by Guy Saville
They stepped off the tower into a reception area. It was bare except for a mural showing three rabbits chasing each other’s tails, and a table with two bespectacled Jews behind it. They were dressed in shabby uniforms.
Tünscher circumvented the table and yanked at the door to the ship. “Open it,” he said when it didn’t budge.
“Herr Sturmbannführer,” said one of the Jews, rising from the table, “I must respectfully ask for identification and your letter of authorization.” He indicated a leather-bound book on the table and steadied his voice. “You will also need to sign the ledger.”
“What did you say, Solomon?”
Although Burton was useless at this type of thing, Tünscher relished it. Patrick had once said that he should have joined a theater troupe rather than the Legion.
The Jew spoke to Tünscher’s feet. “It’s protocol…”
“You hear this?” Tünscher said to Burton. “The fucking Yids are giving the orders now.” He took off his cap and thrust it into the Jew’s hands. “You see that?” Tünscher rapped the death’s-head badge. “That’s all the authorization you need. Now open the door!”
“Please, Sturmbannführer.”
Tünscher took out his Luger, grabbed the Jew by the ear, and dragged him toward the exit. As he passed Burton, he winked.
“Are you with the Oberstgruppenführer?” The second Jew was on his feet.
Burton and Tünscher glanced at each other.
“He was here earlier.” The Jew indicated the ledger. “If you’re on the same business, I’m sure we can overlook the usual formalities.”
“Of course we’re with him,” said Tünscher, shoving the other Jew away. “Why else would we be in this shit-sink?”
“Then, please…” Blinking behind his glasses, the Jew unlocked the door and dipped his head in welcome. Tünscher strode through it.
“We’re looking for Section C,” said Burton.
“The decks are arranged alphabetically, top to bottom. C is this level, toward the front of the ship.”
“And W?”
“Bottom deck. The lights aren’t so good down there. You’ll find lamps in the stairwells.”
Burton ducked into the ship.
For several years, the Gustloff ferried between Trieste and Diego Suarez, until 1947, when her hull was ripped open as she approached Madagaskar. It was during the first rebellion, when the United States sent a battleship to the region. The passengers, having seen the Stars and Stripes, believed they were going to be rescued; they mutinied. A court-martial agreed that the captain had no choice other than to scuttle the liner. Hundreds drowned in the aft compartments. The damage was patched up, but when engineers said it would be too costly to restore the ship, the Gustloff was towed to Lava Bucht—Lava Bay, an inlet on the northwest of the island—and left to rust, until Heydrich found a new use for her.
As the uprising and its brutal repression continued, America’s Jewish population demanded that action be taken, regardless of the country’s neutrality. Washington edged toward an ultimatum, insisting that the Jews of Madagaskar must be the guardians of their own records: while the SS controlled the files, Globus could act with impunity. This was to be the cost of nonintervention, and America’s conscience. Heydrich convinced the Führer that it was a pittance to pay.
The door slammed with a clang that wanted to reverberate along the walls but was instantly strangled. The air was noxious: the stench of a mausoleum dense with rotting damp and fried meat. It pressed against Burton’s throat.
He was in a dim corridor, buckled floorboards beneath his boots, dripping metal rafters above. This was the covered promenade deck where once Germans on vacation would have strolled to the strains of Mozart played over the public address system or dozed in deck chairs before the next round of compulsory activities. Now it was crammed with row upon row of filing cabinets. Hundreds of them, stretching in both directions, with only the narrowest channel between to squeeze through.
Burton flapped the air in front of his mouth. “You could have been easier on the Jews,” he said.
“Got us in, didn’t I?” Tünscher retorted.
The cabinets consisted of five drawers, the highest as tall as Burton. On each drawer, written in Gothic script (and, below it, in Hebrew) were three letters indicating the names of the files within. Burton read the nearest: CAL.
They headed toward the bow of the ship, past CAL … CAM … CAN, till the CAs gave way to CEs. Burton felt the pressure of the names around him, the silent cacophony of millions of files. In places the floorboards had caved in, and they had to navigate their way using the iron supporting beams beneath as stepping-stones. Their boots slipped on the girders as they continued past the CHs.
There was a sudden rap of metal.
Burton started; he’d been absorbed in watching the floor for weak timbers. One twisted ankle, and the terrain between the Ark and Madeleine would prove impossible. Tünscher had knocked on one of the cabinets.
“What is it?” asked Burton.
“COL,” replied Tünscher, indicating the label. He wasn’t good with confined spaces; the claustrophobic gloom had stunted his poise. He grinned, trying to regain some bravado. “Stick here long enough and that’s where you’ll end up.”
Finally they reached CRA. Burton began opening drawers, searching for “Cranley,” though he suspected he wouldn’t find Madeleine here. Each one was solid with files; the smell of moldering paper burrowed into his nose.
Tünscher wedged himself between two cabinets and lit a cigarette.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” said Burton. “One stray spark…”
Tünscher shrugged, inhaled deeply. The glowing tip illuminated his pupils; they were tiny black holes.
Burton frowned. “You’re smoking a Bayerweed?” He should have noticed in Roscherhafen.
Tünscher nodded and offered him a puff. When Burton shook his head, he sucked in another lungful.
Bayerweeds were cigarettes laced with heroin, initially prescribed for soldiers with respiratory injuries in the air of Siberia. A trade in them soon spread to every garrison east of the Urals, until Germania outlawed their production. In the months that followed, there was a rapid increase in the number of soldiers suffering nervous breakdowns. The ban was quietly forgotten.
“It’s not a concern,” said Tünscher, taking a final, deep drag and squashing the butt against a cabinet. “These things keep my head clear. And the stink at bay.”
Burton went back to the files, working through them with tense determination. Sweat trickled down the sides of his ears. He took his cap off and screwed it up in his pocket. In the end he found thirty Cranleys, none of them Madeleine. He slammed the drawer shut, the sound echoing away to nothing.
“Now what?” asked Tünscher.
“We head below, look for Weiss.”
“Weiss?”
“Madeleine’s maiden name. Her Jewish name.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“LOUDER!” SHOUTED GLOBUS as he staggered to the cockpit. “Make us roar!” He was wearing his dress uniform, and in his fist was a bottle of cognac: VSOP, thirty years old, his second of the evening.
The pilot dipped the throttle, the hovercraft skimming across the bay. There were three ships: the troop carrier Globus and his guests were in and two smaller escort craft mounted with machine guns.
As the armies of the Reich had penetrated deeper into Russia, they overran research facilities before the Soviets had a chance to destroy their secrets. Once purged of Communist ideology, this work proved a trove of new weapons. The initial design for the BK44, the Nazis’ ubiquitous assault rifle in Africa, had been stolen from an engineer called Kalashnikov. In Gorky, a prototype hovercraft was discovered, perfected, and put into service. Globocnik employed the craft during his time in the East and subsequently added them to his arsenal for Madagaskar: they were ideal for patrolling the mangroves of the west coast.
“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 h
is 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.