by Guy Saville
‘Patrick!’ Burton pointed left before risking another look behind them. There were a dozen troopers, maybe more, scuttling over the skyline like black beetles. The helicopter took off, its nose dipping as it climbed, and rose rapidly towards the river. It turned over the water and headed back towards them.
They had thirty seconds at most.
Patrick followed Burton’s directions, sprinted down the incline of the roof, leapt – arms swinging like a long jumper – and landed on the building opposite. He turned to see where the others were.
‘Come on!’ he shouted. Then he was up and running again.
Burton reached the apex of the roof, Rougier behind him. ‘I can’t do it,’ Rougier panted. ‘I can’t.’
‘You’re dead if you don’t.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
The helicopter was bearing down on them, the thunder of its blades filling the air.
‘Go!’ said Burton, shoving the Frenchman.
He hurtled down the tiles and leapt.
Burton raced after him, took a deep breath as if the air in his lungs might carry him and launched himself across the gap. His arms swam in the air. His boots felt as if they were made of iron. He was descending, descending too fast …
The helicopter roared over them, its downdraught pummelling the air.
Burton crashed on to the roof, the impact so hard he felt his ribs crack. He swung his leg over to get a better purchase, pulled himself up.
‘Au secours!’
Burton turned.
‘Major!’
Rougier was grasping the edge of the roof. He had nothing but a handhold, the rest of him dangling over the edge. His face bulged with terror. Burton looked for Patrick but he had already reached the top of the next roof, was disappearing down the other side.
Burton lowered himself towards Rougier.
‘Vite!’ said the Frenchman.
The helicopter turned, preparing for another pass.
Burton moved as near as he dared. Any further and he would slide off. He held out his hand. Rougier reached for it. Their fingertips brushed.
Burton strained to get closer. The tiles felt slick beneath him. Just a couple more inches …
The roof erupted, fragments of tile exploding in a cloud of fire. The helicopter swooped low, cannon blazing.
Burton slipped. Managed to get a grip, dug his nails into the roof until it felt as if his fingers would pop.
Rougier held out his hand like a man in quicksand, face imploring. Burton reached for it. Missed. Reached for it again.
And grabbed him!
‘Don’t drop me,’ begged Rougier. ‘Don’t drop me.’
‘You’ve got to help.’ Over the edge Burton could see the street below: people pointing upwards, a row of lime trees, exclusive boutiques with red canopies.
‘Don’t drop me.’
Burton heaved with all his strength. He could feel Rougier’s huge, sweaty paw wrapped around his. Burton heaved again. He had no purchase. His arm felt as if it were being torn out of the socket.
And then his grip was slipping.
Rougier’s eyes swelled with fear. He went to say something, mouth fluttering. Burton tried to grip harder …
Rougier’s hand slipped through his.
He vanished from sight. Seconds later a ripping sound. A scream. Burton pressed his face against the roof, squeezed his eyes shut. His brow felt feverish.
He pulled himself back up the roof, struggled to his feet. Up the apex, down the other side. He heard the shouts of the soldiers. Bullets clattered all around him. Patrick was waiting for him at the end of the roof, staring at the office block opposite. Beyond that was the cinema they’d passed earlier in the morning.
‘It’s too far!’ said the American. He was panting heavily, face dripping sweat. The gap between them and the next building was a gorge. ‘We’ll never make it.’
Burton snapped his head left, then right. ‘We don’t have a choice.’
The helicopter tore over them again. They ducked, the wind of its tail rotors tearing at their hair.
‘Where’s Rougier?’ asked Patrick.
‘We’ll need a run up,’ said Burton. They turned and sprinted back up to the top of the roof. Burton felt fire in his thigh muscles.
They reached the top. Ran straight into a trooper. Kai-duka. Burton headbutted him. The blackshirt sprawled backwards, dropped his weapon. He rolled down the roof, colliding with two of his comrades. They tumbled off the edge.
Others were climbing upwards. Patrick scooped up the fallen BK44. Raked the soldiers below with gunfire till the magazine was empty.
Burton and Patrick whirled round, facing the chasm between them and the next building, and ran.
Burton was pumping his arms, felt each breath as it penetrated deep into his lungs. He concentrated on the building opposite. It was as if nothing else in the world existed; like it hung in a void of smoggy, grey sky. It had a flat roof.
Two more strides and he’d be at the edge. The balls of his feet were throbbing. One last stride …
He leapt.
Earlier in the spring Madeleine had got it into her head to repair the weather vane on the farm; it was the type of escapade she thrilled at but her husband would never allow. Before Burton could stop her she scaled the roof, pointing out the holes and laughing as she went. He loved that fearlessness in her, it reassured him in a way that no other woman had made him feel. She was almost at the top before she slipped and fell. Later, as Burton bathed her bruises, he would remember that moment. How Madeleine seemed to plummet in slow motion, with him helpless to save her.
That’s how he felt now as he soared through the air like some huge flightless bird.
Burton crashed on to the roof opposite, tumbling forward in a ball of limbs. His head banged concrete. Then he was sprawled on his back looking at the overcast sky. It seemed a long, long way away.
Someone grabbed him. ‘We got to keep moving.’ It was Patrick.
Burton sat up. Across the chasm, the SS were preparing to follow. Didn’t these bastards ever quit?
Burton was running again. The flat roof made it easier. He tried to remember where the Börse was. Ahead he could see the Giesler Bridge; the Börse was to the west of it: a squat, triangular building where everything from gold to palm oil was traded. It could be no more than two, three hundred yards.
They reached a wall, scaled it and dropped on to the next roof. There were air-conditioning units, a long skylight.
Cannon fire.
The helicopter was bearing down on them, swooping low. Too low. The pilot was insane. He’d crash the helicopter.
Burton sprinted away, Patrick in the lead. He could feel the air being bent around him. The ground erupted in spouts of dust and bullets.
Patrick veered towards the skylight. Tripped. The cannon strafed the glass. For an instant Patrick teetered on the edge of the skylight.
He plunged through it.
‘Patrick!’ yelled Burton.
The helicopter finished its pass, rising fast and high.
‘Patrick!’ Burton peered into the shattered skylight. Below him was a narrow loft, the walls hidden behind racks of canisters.
‘Get your ass down here, Cole.’ Patrick stood among them in a ragged pool of glass. Blood was gushing from the scab on his nose.
Burton jumped below. The floor was vibrating with the sound of cheers and triumphant music. In the corner of the room was a door. They ran through it to a staircase and began descending. Someone came up the stairs.
‘What the fuck is going on here? Who are you—’
Burton kneed him in the balls, spun him round, slammed his head into the wall.
Above them gunfire. Boots crashing down into the canister room.
Burton and Patrick flew down the stairs, taking them three at a time. The cheering, the music was getting louder. At the bottom of the stairwell, another door. They burst through it, into a blackened chamber. Sitting in front of them
were hundreds of people, staring in rapt concentration. Above them a flickering beam of light.
Burton turned to look in the audience’s direction. They were staring at a screen, on it black and white images of a football match, the Maracanã stadium in Rio de Janeiro.
The people in the nearest seats glared at them.
Burton and Patrick strode up the aisle. At the back of the cinema, illuminated in red letters, was the word ABTRETEN. They headed for it.
Behind them the door was flung open. Troops appeared, their banana-guns ready.
Burton pulled his Browning and fired a single shot into the air.
A woman screamed.
Next moment: pandemonium.
People were out of their seats, shouting, fighting their way to the aisles. Shoving limbs, trampling feet. Burton and Patrick joined the throng of bodies, let themselves be carried along in the panic. Vanished into the crowd.
On the screen behind them Germany scored with only seconds to spare before the final whistle. The World Cup was Hitler’s.
Terras de Chisengue, North Angola
16 September 11:00
WHEN he saw it was her, the guard lowered his gun. ‘Did you do it?’ he asked. His face was white and expectant. ‘Did you blow the tunnel?’
Neliah’s nostrils flared with rage. ‘Where’s Penhor?’
‘I don’t know. Everyone’s getting ready to move out to the train.’
Neliah stepped past him and continued through the trees. They were eucaliptos, had been planted to hide the camp because they grew fast. She trailed the panga in her hand.
‘What about the tunnel?’ he shouted after her. ‘None of us thought you could do it. Neliah. Neliah!’
Neliah. It was an old Herero name. Her ina, her mother, had given it. Strong of will it meant. Strong of will, vigorous of spirit, level of mind. Heading to the camp she felt none of these. Only fury and a pebble of shame.
Her hunger for revenge an unfed beast.
Five seasons had passed since the Nazistas had stormed into Angola. When they arrived nothing, not even his white skin, could save her father. In those last moments of chaos he told Neliah and Zuri to hide – go, my meninas, go! Then he went to meet the skull-troops, opened-handed, full of willing just like the Portuguese and British told everyone to be. Papai was gunned down, everything he had struggled for taken away: their home, the quarry, the excavation machines. The Nazistas painted the company diggers with their crooked-crosses, divided the miners into two groups. The whites would remain, toiling for their new masters. The blacks were forced to dig a pit and lie in it. None of them refused, none except Ina.
She always had fire in her belly, remembered the old stories of what the Germans had done to their people long before the Nazistas.
When Ina ran they caught her, bayoneted her again and again till the ground flowed black. Strung her up for the buzzards. After that the others did as they were told. Climbed into the trench, lay down like cattle and waited. The skull-troops flung in grenades. In her dreams Neliah could still hear that noise: the dull thud of earth and flesh. The screams. Afterwards, with moans still rising from the ground, the Germans fetched a digger. Filled the pit back up. The sisters saved themselves by hiding in the cesspit, noses deep in pigswill and shit. When night fell they escaped, ran and ran, blind with tears, and never went back.
At first the Nazistas slew her kindred wherever they found them. Later, when they no longer had time to dig pits, when the corpses piled up like mountains, they started transporting them. Herded like cattle in lorries and trains – always north, to a place beyond Angola, beyond Kongo and Aquatoriana, to where the deserts began. Muspel, the Germans called it. To her people it was a land of slavery and dying. A nightmare with no dawn to break it.
Neliah reached the camp as Penhor was marching his troops out. He was at the head of the column, a ceremonial sabre swinging in his hand. The scarlet sash around his chest had been tied tight. When he saw her he brought the men to a halt, told them to stand easy. They were all carrying backpacks and rifles. Neliah heard whispers behind hands as they stared at her.
She met their eyes without blinking, slid the panga back into its sheath and rubbed the scar above her brow. It was an old wound from a German bayonet. She hadn’t bothered to sew it, wanted it left wide and ugly as a reminder. Her trousers, vest, boots were thick with mud.
Gonsalves stepped to the front. Put his fists on his hips. ‘So, the great warrior returns.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Penhor. ‘I’m glad to see you back, girl.’
Neliah said nothing.
‘And I know Zuri will be happy you’re home.’
‘Our home is in the south, where the Nazistas rule. Not here.’
‘And will be again, I promise you.’ He lowered the sabre he was carrying. ‘Did you destroy the tunnel?’
Neliah was back in her hiding place above the Lulua River. Beneath its moonlit waters she could see the tunnel leading to Rhodesia. The road was empty, there were no guards. Her heart growled at that: she had wanted to kill as many Germans as possible. Neliah whispered a kumbu to her ancestors and counted down the timers. The night thundered, hurting her ears. There was a blast of fire and smoke. When it cleared she stood up, stared at the damage below. And hung her head.
Neliah lunged at Penhor. ‘It didn’t work!’
Soldiers crowded around her. She felt forked hands pulling her off.
‘I told you she’d only fuck things up,’ said Gonsalves.
‘It was the dynamite,’ replied Neliah, pushing away the soldiers. ‘It was too old, didn’t fire. Not all of it.’
Penhor flicked a speck of dust off his uniform. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘It came from my contacts at the British embassy. In Loanda. They only give me the latest equipment.’
‘The British handed this country to the Nazistas in a bowl,’ said Neliah. ‘How can you trust them?’
‘The winds are changing. They’re on our side now.’
Gonsalves spoke. ‘I say there was nothing wrong with the explosives. It was her. She didn’t know what she was doing.’
‘It was the dynamite!’ Neliah roared back, troubled that he might be speaking the truth. ‘It wasn’t right. Smelt like … old bones. The British are tricking us.’
‘Old bones?’ said Gonsalves. ‘That explains everything!’ He encouraged the other soldiers to laugh. ‘I tell you, these things are too complicated for her kind. For a cook-girl. For a negra.’
Neliah hurled herself at him, held the panga to his throat. ‘Omu-runde!’
The soldiers crowded round again. She felt clawing, pinches. A hard punch to the low-back. Gonsalves was spitting.
Penhor dragged her off. ‘Gonsalves, hold your tongue. Neliah, put the blade down.’
‘Not till he eats his words—’
‘Put it down!’
Reluctantly she lowered it. Her breathing was heavy. She’d fight them all: the Nazistas, the British, even the Angolans. White Angolans.
‘Any more of this and I’ll have you whipped. Both of you.’ He fixed Neliah with his eyes. ‘Now, tell us what happened.’
‘I set the charges, just like you told me. Checked everything two times. But they didn’t explode. Not enough of them.’
‘And the tunnel?’ Neliah thought his voice sounded tight, like wet cow hide left in the sun. ‘Did you destroy the tunnel?’
Neliah glanced at the dirt, then looked up again. Stared Penhor in the face. ‘The Germans will be able to repair the damage.’
Gonsalves turned to Penhor. ‘Comandante, give me three men,’ he said. ‘Three men and enough dynamite and I’ll stop those Boche bastards in their tracks.’
Penhor ignored him. ‘Where are the rest of your Herero?’
‘Tungu and Bomani came back with me, are following behind. The others … ran.’
Gonsalves snorted as if a great truth had been proved.
Neliah tried to keep the begging from her voice. ‘Let me go back. All I nee
d is more dynamite.’
‘You did your best, girl. Angola is proud of you. Now I need you to watch over Zuri—’
‘Wait! There’s something else,’ said Neliah. She was searching for another reason to go back to the tunnel. ‘Near the river we saw a camp.’
‘What type of camp?’
‘A German camp. A chimney-camp. There were lots of prisoners there.’
‘White prisoners?’
Neliah couldn’t still the savagery in her voice. ‘Of course white.’
‘There aren’t enough of us as it is,’ interrupted Gonsalves. ‘You said so yourself, Comandante. Let me go. I’ll release them, then bring that tunnel crashing down.’
‘I can do it,’ said Neliah. ‘I can free them.’
Gonsalves laughed. ‘The shame of it. I’d rather be a prisoner than rescued by a nig-girl.’
Neliah’s eyes burned. She curled her fingers around the panga again.
‘Nobody is going back to the tunnel,’ said Penhor. ‘Or this alleged camp.’
‘But Angola,’ said Gonsalves. ‘We’ll be left to burn if the Boche get through the tunnel to Rhodesia. There’ll be no one to help us.’
‘We have tried to do our duty by Carvalho, but now Loanda must be our priority.’ Penhor turned to his soldiers, raised his voice. ‘Men, fall back in.’
‘Please,’ said Neliah.
‘You are to stay here, girl. With Zuri. Help guard the camp till we return, it’s an important job.’
‘Why won’t you let me fight?’
‘Fighting’s for men.’
‘You mean whites.’
‘I mean men. If all goes well in Loanda, I’ll send for you and your sister.’ Neliah knew he was lying. ‘If not, we’ll fall back here. Regroup, try to get to Mozambique.’
‘I’m sick of waiting,’ said Neliah. ‘I want blood, German blood. Me and Zuri deserve it. All I need is more dynamite.’
‘There’s none left, we’ve taken it all. For the battle ahead.’
‘You can’t stop me from going back to the tunnel.’
Penhor sighed, ran his tongue between his teeth and top lip. ‘I’m leaving Lieutenant Ligio in charge of the camp. Ligio and a few other guards. They’ll be under strict instructions to make sure you don’t go wandering.’