Read The Madagaskar Plan Online
Authors: Guy Saville
“Contact your government,” he urged Nightingale. “Tell them I’ve taken control—”
“My communications were cut, shortly after the
Yorktown
news.”
“You’ll find they have been restored. We both believe in your country’s neutrality. Tell Washington there’s no need for intervention.”
The envoy shook his head.
“Only you can stop things now, Oberstgruppenführer.” He took a sip of coffee. “Restore order to the island; shut down the reservations. End the killings. And there’ll be no need for any warships. They can sail home.”
“There’s still a rebellion. I can’t command every man in the field.”
“So long as there are no major atrocities.”
Hochburg hid a smile: the eternal expediency of diplomacy. “The Jews have my protection,” he said with feeling.
“Can I trust you?”
“You said it yourself, Herr Nightingale, at the dam. My troops in Kongo will not thank me if America intercedes. To safeguard my army is to protect the unfortunate inhabitants of this island.”
“This is official policy?”
Hochburg had severed all lines to Germania. “I have the Führer’s wholehearted blessing. He understands the importance of peace in Africa.”
“Pax Germanica.”
“There is no other.”
Nightingale drained his coffee and stood. “I pray you’re right. I don’t want to fail my country, Oberstgruppenführer.”
“Neither of us does.”
They shook hands, Nightingale promising to relay Hochburg’s guarantees to his superiors. He paused at the door.
“Once this is over, you need to turn the island back five years. That will keep the Jews at home quiet. The original plan for Madagaskar was something we could all live with.”
After the envoy had left, Hochburg passed his untouched gâteau to Feuerstein; the physicist accepted hungrily. His face remained streaked with filth, despite Hochburg’s offer of a basin and washcloth.
“In the days of the Ha-Mered,” he said between mouthfuls, “we were convinced the United States would save us.”
“It was an American who led me to your weapon. They want it as insurance against this island.”
“To defend us or themselves?”
“That’s very cynical, Doctor. Could they build one?”
“Nightingale is your answer,” replied Feuerstein.
Hochburg took Burton’s knife and cut himself some cake. That was another reason to temper the situation in Madagaskar: to reset the clock, as Nightingale suggested. If the island was stable, the United States would have less reason to develop its own weapon. He reclined in his seat and chewed: nourishment for the long night ahead. When he was done he wiped the blade clean and returned it to its place inside his tunic.
An adjutant appeared. “Your Walküres are fueled and armed, Oberstgruppenführer.”
Hochburg stood, indicating that Feuerstein should do the same. “We leave immediately.”
The adjutant clicked his heels and exited, passing Kepplar on the way out. The Brigadeführer’s face was gray in contrast to the riot of his uniform, the paint dry and cracked.
Hochburg sighed. “Empty-handed. As usual.”
His deputy dipped his eyes in shame, but there was something else, something never seen before: a flash of resentment. Hochburg would not tolerate that.
“I know where Cole and the woman are,” said Kepplar.
“Then why not bring them to me?”
“After all this time, Herr Oberst, I thought the pleasure should be yours.” He faltered, then slumped like a runner at the end of a long race. “I was twenty minutes from them; I planned to go myself. But the stakes are too high. If I failed again…”
Hochburg regarded him pitifully. “It means that much to you?”
“I can’t be sent back to Roscherhafen, or Germania. All I want to do is serve.”
“Where are they?”
“The hospital, Mandritsara.”
Kepplar’s bland devotion was touching, in the same way that Fenris’s was, yet difficult years lay ahead. Sentiment was a luxury for future generations. Nevertheless, Kepplar had delivered Burton’s location, if not his beating heart. Perhaps his skills would be better deployed in Muspel, overseeing Feuerstein.
“Mandritsara: you’re sure?”
“I stake my life on it, Walter.”
An icicle smile curled Hochburg’s lips. “And we remember from the pyre in the Schädelplatz how much you value it.” He reached below the desk and threw Kepplar a bundle. “It may need alteration, but it will do for now.”
Kepplar unfastened it to reveal a black uniform. His eyes glittered. “May I wear it?”
Hochburg had found a pair of handcuffs. He beckoned Feuerstein to his side and clamped their wrists together. “You don’t leave my sight.”
“What about my colleagues?”
“They are safe.”
After his excursion to the kitchen, Hochburg had come across Globus’s private screening room. It had forty easy chairs and canisters of films: Japanese pornography, some Heinz Rühmann comedies, Disney cartoons. He had left the other scientists with buckets of food watching
Dumbo
; the guards were ordered not to molest them.
Hochburg turned to Kepplar. “When I have Burton, you will be a Gruppenführer again. I shall go to the hospital; you to the Sofia Dam.”
“Let me be with you,” replied his deputy, unbuttoning his tunic and sprinkling the floor with flecks of congealed color.
“Your task is too important to trust to anyone else. Go to the dam and detain Globus. Redeem yourself.”
Kepplar bowed his head and slipped on the pristine black cloth.
* * *
The air was thunder, wind, aviation fuel. Red and white lights flashed on the tarmac. Two Walküres stood waiting for the order to take to the sky, next to them another two helicopters: troop carriers full of soldiers.
Hochburg marched toward the nearest gunship, Feuerstein scurrying to keep up. Behind them, Kepplar’s new buttons strained against his chest; the seat of his trousers sagged. He pretended not to care, but Hochburg caught him hitching up the waist when he thought no one was looking.
“The other Walküre is yours,” said Hochburg. “A troopship will follow. Do your best to take Globocnik alive, then bring him here. Before you leave the dam—and this is important, Derbus—make sure the sluice gates cannot be opened or tampered with. If Globus tries to flood the reservation, my assurances to the Americans will be undone.”
“What about you, Herr Oberst?”
He hesitated, wondering whether he should arrest Globus himself—but he couldn’t lose Burton again. He had a banquet of reprisals to choose from now. “I will return with young Burtchen. Then home to Kongo.”
Kepplar’s gunship lifted off first. Hochburg watched its lights shrink into the darkness. Banks of clouds, charcoal against the night, were massing; the wind was freshening up. Moments later Hochburg felt a lurch as his own helicopter ascended. Feuerstein was squashed into the same seat as him; he gazed down through the glass bubble of the cockpit at the receding palace.
“A plane in the morning, Herr Doctor, a helicopter for the evening. A day to remember for a man who’s never flown.”
The physicist cupped his mouth as though he was about to vomit.
Mandritsara Hospital
21 April, 04:45
“IT’S IMPORTANT THAT you see this,” said Cranley.
He spoke in a cool, careless way, but his eyes shone with malice. He was dressed in dark combat fatigues oily with the jungle, in his grip a pistol whose handle was carved from ivory. Madeleine recognized it as Burton’s gun, and remembered the times she’d scolded him for not hiding it when Alice visited the farm.
Burton was on his knees before her husband, neck limp from the blow he’d taken, the back of his head bloody and matted. A soldier stood behind him; another held Madeleine. Her wrists were bound in front of her, the cord so secure that her fingertips were numb. The soldiers had attempted to tie Burton but had given up when they saw his missing hand.
“Are you watching?” asked Cranley. His voice was intricate with emotions: forced composure, rage, a need to brag. Madeleine noticed how carefully tended his hair was. He swung the pistol against Burton’s face.
The blow felled him. He hit the floor, mumbling threats, a bright spatter where his face landed. The soldier dragged him back to a kneeling position. A gash had opened across Burton’s cheek. Madeleine had seen him nick his thumb on a piece of farm machinery, she had laid her tongue upon his scars, but she had never seen him bleed like this. A coldness drained through her stomach.
Cranley wedged the pistol into his belt, then cracked a fist into Burton’s nose. And again. His knuckles came away trailing blood.
Madeleine fought to free herself from the soldier’s hold, snapping and hissing and stamping at his feet. Meat-hook hands held her fast. Abner stood to one side, silent and sheepish, his eyes darting around the room, never meeting Madeleine’s.
Cranley prowled in front of Burton. “Second button down,” he said.
Burton had fastened his tunic against the chill of the hospital; the second button lay at the base of his throat. Cranley’s punch landed with utter precision, the middle knuckle driving the button into his gullet. Burton dropped, cawing and choking.
Madeleine couldn’t bear any more; she screwed her eyes shut.
“I told you to watch.”
She didn’t have enough hair for the soldier to grasp, so he grabbed her ears and forced her head up. Fingertips pinched her eyelashes and raised the lids. Cranley filled her vision, overwhelming her intimate space. He wore a concentrated, almost pleading expression that she associated with the bedroom in the first months of their marriage.
For the first time she registered that his skin was leathery with burns; it suited him, seemed to complete his face.
“Keep watching,” he said. “There’s not much more to go.”
He slipped away from her and delivered a final fist into Burton’s sternum. Madeleine let out a shout of horror. Burton crumpled, groaning as if an organ had ruptured. This time the soldier left him where he was.
Cranley leaned over him and administered an injection.
Madeleine struggled in the soldier’s grip. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a new type of epinephrine the Germans have developed. While I was waiting for you, I found some in the dispensary. They have the most extraordinary selection of drugs I’ve ever seen. It’s used in interrogations to give the prisoner a boost, so you can prolong the questioning. There’s no honor in beating an unconscious man.” He withdrew the syringe. “He’ll be as sparky as a sandboy in a few minutes.”
All the furniture in the room had been cleared except for a large table in the middle. Cranley perched on it in a pose she’d seen many times over the years. Against the walls were microscope stations, a refrigeration unit full of vials, gleaming centrifuges. There were piles of clamps and calipers that looked like twisted black bones; drums of chemicals. In one corner stood a full-sized skeleton that someone had turned inward, as though they didn’t want its hollow eye sockets to witness the events about to unfold.
Madeleine faced her brother, heat blooming in her cheeks as if he’d slapped her. “You did this?” Her voice was piercing. “You brought us to him?”
Cranley answered on his behalf: “My agents have been supplying the Vanillas for years. It took a while, but we tracked him down in the end.”
“Your husband’s here to help, Leni.”
“You idiot boy,” she replied.
“He’s the only chance we’ll ever get.”
“Stupid fucking idiot boy.”
“He already saved Mutti and Leah.”
That brought her up short. “You said they were in Zimety.”
“I couldn’t tell you the truth. They’re in South Africa, waiting for us. Colonel Cranley arranged it.”
Madeleine was suddenly dizzy: Colonel Cranley, his “agents,” South Africa … Who was this man she’d been married to? She tried to organize her thoughts. “He’s lying.”
“I saw them off.”
“But you didn’t see them arrive. You can’t just take people off this island.”
“Actually, you can,” said Cranley. “We’ve been doing it since the island was first settled. So has most of the CONE; America, too. The SS has a secret hostage exchange program.”
“Why?”
“Scoop up the dirt and there will always be a few gems. Jews who didn’t believe they’d be shipped out or thought they could make new lives for themselves. A cache of treasures arrived with them. Do you remember the Renoir we saw?”
A trip to the National Gallery. Alice had been excited, then bored, Jared uncharacteristically animated. She had wondered about it at the time: neither of them had much interest in art. They stood in line to glimpse the new exhibit, its provenance a mystery. Afterward they took tea at Fortnum’s. Madeleine had worn her happiness all afternoon, until her smile ached. She longed for the day she and Burton could go out as a family.
Cranley continued, boastfulness clinging to his words: “We acquired it for the country and bought its previous owners passage abroad. They’re safely in Brazil now. I did the same with your mother and sister.” His smile was chilling. “Governor Globocnik is well recompensed; it also means a few fewer Jews for him to worry about.”
She switched her attention to Abner. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“Mutti’s ill,” he replied, anxious to persuade. “Leah can’t cope with much more. Papa and Samuel have gone to America—”
“Don’t use your stupid slang.”
“I did the best I could.”
“For who?” demanded Madeleine.
“The family.”
“What about Burton?”
He was beginning to stir at their feet.
“He’s not my concern,” said Abner, shifting awkwardly.
“After everything I told you.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He’s the man I love. Look what they’ve done to him. They’re going to kill him.”
“Colonel Cranley never mentioned anything to do with him. He’s not supposed to be here.”
“And what about me?” said Madeleine. “Where do I fit into everything?”
“You’re going to Britain”—a hint of envy—“back to your old life.”
She spat out a laugh, but Cranley nodded in confirmation. “I’m taking you home, Madeleine.”