The Madagaskar Plan (53 page)

Governor’s Palace, Tana

21 April, 00:45

A BREEZE VENTED the must of the trophy room, blowing in through the window and broken shutters. Hochburg had kicked them open in an attempt to escape. Below was a sheer wall and a drop that would break any climber that fell. Schubert was playing on the gramophone.

He gazed out at Tana. For the past hour he had watched Walküre gunships, laden with missiles, clatter over the city into the darkness; they returned spent. The mournful call of train whistles echoed from far away. The carriages must be chock-full with Jews being shipped to the Sofia Reservation. The night felt unbridled; Hochburg sensed violence, escalation. He had searched for Nightingale’s residence, locating it in a cluster of buildings from the French colonial period. Every window was illuminated. Had the envoy spent the evening dispatching reports to Washington about Globus’s crackdown? Could an American warship already be en route to Africa?

There was a loud snap from the garden terrace above, followed by the hum of filaments, and the night was illuminated.

He moved to the door. “What’s happening?” he asked the guard on the other side.

“Governor’s orders. They’re hanging your Jews.”

Hochburg experienced a sensation as vertiginous as dangling headfirst from the window. He pictured Feuerstein jerking at the end of a rope, his secrets lost forever.

“They are mine,” bellowed Hochburg. “I demand to see them.” Nothing. “You will open this door!”

He pounded his fists against the wood; each blow was met with silence.

Hochburg stepped back into the room. Earlier he had ransacked it for a means to break out, searching among the stuffed birds, digging through drawers. In his frustration, he toppled the bear. A locked trunk offered a momentary hope, until he smashed it open and found it full of vinyl records, mostly Austrian folk pap but also some classical music, including Keilberth’s recording of
The Ring
. Hitler had sent it as a gift to senior members of the SS for Christmas 1950. Hochburg’s had burned in the Schädelplatz; Globus’s was still wrapped in cellophane. There was also an unopened copy of Schubert’s Impromptus. They were always Eleanor’s favorites.

He had put on the record to soothe himself, righted the fallen bear, and continued his search, finding nothing more than a stocking caught among the cushions of the chaise longue. He sat, folding his arms in contemplation, and felt a hard lump against his chest. Hochburg reached inside his tunic to find Burton’s silver knife. He had quite forgotten about it and was thankful that the body search after his arrest had been cursory.

Now he took the blade and strode to the window, leaning his whole body out. A blast of wind hit him. Ten meters above was a balcony with a wrought iron balustrade—but the climb was suicidal. The walls of the palace were made from huge, smooth blocks of stone. Hochburg ran his fingers along the mortar between the blocks—there was scant purchase—then tried the knife, digging it into the cement and testing it. It might be enough to take his weight. He remembered the knife from Eleanor’s dinner service, the one she used only for the best occasions. Burton had fashioned the metal into a lethal dagger.

From the terrace came men shouting orders and the burble of excited, drunken chatter. Numerous times during his incarceration, the noise of a party had seeped through the walls of the trophy room. Globus may have been absent, but his guests were enjoying the Führertag celebrations.

Hochburg cursed Kepplar.

Hours had passed. He should have found Burton by now and brought him back; he should have released Hochburg. Once more his former deputy had shown he could not be relied upon. It was further proof of the necessity of Feuerstein’s superweapon. If even the most devoted failed Hochburg, he needed the means to fight without having to depend on mere men. Perhaps Kepplar had reached the end of his usefulness.

A new sound came from above: the somber beat of the executioner’s drum.

Typical Globus theatrics! Doubtless he would have also insisted on long ropes. There would be no short drop and break of the neck for the Jews; they would kick and fight and choke for several minutes: a spectacle for the audience. And with their final breaths Hochburg’s ambitions for Africa would expire.

He retreated from the window and hammered on the door. The eyes of hundreds of dead animals watched blankly.

There was an exultant crescendo from the gramophone, then the scratch and pop between tracks before the next piece began. Hochburg recognized it at once: the Hungarian Melody. It was a slower, more solemn interpretation than he was used to. He remembered how Eleanor played it after nightfall to the murmur of kerosene lamps. At first it was enchanting; later he became a restive audience. After they fled together, they never listened to it again.

Impelled by the music, Hochburg returned to the window and stepped onto the ledge. He was buffeted by the wind. The bandage around his eye felt as if it would be snatched away. He drove Burton’s knife into the mortar, using it like an ice pick, and began scaling the palace exterior.

Hochburg climbed slowly, precisely. His body wasn’t built for this. He wished he had the narrow fingers of a monkey to wedge into the crevices, or that he had taken off his boots: bare toes would give a better purchase. He kept focused on the balcony just meters out of his reach. He couldn’t hear the Schubert now or the drum, only the wind. It screamed around him in gusts, one moment slamming him into the stone, the next keen to rip him from the wall.

Hochburg wedged the knife between the blocks and hauled himself up.

The blade loosened.

He felt a weightlessness … then a plunging sensation.

Hochburg clawed his other hand into stone, swinging free, as he tried to bury the knife back into the wall. He saw the rocks below and their sharp peaks.

He slipped, his grip weakening, and in that long second he didn’t think of Eleanor or of saving Feuerstein; his thoughts were with Burton and the vengeance he had been denied. How unsatisfying life had proved. He plunged the blade into the wall with a new strength, finding a weak spot in the concrete. The knife disappeared to the hilt.

Hochburg hugged the stone, then willed his body upward till his hand grasped the ironwork of the balcony. He heaved himself up to a French window that opened into a suite of rooms. The interior was still and warm, charged with silk. There was a dressing table groaning with perfume and trinkets, dozens of pairs of high heels left carelessly on the floor.

Out of the wind, the drum beckoned.

The door to the room was locked; Hochburg drove all his weight against it. It took several blows before he crashed through, into one of the palace’s stone corridors. He ran up the central staircase, the beat growing louder with every floor, and reached the garden. There was a rapid roll of the drum … then abruptly it stopped.

On the terrace below, the gallows were silhouetted against powerful arc lights. The Jews stood lined up, their backs to him, facing the city. Nooses around their necks. Beneath their feet were brightly colored boxes, gaudy as presents for a children’s party. Guards stood watch.

In the silence, Hochburg thought he heard the last notes of the Hungarian Melody drifting up from the lower levels of the palace. He clutched Burton’s dagger.

The hangman nodded to the Hauptsturmführer overseeing events—then walked down the line of Jews, kicking the boxes away.

*   *   *

In the artificial light, the garden, with its cascades of roses and bougainvillea, looked anemic. The gravestone patio had a pewter sheen.

A section of the terrace had been cordoned off for guests and given over to plush chairs beneath an awning. The delicate fragrance of flowers mixed with the smell of hot bodies, fruit, and champagne. There were officers in disheveled dress uniforms and lots of young women. Globus’s typing pool had an insatiable hunger for new flesh; Hochburg never allowed any of his female staff to apply for Madagaskar.

He tore down the steps to the gallows and pushed through the convulsing legs to see the Jews’ faces. The brittle sound of ropes creaking. Feuerstein was puce, eyes bulging, his tongue flicking around his lips. Like the others, he had his hands tied behind his back, but his feet were unbound and jerking (another Globus detail for a better show). Hochburg used the knife to cut the rope around the scientist’s wrists, then placed the blade in his palm.

“You’ll have to free yourself,” said Hochburg.

He ducked beneath the scientist, secured the struggling man’s bare feet on his shoulders, and supported his weight. Feuerstein sawed at the slack noose around his neck.

One of the female spectators stood up. She was loaded with pearls, had coils of silver hair and the same heavy features as her son. “You’re ruining it!” she shrieked, needles in her lilting accent.

The Hauptsturmführer strode undecidedly toward Hochburg.

Feuerstein tumbled to the ground. Coughing, gagging. He got to his feet and helped to support the next man. Hochburg cut his wrists loose. Along the gallows, eyes full of ravenous hope implored him, but there were too many to free them all before they choked. Each scientist might be as essential to the Muspel project as the individual components of the bomb; he didn’t want to risk losing a single one. Some were already bucking on the ropes, their faces ballooning and purple.

As soon as Hochburg sliced through the cord, he handed the knife over and addressed the assembled guards. They were startled, unsure how to react. The Hauptsturmführer had taken out his Luger but held it low. Hochburg deepened his voice, making it resonant with the authority of his rank and the territories he ruled.

“These Jews are worth more than all the wealth of this island. You will help me save them.” Nobody moved. One of the party girls hissed. “You will help me or you will spend the rest of your lives digging the mines of Kongo.”

Still none of the guards moved. Hochburg grabbed the nearest and shoved him beneath a scientist. The Hauptsturmführer came forward.

“You next,” said Hochburg.

“No Jew is going to stand on me.” He raised his pistol. “I’m warning you—”

Hochburg dealt with him as he had done the Americans at the Shinkolobwe mine. He grabbed the Hauptsturmführer by the scruff and propelled him across the terrace. There was an updraft as they reached the edge. Tana lay twinkling below them. Hochburg hurled him over the side. Unlike the American soldiers, he didn’t scream.

That was something,
he thought, a momentary hope flitting through his gut; the SS in Africa would prevail yet.

Not all the guards obeyed, but enough came forward, grasping the Jews’ scrawny ankles and lifting them up. Filthy bare feet stood on shoulder lapels bearing the sacred runes. A few of the more drunk guests brayed with laughter at the spectacle. The remainder were either shaking their heads or leaving in disgust. Frau Globus stormed past, talking loudly: “He’ll be strung up with the rest of them tomorrow, you’ll see.”

More knives were found and a guard sent up to the beam of the gallows. Under Hochburg’s supervision, the rest of the Jews were cut down. He wasn’t fast enough to save them all. Several dropped to the ground asphyxiated.

“Baranovich’s wife,” said Feuerstein, closing the eyelids of a woman. His voice was like a rag that had been wrung out.

“You said you didn’t want to be the only widower,” replied Hochburg. “Life will be easier in Muspel.”

“I didn’t mean it. I wished I’d…”

The rest of his response was drowned out as the next squadron of Walküres roared over, on their way to quell the rebellion.

“Where are the others?” asked Hochburg when the helicopters had passed. No more than twenty had been brought to the gallows.

“Still below, in the cells.” Feuerstein looked at Hochburg, full of gratitude and revulsion with himself for meaning it. He massaged his bruised neck. “Twice we owe our lives.”

“All I want is my weapon.”

The other Jews crowded around him, coughing and spluttering, their eyes misty. They reached for his sleeves as though he were an idol, fingered his uniform, an unearthly wail rising from them. Hochburg brushed them away and stood at the edge of the terrace, looking down on the city. Among the banners and swastika flags he found the single Stars and Stripes.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Tana–Diego Railway

21 April, 00:55

SALOIS HAD HEARD many terrible sounds: the wailing that hung over the beaches of Dunkirk; men drowning in cement during the construction of Diego; the childlike screams of lemurs when the Nazis torched the forest to flush out rebels.

But no sound disturbed him as much as a man and a woman arguing.

Madeleine and Burton fought in whispers, their quarrel more desperate for their efforts to keep it discreet. Salois had slipped away from them—to where the cover of the tamarind trees gave way to open grass—yet he could hear every word. The leaves shook and dripped above, whipped by the wind. There was no sign of the train Cranley had promised. Suddenly Madeleine called to him; he was startled to hear his name.

“What do you think, Reuben?” she asked.

Salois glanced from her to Burton. He hadn’t met a fellow legionnaire during his whole time in Madagaskar. Here was a man who had endured the same brutal training, tramped the same desert, eaten the same filthy food (though now a bowl of camel meat and dates would be a feast). The Legion was based in two forts: Saida, where Salois had been billeted, and Bel Abbès; the two camps were fierce rivals, linked by friendship and hatred. As they fled Nachtstadt, following the spur to the main railway line, Salois and Burton exchanged names, seeking a common bond, and found none till Burton mentioned a familiar one.
Ah, l’Américain!
Salois had replied.
Un vieux camarade
.

Madeleine pressed her question, eyes imploring. Salois felt uncomfortable; he was intruding on grief, on fear, that wasn’t his.

“Burton’s right,” he replied. “There’s no hope—you mustn’t go to Mandritsara. But…” A deep loneliness stirred in him. “But if I had the chance to hold my child, if only for a moment, I’d risk everything.”