The Madagaskar Plan (32 page)

“No need,” replied Tünscher, putting a match to his lamp.

“You found her?”

“Best see for yourself.”

They jogged into the darkness, Tünscher in the lead, the sway of his lamp stretching and shrinking the shadows with each footfall. An excited tension fizzed through Burton. After all the months and journeys across Africa and oceans, he sensed how close Maddie was, almost as if he were chasing the scent of her round the farmhouse. He must be passing cabinets that held her family’s names. Had she sought them out? He hoped someone had protected her and the baby, but he feared the consequences; he had no means to get them all off the island. What if she refused to leave without them?

Tünscher stopped outside a cabin. “The records for Madeleine Weiss are here.”

Burton reached for the handle—but Tünscher held out a restraining arm. He swung the lantern farther down the corridor.

“Also here … here … and here. I stopped checking after that.”

Burton’s voice flattened. “There must be thousands.”

“Tens of thousands. You should’ve found a girlfriend with a less common name.”

*   *   *

Romy was gawping at the mosaics: fish, nymphs riding dolphins, a watery underworld. They were covered in cracks, many of the tiles loose. In the center of one was a bearded man with a stallion’s physique, holding a trident. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Neptune,” replied Gretta. “God of the sea.”

Unlike her sister, Gretta had studied at university, something Globus disapproved of. He’d agonized over schemes to bed her but was aware that the Reichsführer frowned upon such couplings—“frankly incestuous” he declared them—and things were difficult enough with Germania as it was. Before Hochburg had stolen a brigade of his men and let loose the Jews, his governorship of Ostmark, land of his birth, had seemed assured; it would crown his career. Now his calls with Himmler were growing cooler by the week and ended with the same warning:
My dear Globus, I’ve dragged you from the mire twice before, but even I won’t be able to resurrect you a third time, especially if you’re bested by Jews.

“Girls, away from the wall,” he said irritably. “It might not be safe.” He motioned at the soldiers to move them.

Below the Neptune mosaic was an empty swimming pool; ten by four meters, thought Globus, smaller than the one at his palace. On either side were fluted pillars, completing the Roman-bath look. Although he admired classical design for the great buildings of Germania, he found the obsession with it elsewhere vulgar. He preferred the harsh lines of modern architecture—a preference the Führer constantly rebuked him for. The pool had been drained and was chock-full of filing cabinets.

“Hochburg went down there?” he asked Ratzyck.

“Yes.”

“You were with him?”

“I was sent outside.”

“But you saw which cabinet?”

The Jew pointed to one in the far corner. Globus put his hand on the stepladder to climb down, then wavered: Himmler’s voice was in his head again.

Be careful of Walter,
he had once cautioned.
He’s one of our best but cunning as a crocodile. And much more dangerous.

Globus stepped away from the pool. “Get down there!” he bellowed at Ratzyck.

The Jew climbed down the steps and threaded his way through the cabinets.

“Odilo.” Gretta was by one of the portholes. “Something’s happening in the Jew town.”

Too much to drink, thought Globus and ignored her. He watched Ratzyck’s progress as he reached the cabinet in the corner. “This is the one Hochburg wanted? You’re sure?”

“Yes, Obergruppenführer.”

“What does it say?”

“FEU.”

“Open the top drawer. I’m looking forward to this secret.”

Ratzyck did as commanded and removed a sheaf of papers. He flicked through them. “They’re all Feuersteins.”

“Feuerstein?” Globus scratched his balls. “Who’s he?”

“Odilo!” called Gretta again, her voice quavering. Romy had joined her; they were both staring out of the porthole.

“Not now. Try the next drawer,” he ordered the Jew in the pool. “Hochburg must have left some clue.”

Ratzyck returned the wad of files, closed the drawer, and reached for the one below. It didn’t budge.

“Pull harder,” said Globus. “Unless you want me to come down there.”

The Jew tried again. The runners were stiff; he gave the drawer a hard yank—and it sprang open. Globus heard a metal click, like the fastener on his gold watch.

There was a blinding flash.

*   *   *

Burton’s jaw ached, his chin burned. The lantern hadn’t cast enough light when placed on top of the cabinet; the only way for him to flick through the files one-handed and read was to grip the lamp’s handle between his teeth. A sense of impossibility, of finding one name among so many, was rising in him; the panic of being trapped in a well as it flooded.

With it came a tiny doubt: that he was risking all this when the baby might be Cranley’s. He strangled the thought.

Each drawer was choked with filthy, mottled files, each sheet covered in grids of names, places, figures. The bureaucrat’s vision of the world.
Country of origin, hometown, last tenancy address. Names & origins of grandparents, parents, date of birth, sex, occupation, congenital/communicable diseases. Internment camp (Europe), exit port & vessel, date of arrival in Madagaskar, registered assets in reichsmarks. Forwarding location: sector, town, street.
All stamped with a swastika and eagle. These were the records that traveled with Jews to their new life below the equator. Many had handwritten notes at the bottom with new addresses dated after the first rebellion.

Madeleine Weiss.

Madeleine Weiss.

Madeleine Weiss.

Over and over till the name held no meaning. None was Maddie.

Burton finished the top two drawers of the first cabinet, unable to contain the thought that many of these Madeleines must be dead. The whole time, he’d been listening for the stairwell door to open. He freed the lantern from his mouth, resting his jaw, and called to Tünscher in the next cabin. “Any luck?”

“This will take forever.”

Burton opened the next drawer—and saw it at once. He snatched out the file: Madeleine Weiss, aged forty-six from Lyon, deported October 1951. This was how they’d find her! He hurried to the next cabin.

“Still nothing,” said Tünscher petulantly.

Burton handed him the file. “Look.”

“It’s not her.”

“I know that. The paper.” It was crisp, the color of ivory.

“So?”

“Most of the files go back years, to the original deportation.” He indicated the drawer Tünscher was propped against and its moldering records. “Maddie arrived six months ago, so her documentation has to be new. We only pull the clean ones.”

*   *   *

The swimming pool writhed with flames.

Gobbets of blazing debris had been blasted from the cabinet and were spreading. Files spiraled and danced in the smoke. There were fire buckets around the walls; the Jew who’d fetched Ratzyck grabbed them, pouring sand onto the inferno.

Globus stood unsteadily, his nostrils clogged with the stench of incinerated paper, and moved to the two girls. Romy was quaking, her face streaked black; the front of Gretta’s dress had been shredded, revealing the lace of her brassiere. Globus slipped off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. Then he jostled them along the promenade deck, surrounded by soldiers, toward the exit. Yellowish-brown smoke floated above their heads.

“Twenty minutes from now,” he boomed, “we’ll be back in Lava Bucht. I’ll get the commander to open a fresh bottle, and we can watch this ship burn. Fireworks for Führertag!”

The sentries were waiting for them by the door, alarm on their faces. “Obergruppenführer, you mustn’t leave the ship—”

Globus pushed past them, reaching the stairs that led to the shore below, and froze. His bladder felt bloated. The momentary fright was chased away by a clot of rage that throbbed inside the muscle of his jaw. He twisted his two wedding rings, baffled as to why he’d ever listened to Heydrich and his talk of moderation. The man might be his boss but was eighty-five hundred kilometers away, far from the stench and threat of the Jew, immune to the realities of this island.

Where they had left the hovercraft, the mud was empty; the machines were now circling the bay. At the base of the
Gustloff,
filling the jetties, lining the shore, were hundreds of Jews, with more emerging from the mangroves. They bore clubs and sticks, and some unrolled hose pipes. These weren’t Jupo; these were the gnashing teeth of the rebellion.

Romy began to cry. He wrapped his arms around her; she was chubbier than he’d imagined, her flesh springy. “No need for that—you’re safe with me.” He was aware of a prickling in his crotch and did nothing to disguise it. “These bandits wouldn’t dare touch us.”

The Jews had spied him. They began chanting, the first of them creeping up the stairs.

“Torch the tower,” Globus ordered the sentries. He held out his hand. “Who has the radio?”

No one answered till Gretta piped up: “You said not to bother with it.”

“I never.”

“You should have taken the commander’s advice. Not brought us here.”

Only Romy’s sobs stopped him from letting his sister-in-law feel the back of his hand.

The nearest lad proffered a flare gun and a pack of cartridges. Globus snatched them from him. “The bridge,” he said, and they were moving again, wading between the filing cabinets. As they approached the aft staircase, Pinzel emerged through the smoke. Globus didn’t slow.

“I found one of the Sturmbannführers,” said Pinzel, keeping pace. “The bastard tried to shoot me.”

“Take three men, go back down there, and fetch him by the balls. Don’t take any shit this time. The Jews are running riot; I have to protect the girls.”

“What about the Ark? If it goes up, there’ll be hell with the Americans.”

“Hochburg is to blame for this disaster. If he won’t answer for it, his deputies below will.”

Globus reached the bridge, harried Romy and Gretta inside. There was a spiral staircase that led to the viewing platform above, with banks of levers and dozing lights. By the wheel stood a lone, myopic Jew.

“Where are the others?” demanded Globus. It would take several of them to man the bridge.

The Jew peered at him, blinking, before his face melted in fear. He doffed his cap. “Gone to fight the fire, mein Herr. To save the records…”

Through the windows Globus saw a filthy mass swarming up the tower. Others were using grappling hooks to climb the side of the ship. “Power up the engines,” he instructed the Jew.

When he got a blathering, incomprehensible reply, Globus slapped the man so hard his cap was thrown across the room. The Jew picked himself up and began working the levers.

*   *   *

Each cabinet held only a few fresh records, some none at all; it took only minutes to collect them. Burton knelt and fanned the sheets across the floor. All of the files had mug shots in the top left-hand corner. In 1940, Heydrich had become the head of Interpol. After Europe was declared
Judenfrei,
the organization’s primary function was the apprehension of Jews who had escaped the net. Viewed as a particularly pernicious threat, these illegals were indexed and photographed before being sent south. Many died during their arrest.

Burton checked the first few photos and gave up. They were identical: dark-haired, bluntly lit women hunched before the camera with the same cowed stare. He might look at Madeleine and not recognize her.

“I hear boots,” said Tünscher. He was by the door, eyes blank, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

Madeleine had been born ten months before Burton, in December 1915. He sifted through the files, focusing on the year of birth. His fingers trembled.

1927

1895

1918

1920

1903

1922—

“Sturmbannführer!” Pinzel’s voice rolled down the corridor. “I know you’re here—I smell the Bayerweed. Enough games. The governor wants to talk to you, that’s all.”

Burton snuffed out the lamp and continued by the light coming through the porthole.

“Four of them,” whispered Tünscher, peeking through the door. “All with BKs. You’re paying me a smuggler’s wage, not a soldier’s.”

Burton didn’t look up. “Then hand yourself in. Tell them you’re Section IX, or whatever you are.”

“I’d rather take my chances with you than Globus.”

Burton turned the last file: in his rush, he had missed her. He calmed himself, started again from the top, slowly, methodically, licking his finger to separate each sheet, calling the years out loud.

“Sturmbannführer! The Jews are taking control of the Ark—”

“… 1922 … 1937 … 1910…”

“—for your own sake, time to hand yourself in.”

Burton reached the end again, his heart guttering. “She’s not here,” he said to Tünscher. He felt clouded, bewildered. “She’s not here.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

TÜNSCHER’S VOICE WAS terse. “We have to go,” he said. “Now!”

“We must have missed the file.
You
must have missed it.”

“I went through every cabinet.”

“The Bayers have made your head fuzzy. We need to start again. Be more careful.”

Burton opened the nearest drawer, rifled through the files, then lifted them out in great wads, throwing them into the air. Papers fluttered around him like the wings of bats.

From the far end of the corridor came the banging of doors as Pinzel and his men searched the cabins.

“Her record might not have been transferred here,” hissed Tünscher. “Or maybe it was misfiled.”

“Go if you want. I’m staying.”

“Not without my diamonds.”

Burton felt an angry urge to tell him the truth.

The cabin lurched. A grinding screech reverberated through the walls as if the hull were scraping rocks.

Burton fought to keep his balance. “The ship’s moving.”