him. Salois let them pass before emerging. He darted between gaps in the trains and found himself behind the police chief: he was creeping ahead, holding his rifle out like a game hunter. Salois silently caught up and cracked his skull with the butt of his BK44. Yaudin slumped.
Salois rolled him over and raised the weapon again. “Do it,” he heard Cranley say. “He’s jeopardizing the mission.” The police chief’s eyelids fluttered as if trying to stir himself from a bad dream.
History is a nightmare Jews can’t wake from,
Frieda had once said. Salois felt the same about his own life. He wished she could have seen the man he became.
He lowered his rifle. He hadn’t come to Madagaskar to kill Jews.
Salois dragged Yaudin’s body beneath a cattle truck and hid him behind the wheels; he was moaning softly. In the Legion, when they captured an Arab who had escaped the cells, they cut his Achilles tendon to prevent further breakouts. He considered doing the same to Yaudin—but it would cripple him for life. Diego would soon be ablaze, and in the months ahead every man would be needed for the struggle. As the rebellion spread and took hold, the Jupo would have no choice but to fight.
There was no sign of the other warden. Salois crossed the rest of the marshaling yard to the perimeter fence. He poked his fingers through the links, the wire brittle from the salt air, and was dazzled by the light.
Below him was the naval base of Diego Suarez.
The first time he had seen it was in 1943 as a pioneer
,
one of thousands of men arriving on the island who believed they would be building a future: houses, hospitals, schools. He spent two years slaving on fortifications. By the time Salois left, Diego was a polygon of concrete and iron. It was divided naturally into individual coves, each several kilometers wide, like compartments in a tool box. Across the water was Donnerbucht and the submarine pens of the Monsoon Group; to the northwest Weissfelsenbucht, the largest and deepest of the bays, could accommodate aircraft carriers and H-class battleships. More than a dozen vessels were at anchor. It seemed as if every single light in Diego was illuminated, the base glittering.