The Madagaskar Plan (31 page)

“Come on, man!” Globus thumped the pilot’s shoulder. “Give it more! I want to wake the whole town, let those Yids know what we got.”

The display wasn’t only for the Jews. He returned to the cabin and slumped into his seat. On the bench opposite, ankles splayed but knees tucked together, were his sister-in-law, Gretta, and Romy, one of his secretaries, both in cherry-red dresses he’d chosen for them, sequins flashing; their eyes were hazy with booze.

Earlier, the three of them had visited the base at Lava Bucht: part of his Führertag tour of the island. He was visiting as many garrisons as possible, except in the Diego region, which was under the Kriegsmarine’s authority. He was determined to prove that his control remained iron-fisted. Globus always took girls with him on inspections; it was good for the men’s morale to see a bit of skirt. They had eaten white sausages and pretzels with the base commander, drunk Riesling and brandy, and sung folk songs before Globus got to his real reason for being there—and suggested an excursion across the water. While Gretta and Romy thrilled at the idea of setting foot on the
Gustloff,
the commander blanched.

“Counting Herr Hochburg, your visit will be the third in the past forty-eight hours,” he said. “The Jews will be watching by now; the forest is full of rebels. I can’t guarantee your security.”

An impatient wave of the hand. “Next you’ll remind me that we’re not allowed there.”

“I wouldn’t presume, Obergruppenführer. But no hostage could be more valuable than yourself.” He chewed his lip. “You should take an escort—a radio and flare gun, too. Let me put the base on standby.”

Globus grinned at the two girls. “You see how my commanders fret about me?”

The hovercraft glided from the water onto the mudflats at the base of the
Gustloff,
the jetty lamps swinging as it settled. Globus helped the girls out, took a swig of cognac, and passed the bottle to them. The air was brackish.

“Once I’m free of this armpit island,” he trumpeted, “once I’m governor of Ostmark, the KdF is going to name a ship after me.” A boyish delight spread across his face. “The cruise liner
Odilo Globocnik,
biggest in the world!”

He led the group up the tower to the entrance; along with Gretta and Romy, there were six soldiers with BK44s and Hauptsturmführer Pinzel, the liaison officer between Tana, Lava Bucht, and the Ark. He was a blond oak, with spectacles and the starchy manner of the graduates of the Colonial Academy in Vienna. There were increasingly more of his kind in the SS. Globus feared for the future: men whose piss had frozen in fifty degrees of frost had built the empire, but one day the schoolboys would take over. At least Pinzel seemed keen to prove that there was more than diploma in his trousers, even if Globus didn’t like the way he kept glancing at Gretta. The Hauptsturmführer had informed him of Hochburg’s second—unauthorized—visit to the ship, which was why Globus was here now.

“This is the governor-general,” announced Pinzel as they reached the entrance to the ship. He had a glockenspiel voice. “Extend him every courtesy.”

There were two filthy Jews at a desk; Globus saw them exchange terrified, conspiratorial glances. He planted the bottle of cognac on the table and flicked through the ledger to the final entry. The handwriting was as neat and small as typewriter print: Walter E. Hochburg.

“What did he want?” asked Globus.

The Jews were sticky-throated. “To … to see a file, Obergruppenführer,” replied one when he found the courage to speak.

He belted the man who’d answered. “Do you think I’m stupid? Of course to see a file! Which one?”

“We’re only night guards … you need Ratzyck. He’s one of our archivists … showed the Oberstgruppenführer round the ship.”

“Bring him to me.”

“His daughter is expecting tonight … he’s in Analava.”

Pinzel yanked the Jew to his feet. “That is not the governor’s concern. Fetch him.”

As he scurried out, Globus kicked his arse. “Run, Jew!” he called after him. His voice rolled across the stinking town. “I want to be back in Tana by dawn.” If she wasn’t too weary, he planned to show Romy his trophy room. It was in the bowels of the palace; no one would hear them there.

He had a dozen secretaries to deal with the paltry amounts of paperwork his office generated. All were perfect blond specimens, employed on a six-month basis, none older than twenty-four. Being able to say that they had worked personally for Governor Globocnik promised them the pick of jobs when they returned to Europe, or so he assured them. Each girl was flattered, taken on tours round the island, her tears dabbed when she was homesick or complained about the others’ bitching—but he never touched them until the end of their stint. He’d learned that from experience. Instead he waited till they had only two weeks left on the island; before he was bored of them or they could whinge about being used, the girls were already on a plane home. Romy’s flight to Germania left on May Day.

They waited for Ratzyck, Globus pacing up and down, humming “Anything Goes” to himself. He poured more brandy down his throat, offered it to the girls, who dutifully swallowed. He could see they were growing bored.

“How much longer is your Rat going to be?” he demanded of the remaining Jew, pleased to hear the girls titter.

“He’s an old man, Obergruppenführer. Can’t move fast.”

“Are you sure? Your friend, the one I kicked, wouldn’t be spreading word I’m here?”

“No—”

“Because anything stupid and I’ll burn your Yid town to the ground. Send you to the reservations. I don’t give a shit.” That wasn’t entirely true, but the Jews didn’t need to know.

Although Himmler was adamant that all disobedience be crushed, Heydrich—still overlord of their project in Madagaskar—advised restraint. He appreciated how testing the situation could be, but brute force only antagonized the Americans, and they should be wary of Taft, the new president; he was soft on Jewry. There were other methods, advised Heydrich, subtler methods, to deal with the island’s inhabitants.

Globocnik stalked to the door and looked out across the jetties to Analava. The town was in darkness, a thin, mustardy veil hanging over the roofs. Dashing from the town were two figures: the Jew Pinzel had sent and an old man struggling to keep up. Globus twisted his two wedding rings and waited.

“Tell me what Hochburg was looking for,” he said when Ratzyck finally reached him. The Jew was bent double, fighting for breath. He wore pajamas with a waistcoat thrown over the top; his feet were bare.

“I don’t know … what you mean … Obergruppenführer,” he panted.

Globus sighed: the patience he needed with these people. He picked up the ledger, opened it wide, and thrust it into Ratzyck’s face.

“He’s been here twice.” He indicated Hochburg’s prissy writing. “You helped him.”

“You’re mistaken.”

Globus slammed the covers shut, trapping the Jew’s head. “What did he want?”

There was a muffled squawk like a bird being crushed. Romy tittered again, her laughter nervous. Globus pressed harder.

“He told me not to say a word … My daughter had a child tonight, he promised to help us.”

“Just as I promise to hang them if you don’t tell me. We can start with a string for the newborn. Now, what did he want?”

“First time he was looking for a name.”

“And the second?”

“He brought bars of soap and chocolate. We went all over the ship; he took at least twenty files.”

Globus mulled this over before turning his attention to Gretta and Romy. “Want to poke around, girls?”

They nodded, a look of illicit adventure in their eyes; Globus was a connoisseur of that look. He released the Jew, positioned two sentries to watch Analava, then ordered the door unbolted. The hinges groaned. Once they were inside, Pinzel went to close the hatch.

“Keep it open,” said Globus, irritated to find himself unsettled by the interior. It had to be the brandy, he thought; even the best stuff affected his mood.

“This way,” said Ratzyck, leading them toward the rear of the ship. He was too shaken to walk alone, and his nose dribbled blood. The Jew who had fetched him stayed at his side.

The open door sucked gusts of wind through the holes in the deck. They shrieked and boomed, reminding Globus of raids in Siberia when they ran out of ammunition and buried villagers alive. Those ghoulish thumping sounds that rose from the ground. He still heard them in his nightmares. Luckily the girls hadn’t noticed his mood. They huddled close to him; Romy covered her mouth and nose.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” boomed Globus. He needed the reassurance of his own voice. “What could Hochburg want in a shithole like this?” He spoke to Ratzyck: “I bet he got spooked, couldn’t wait to leave.”

“He showed a lot of interest in our work. Was very polite.”

Globus shook his head in despair. To him, Hochburg was an
Ausländer:
a foreigner, born in Kamerun. A nigger in all but skin. In the 1930s, when Globus had been battling in the streets of Vienna, Hochburg lived the soft life, troubled by nothing more than insect bites and the sun. Hochburg had no right to be here, meddling with his island—Africa had always been separate from Madagaskar—but Globus was reluctant to protest about it back home, in case it made him look weak.

The group picked their way through the maze of cabinets to a set of double doors that led into a black space.

“This is where I took Herr Hochburg first,” said Ratzyck.

From the echoes Globus guessed they were in a large, vaulted room, the air circulating more freely. The Jew supporting Ratzyck flicked a switch from a bank: a single, feeble lamp came to life. Walls covered in mosaics glimmered in the shadows.

“I can’t see a fucking thing.” Globus kept his voice boisterous. “Turn on the rest.”

The Jew hesitated. “With respect, Obergruppenführer. The wiring can’t cope. It might blow the fuses on the other decks.”

“It’s true,” said Pinzel and offered his flashlight.

Globus swung it around the room, catching the faces of gods and nymphs before it came to rest on Romy’s patent-leather heels. He had a vast collection of women’s shoes in the basement of his palace—shoes, jewelry, dresses—doled out as gifts for his favorites.

He killed the beam. “If I want light, I get light.”

“But the two Sturmbannführers,” said the Jew. “They asked about W section; if they went below—”

Globus scowled. “What Sturmbannführers?”

“They arrived before you did. Said they were with Herr Hochburg.”

He rounded on Pinzel. “You allowed this?”

“No.”

“What is Hochburg’s game? It’s a conspiracy.”

He pushed the Jew out of the way and flicked all the switches. Dirty light swamped the room. Globus handed Pinzel’s flashlight to him. “Find these two Sturmbannführers,” he said. “Bring them to me. If Hochburg won’t talk, they will.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE BLACKNESS WAS instant, subterranean.

“That’ll help,” said Tünscher.

Burton searched in his pocket for his lighter. There was the strike of a match, and Tünscher’s face appeared; he lit another Bayer.

When they had first reached the bottom deck of the
Gustloff,
Burton thought there was a mistake: there were no filing cabinets, only an empty passageway lined with doors, and the feeble pulse of wall lamps. Every patch of shadow clicked and scratched with unseen creatures. The air was more fetid. He had eased the nearest door ajar. Inside, the cabin had been gutted: furniture looted, every fixture ripped out, a clump of wires dangling from the ceiling. Around the edge of the room were the filing cabinets, one shifted forward from the rest to allow a murky light through the porthole. They passed by several cabins, reaching one whose files began with WEB before the lights in the corridor flared and died.

“I saw some lamps in the stairwell,” said Burton. “I’ll get them. You keep checking the names.”

He had just found the lanterns when he heard someone coming down the stairs. One of the Jews checking on them? No, those were boots ringing out on metal, descending rapidly, a cyan beam scything the darkness. Burton touched his lighter against the lantern, its meager reservoir of kerosene catching as the steps halted on the landing above him. He raised the lamp and in its glow saw a hulking figure in a uniform identical to his.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Pinzel.” In his grip he held a powerful flashlight; he pointed the beam at the four pips on Burton’s collar. “And you, Sturmbannführer?” His voice was fluty, conceited.

“I’m checking some records.”

“Whatever your rank, entry to this ship is strictly limited and only through the authorized channels. Namely, me.”

“This is unofficial business.”

“Meaning?” When Burton made no reply, Pinzel let out an irritated
pfft
. “I am here with Governor Globocnik. He wants to talk to you.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Now! Or I get my men, Sturmbannführer, and bring you to the governor at gunpoint. Except that won’t look good in front of the Jews.”

There was only one response.

Burton hurled the lamp at him and freed his Beretta. Before he could pull the trigger, Pinzel aimed the flashlight at his face. A dazzling corona burned the back of Burton’s eyes. He fired blind.

There was a clanging as Pinzel fled up the stairs. Burton stumbled after him and fired again, the new weapon unwieldy in his hand. The bullet sparked off the handrail, but the Nazi was out of range. Burton didn’t waste another shot. He grabbed two more lanterns, lit the first, and hurried to the corridor. Tünscher was running to meet him. “I heard gunfire,” he said.

Burton handed him the unlit lamp. “We haven’t much time.”

“Jews?”

“Your fellow countrymen.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. You carrying anything more than your Luger?”

Tünscher reached into his trouser pockets and fished a grenade from each. He moved them up and down as if he were about to juggle. “They sort of balance me up.”

Burton marched away from the stairs. “We’ll be quicker if we take different sides of the corridor.”