by Guy Saville
Ahead was an alleyway. At the last moment he worked the clutch and yanked the wheel sharply toward it. The front of the taxi hit the entrance, rebounded, then careered down the passage.
The lorry shot past.
Burton kept both his hand and his stump on the wheel now. The alley was gloomy, barely wide enough for the car, and seemed to be narrowing. Halfway down was an intersection, then another stretch of alley, ending in a window of sky that shimmered red at the base.
Still the walls closed in. Burton eased off the gas as the wing mirrors pinged and vanished. He was sure he could just make it.
The taxi gouged itself into the walls. Ground to a halt. The engine died.
Burton glanced through the rear window: no sign of the lorry. He went to open the door and found it wedged tight against the brickwork of the alley. This time the car started the first time. He put it in reverse and, twisting to see over his shoulder, pressed the accelerator. The taxi didn’t budge.
The light from the street dimmed as the troop lorry trundled back.
Burton pressed harder on the accelerator, the wheels howling as they spun—but the car was stuck solid.
The lorry rolled into the alleyway. Sparks flared from its side as it grazed the walls. It stopped, blocking any possible escape. The one-eared Nazi climbed out. At the tail of the vehicle, Burton glimpsed boots landing on cobbles.
He scrabbled at the door, trying to force it open.
A voice called out, the sound funneled and amplified between the canyon of the walls: “You cannot escape, Major Cole. Turn off the engine, put your hands on your head.” Soldiers with BK44s were squeezing past the lorry. “You will not be harmed.”
Burton reached for his Beretta, its weight and balance unfamiliar in his hand. He fired a random shot at the Nazi, then emptied the clip into the windscreen. He kicked through the remnants of the glass. Dragged himself through the hole, slid off the bonnet, and ran.
Bullets ricocheted along the walls, spitting clumps of brick.
“Keep your aim low!” shouted the Nazi.
Zigzagging, Burton sprinted across the intersection and into the next alley, toward the flowing red street. Ahead he heard the beat of drums, mechanical cheers; behind him, boots closing in, the one-eared Nazi demanding that he halt, his voice frantic.
Burton burst onto the Von Lettow Esplanade. In front was the harbor where Albrecht Roscher had landed in 1859, claiming the territory for Germany. Farther along the road was the memorial to the soldiers who died in the 1914–18 East African Campaign. During British rule it had been the statue of an askari, a native black warrior. After the colony was returned to the Reich, the bronze was melted down and a more domineering figure fashioned, complete with pith helmet and whiskers.
Rolling past the memorial, filling the entire length and breadth of the road, was a procession for Führertag. Troops in the bleached khaki of the Afrika Korps and ranks of SS in ceremonial uniforms. Horses drawing artillery, panzers and Pfadfinders, a band keeping a martial beat. And everywhere banners of red, white, and black. The pavement thronged with families enjoying the spectacle; kids waved flags.
Halt!
Burton pushed through the crowds, slipping into the procession. Moments later, he had vanished into a forest of swastikas.
* * *
Kepplar returned to Cole’s room at zum Weissen Strand.
The corridor was crisscrossed with tape; at the door was a guard. Kepplar dismissed him and stepped inside, trousers chafing around his groin; it was too muggy for his uniform to dry. There was a cut on his temple from when Fregh crashed into his BMW. The furniture had been righted, but everything else appeared untouched. His inspection revealed a doctored American passport and an empty haversack. In the wardrobe: shirts, spare socks, underwear. Impulsively, he lifted the garments to his nose; they gave away nothing. On the bed were a discarded Beretta box and some kind of chart.
Why was Hochburg so determined to catch Cole? He had plenty of enemies, from every Negro on the continent to the highest ranks of the SS, with their shifting, petty jealousies, so why was this one man paramount? Kepplar realized that his master’s obsession had become his own.
A furious, frustrated sob threatened to overwhelm him. He had been so close, could smell Cole in the room despite the open balcony doors, his personal miasma of breath and sweat. The faintest hint of cigarettes. That surprised him; he hadn’t thought of Cole as a smoker. Perhaps Hochburg was right: Kepplar wasn’t worthy of the task. At no point in the pursuit had he unbuckled his holster.
He picked up the chart. It was from the SS cartography department, a map of Madagaskar folded in four. Facing upward was the northwest quadrant of the island. A ruse? No, he had taken Cole by surprise: the map wasn’t meant for his eyes. Kepplar angled it toward the light.
The laminate revealed a cluster of fingerprints running from Nosy Be to Lava Bucht.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Western Sector (South), Madagaskar
18 April, 10:30
AS HE’D STRIDDEN from the helicopter, Hochburg had demanded two things of the Untersturmführer: some hot food and all his men’s shaving mirrors.
Now he stood in the rain while the work gang was assembled. He had followed a trail from the Ark to this punishment detail, though there was no guarantee the Jew he sought was here or even alive. Hochburg wore a black leather mac, the collar wrapped around his ears. The bandage covering his wounded eye was sodden. When a guard came forward with an open umbrella, he waved him away.
Behind the workers, the road ended abruptly: a tarmac precipice, then fifty kilometers of dirt to the Betroka Reservation. This was part of Globus’s Idle Hands project: to build a highway linking Tana with the southern port of Daufin. During the dry season, the unbroken ground was like flint; this morning, a man might drown in the mud. On the verge were tents for the guards and a bamboo structure with a frond roof to shelter the Jews. Cauldrons of boiling asphalt sweetened the air.
“I’m looking for number 1215132,” boomed Hochburg as the Jews fell into ranks.
When no one stepped forward, the Untersturmführer ordered them to raise their arms. Hochburg checked the first few tattooed wrists before realizing it was pointless: their skin was too filthy to read.
Water trickled down his skull. The Ark might have given him 1215132’s location, but his investigations in Germany had furnished him with the details. The Gestapo had a file on the man, including a photograph taken in 1931. It showed a full, smooth-chinned face, brittle white collar, belly pressing against the buttons of a double-breasted suit. Feuerstein addressed the camera with the arrogance of a man who thought his world would last forever. That mien belongs to us now, thought Hochburg. We pose in our uniforms as if we rule the very light that immortalizes us.
He lowered the picture and studied the gaunt, scabby Jews in front of him. There must have been a hundred men, their bodies hidden beneath striped uniforms. The photograph would be useless.
“Which one of you is Julius Feuerstein?” asked Hochburg.
He tucked the file behind his back and walked down the ranks, his jackboots squelching. The Untersturmführer followed, along with a guard carrying a BK44.
“Dr. Julius R. Feuerstein. Born Vienna 1900, Marc Aurel Strasse. Attended the Akademisches Gymnasium and then Franz Josef school; top of your class in mathematics. Left 1915 to enlist but turned down because of your age. Traveled to Munich a month later and this time lied. Served three years with the Bavarian Army, Tenth Infantry Division. Wounded at the Battle of the Marne, awarded the Iron Cross, second class.”
Hochburg scrutinized the faces. None stirred; they were all bowed toward the mud, their shoulders slumped beneath sopping uniforms.
“Scholarship student at Munich University 1919, studied under Professor Somerfeld. Doctorate from Heidelberg 1927. Two years later, a professorship—till the Nuremberg Laws were introduced. Granted an exit visa to the United States 1938.” Hochburg glanced at the guards, took in their barbed
-wire expressions and dripping rifles. “A wiser man would have used it. Interned Mauthausen 1941, then Trieste transit camp. Arrived Madagaskar July 1945.” Hochburg slipped the file inside his mac. “Married to Evelyn, and father of five.”
A decrepit Jew stepped out of rank as Hochburg passed. “Apfelsaft,” he said.
“What?”
“Apfelsaft.” Apple juice.
Hochburg shoved him back in line. “I don’t have time to waste.”
The Jew stumbled, his hands vanishing to the wrist as he landed in the mud. “Give us our apple juice and I’ll tell you where the doctor is.”
Mumbles of dissent from the other Jews.
“What’s he talking about?” Hochburg asked the Untersturmführer.
“This one’s a troublemaker.”
The old Jew pushed himself up and stood half-hunched. “The JDC send us juice from America, but the guards steal it.” JDC: the Joint Distribution Committee, a Jewish organization that dispatched food and medicine to the island.
“Is that true, Untersturmführer?”
“We keep it as a reward. An incentive to make the prisoners work harder.”
Hochburg turned to the Jew. “Tell me who Feuerstein is and the apple juice will be yours.”
“Juice first.”
The Untersturmführer slapped the old Jew, knocking him back to the ground. “How dare you! Shall I have him whipped, Oberstgruppenführer?”
“Not today. Bring them their apple juice.”
When the Untersturmführer was gone, Hochburg lifted the Jew out of the mud; he was as flimsy as a girl. “Where is Feuerstein?”
“Don’t tell him, Papa.”
A boy stepped in front of the old man. Hochburg swiped his pistol from its holster and prodded it against the youth’s forehead. “A live Jew or a dead Jew, it makes no difference to me.” He swiveled his good eye back to the old man. “Where?”
A familiar pride flitted across his features. He whispered something to his son, then said, “I am Feuerstein.”
“You’re lying.”
“Look at your dossier. I refused my visa to America because it didn’t include my family. How could I know that?”
“An educated guess.”
“Why make it up?”
“Perhaps you think I’m here to save you.”
“Or murder me, like so many others.”
Hochburg looked at him more closely. “You’re too old to be Feuerstein.”
“This island would wither any man. I was born on the twenty-first of April, 1900.”
Hochburg checked the date. “The very same day as Governor Globocnik. He’s holding a party—perhaps you’ll be invited: the Jew of honor.” He motioned to the guard, and Feuerstein was led away.
So this striped sack of bones and sores was the man to change his fortunes. The man to help him win back Africa. Hochburg followed, watching the Jew move: his hunched gait, the way his arms swung loose like an ape’s. On his feet was a pair of brogues obese with mud, the soles flapping.
They headed toward the guards’ tents; the largest belonged to the Untersturmführer. Hochburg had ordered it cleared of everything except a table and two chairs. They entered through a flap. The interior was lit with lamps, the air dry and heady with kerosene. From the roof hung two dozen shaving mirrors, dangling on cords at face height. The scientist was unlikely to be biddable, so Hochburg wanted him to see the depths to which he had descended. It would foster compliance. A draft rolled through the open flap, rocking the mirrors. They clinked off each other, the sound reminding Hochburg of Eleanor and her wind chimes. Pendulums of half-reflected light skipped along the canvas.
Feuerstein gazed at the mirrors, reached out for one. Stilled it. He glanced at his image, angled his neck to examine his profile, but offered no reaction other than a passing grimace.
Hochburg commanded him to sit, then took the chair opposite. In the enclosed space the Jew stank, his soggy uniform radiating all the odors a body could produce. Hochburg thought back to the man’s photo: the spotless starch of his collar, hair slick and scented. How long had it been until the shame was nothing, till he no longer noticed smelling worse than a navvy’s pig? How long would any man take?
“I have borne it with a patient shrug,” he said, “for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.”
“An educated Nazi,” replied the doctor. “Whatever next?”
Hochburg leaned forward, the leather of his raincoat creaking. “You speak bravely for a Jew.” His voice was low, intense. “I could have you shot for less—”
“At least you didn’t ask if I had hands, dimensions, passions.”
“You and every man out there.”
“But you won’t, Oberstgruppenführer.”
“Such confidence.”
“I know why you’re here. I knew that if I survived, eventually one of you would seek me out, no matter what your Führer says.”
“Go on.”
“There’s nothing for the guards to do here but beat us and gossip. We know about the war in Kongo, the victory of the British at Elisabethstadt.”
“We’re turning the tide,” said Hochburg defensively. “Stanleystadt is ours again; the rest of Africa will follow.”
“But you’re not convinced. The Reich has reached the edge of its power. Now you need more—why else would you be sitting opposite me?” There was a faint smirk on Feuerstein’s lips. “I refuse to help you.”
“Then you should help yourself.”
Hochburg whispered an instruction to the guard, who brought in a trolley laden with flasks and serving dishes, crockery, cutlery, and wads of napkins. “Leave us,” said Hochburg and lifted off the nearest lid. The aroma of roast chicken and ginger swirled around the tent.
Feuerstein made no effort to hide his contempt, or his hunger. “You think you can buy me with a plate of dinner?”
“Nothing so crude, Herr Doctor.”
“Unlike your mirrors. This is no revelation.” He tugged on a bristly jowl. “I’ve seen what I’ve become. Seen the reflection of a beast in puddles.” He folded his arms. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Hochburg was silent for a long moment, the wet gauze of his bandage pressing against his eyelid. Above them, the rain beat on the canvas. “I’ve insulted your intelligence,” he said at last. “For that I apologize. But it’s no reason not to dine with me.”
Feuerstein’s eyes flicked over the dishes; the corners of his mouth oozed saliva.
Hochburg reached for the flask and filled a bowl with steaming water. He placed it before the scientist. “You will want to wash.”
The Jew slipped his fingers below the surface, closing his eyes in instinctive pleasure as they were enveloped in hot water. Then he remembered where he was and opened them with a jolt. The water had turned black. When he was finished, he withdrew his hands, chewed on a nail like a cat pulling a claw. Hochburg tossed him a napkin and served them on two plates: grilled rooster (its neck had been wrung upon Hochburg’s arrival), steamed rice, a salad of beetroot and tomatoes.
Feuerstein didn’t bother with the cutlery. He shoveled the food in with his hands, each mouthful a mess of sucking meat and clacking.
“Do Jews disgust you, Oberstgruppenführer? Do I disgust you?”
Hochburg took his fork, buried it in the other man’s rice, and ate.
Feuerstein laughed, splattering the table. “I’ve lived like this for ten years now, the last two on the roads. I’ve seen men much stronger than me fade in weeks. You know how I survived?”
Hochburg shook his head. “Intellect?”
“It’s worthless here. No, savagery. I realized I’m no longer a man: I’m an animal.” He took a drumstick and ripped the meat from it. “With all the primitive instincts animals have to survive.”
“Men can be as base.”
“Not like a beast.”
“And what is it you wish to survive for, Dr. Feuerstein?”
“My boy out there. To see my other
children. Hold my wife.”
Hochburg chewed on his chicken—the meat was all leathery sinew—and decided to be frank. “When I was in Germany I spoke to a colleague of yours, Professor Mannkopff. I wanted information, something to coax you with. He said there would be no leverage with your family.”
“Once he was right,” replied the scientist. “They were the accessories of my position. But Madagaskar taught me more than university ever did.”
After that, Hochburg let him feast in silence. When Feuerstein finished, he began to lick his plate. Hochburg stopped him, piled on more food. He continued to eat ravenously till his hands dripped sauce and his beard was studded with rice.
“I want to save some for my son.”
Hochburg filled a napkin with the remaining chicken, cleared away the dinner things, and slid a box onto the table.
“They may be a little stale,” he said, opening the lid, “but I doubt you care.”
Feuerstein peered inside, putting his fingers to his lips. “Mannkopff talked a lot.”
“He sends his regards. He’s sorry for what happened to you.”
Feuerstein snorted and reached inside the box.
After Europe had been declared Judenfrei, there remained a taste for Jewish cuisine in Germania. Delicatessens served salt herring and hamantaschen with furtive glances; cholent was available from illicit nosheries. Hochburg had gone to a baker on a side street off the Ku’damm where it was rumored Göring sent his chauffeur to buy “Jew treats.” Dressed in black, he strode to the curtain at the rear of the shop, swished it aside, and descended to the basement. The girl at the counter had been shaking as she placed the Mandelbrot, almond biscuits, in the box. Hochburg was so amused he gave her a fifty-mark note and told her to keep the change.
The scientist chewed slowly, savored. “You’re wise enough to realize that biscuits are more persuasive than a fist, Oberstgruppenführer. But it won’t make any difference. I will not do it for you.”
“Surely you know you are going to die here. Not just you or your kith—every last Jew on this island. Humanity has abandoned you.”