by Guy Saville
A silence descended between them. Patrick took a puff on his pipe, held the smoke in his lungs.
When Burton told Maddie about Hochburg it had been simple – a relief to unburden his secret after so long; the final barrier between them had been breached. But with Patrick he felt unsure. Exposed. He reached for his mango juice and took a sip. Wondered whether it was possible to make quince juice. You’d have to press it, need plenty of sugar. How far away the orchard seemed, like something from a picture book: close enough to touch, but unreal, someone else’s image.
Patrick said, ‘And your father accepted this?’
‘He was always looking for lost souls. He and Hochburg were both nationalists, both felt betrayed by Versailles. Were Germans living in a colony that had become British. Walter would also have been the same age as my brothers—’
‘I never knew you had brothers.’
‘I forgot you had a wife and daughter. We served together for twenty years, Patrick, but sometimes I think we’re strangers. What do we know – do we really know – about each other?’
‘I know you’re good in a fight, boy.’
‘Two half-brothers, twins, from my father’s first marriage. Livingstone and Stanley. That’s where I get my name from.’
Patrick gave him a quizzical look.
‘Richard Burton, the explorer. He went to find the source of the Nile. These men were my father’s heroes.’
‘And your brothers?’
‘They volunteered in 1914. Fought in East Africa – for the Germans, for von Lettow. Never came home. That was before I was born.’
‘So Hochburg became the stand-in son?’
‘They talked, they prayed, built the orphanage together, tended the garden. Hochburg was good with the children, very kind. His “little black buttons” he used to call them.’
‘When he didn’t want to torch the poor bastards.’
‘I don’t know where the change came. Talk’s one thing, murder another.’
Patrick chomped the end of his pipe. ‘And you came all this way to kill him.’
‘I wanted it more than anything. But it wasn’t the only reason.’
‘Which was?’
Burton hesitated. ‘Are you really going to get on that boat?’
‘I got to, it’s my only way back to Hannah.’ But there was an indecision in his voice, just like in prison.
That decided it.
‘When I was fourteen years old,’ said Burton, ‘my mother walked out into the jungle. Hochburg disappeared the same day.’ His voice was level, toneless. ‘Why she did it, where she went, what happened: I don’t know.’
Patrick seemed distracted, his eyes were roving outside. ‘They were sweet on each other?’
Burton followed his gaze. A lorry was pulling up on the quayside. ‘I don’t know. She was much younger than my father, the same age as Hochburg.’ A memory pounced on him: Hochburg in the river, the water rippling over his shoulders, Mama watching from behind her prayer book. His father snoring in the shade. ‘He had some strange power over her.’
‘So they were.’
Something in Burton squirmed. ‘I never saw her again. Never said goodbye. Have you got any idea what that’s like? The not knowing. It robbed me of something. A bit of my past, a bit of my future.’ He screwed his thumb against his breastbone. ‘It’s been gnawing at me all my life. That’s why I came to Kongo: to find …’ He searched for an adequate word; failed. ‘The truth.’
‘Get up!’ Patrick was on his feet. ‘Quick, boy!’
Burton turned round, struggled to stand. He knocked the table. Mango juice spilled everywhere.
Outside, a second lorry pulled up. Its tailgate dropped. People were running.
Then a cry that sent panic through the tavern.
‘Der Unterjocher!’
DER Unterjocher: the press gang.
The WVHA, the SS Economic Department, was divided into five sub-groups, or Ämter, of which Department W was the most infamous. It was Department W that ran the factories of Muspel; the concentration camps and slave labour programmes; administered Jewish Madagaskar under Governor Globocnik. The Unterjocher also came within its remit.
Burton pulled out his Browning, thumbed the safety.
Patrick shook his head. ‘They’ll be too many.’ His eyes flitted round the tavern.
Outside Burton saw lorries, troops, the distinctive shape of banana-guns. They were heading to the building next door.
‘If we get out fast, we’re safe,’ said Burton.
‘Too late,’ replied Patrick.
Guards were already positioned by the entrance. Two black sentinels.
There was a drip-drip-drip as the mango juice found the edge of the table.
Burton knew the reputation of the Unterjocher. Everyone did. With the blacks shipped north, and slaves from eastern Europe in demand for Speer’s domestic rebuilding programme, the Nazis increasingly relied on the Unterjocher for labour in Africa: mopping up economic migrants and former French and Belgian colonists, anyone without the correct papers. Few who were pressed survived more than six months. If sheer toil didn’t destroy a man, malnutrition, disease and the guards’ brutality would. Lord Halifax had attempted to raise the issue several times with Hitler. The Führer, all smiles-for-the-camera and barely suppressed rage, reassured the Prime Minister that the worst rumours were untrue. Vile propaganda spread by insurgents and the enemies of peace, those keen to stir up trouble between their two great empires, like the lurid falsehoods told about Muspel. Yes, conditions were sometimes harsh, but only criminals and undesirables made up the Unterjocher numbers. Surely the British operated something similar in their own colonies? All civilisations did. Perhaps if the Raj had been less lenient, India would still belong to them. Halifax would return home chastened.
‘Put your piece away,’ said Patrick. ‘There’s gotta be another exit.’
All around them people were scrambling for their documents. The tavern had fallen silent except for murmuring and the accordion player who had struck up ‘Schweiss eines Weissen’, the anthem of the SS in Africa. One man made a run for it. He burst through the front door, made it another two, three feet …
Was gunned down.
Roused by the shots, more troops headed towards the tavern. Orders were being shouted.
Burton tucked the Browning into his waistband and followed Patrick towards the rear of the building. The urge to bolt was almost irresistible, though nothing was more likely to get them arrested. He forced a measured pace as they weaved through the tables. Faces looked up at them: desperate, pleading, suspicious.
At the back, next to the bar, was a door. They pushed through it into a kitchen as hot as a Turkish bath. The air was heavy with sweat and sauerkraut. There were a couple of waitresses milling around. Beyond them another door – wide open. Through its frame Burton glimpsed an alleyway; it was unguarded.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking the lead.
They hurried towards it.
‘Where you go?’ A man stepped in front of them, barring their way. In his hand was a huge chef’s knife. He had swarthy features and a walrus moustache drooping in the heat. He spoke German with a thick Greek accent.
Burton went to barge past him.
The Greek pointed the knife at his throat. ‘Try it and I yell so noisy every soldier in city hear me. So do my girls.’
Patrick put a restraining hand on Burton’s shoulder. ‘We don’t have the right papers,’ he said to the Greek, adopting his comrade voice. ‘If we don’t get away it’s the UJ for us.’
‘You escape, they fine me. Take my place. Lock me up.’
‘We’ll go quietly. Quiet as gold.’ Patrick produced one of the solid gold Reichmarks from their contingency packs. It winked in the dull light of the kitchen.
The Greek stood transfixed before reaching out to grab it.
Patrick snatched it away. ‘Only if you let us through.’
‘You got more?’
‘Wil
l you let us through?’
He made a hangman’s gesture. ‘They catch me, it rope.’
‘It’s a lot of money.’
‘Money no good if I dead.’
Somewhere there was the sound of a struggle, a table being overturned.
Patrick took the Greek’s hand and put the gold coin in his palm. Folded his fingers round it. ‘You can let us through,’ he soothed. ‘The Germans will never know.’
The Greek hesitated a moment, then raised the coin to his mouth, tested it with his teeth.
He stood aside.
Patrick was first through the door. He took a few paces and came to a halt, looking in both directions. ‘We’re fucked.’
Burton followed his gaze. There were Unterjocher troops running down both ends of the alleyway, covering all the doors.
They stumbled back into the kitchen. ‘You’ve got to help us,’ said Burton.
There was a look of alarm on the tavern owner’s face. He raised the knife again.
‘There’s got to be some place we can hide.’
‘No,’ said the Greek. ‘Get out! Go!’
‘We’ll give you more gold.’
A hesitation. He tugged on his moustache. ‘How much?’
‘Two more coins.’
He held up his fingers. ‘Five.’
‘Three. It’s all we have.’
The Greek held out his hand. Burton placed another gold coin in it. ‘One now,’ he said, ‘the rest when we’re safe.’
Next moment they were being led back into the kitchen. Past stoves and the waitresses, through a passage to another door. The Greek flung it open and herded Burton and Patrick through it, down a flight of rickety steps into darkness. Burton kept his hand on the wall to steady himself. At the bottom the Greek pulled a cord and a bare light bulb came on.
They were in a cellar, surrounded by barrels. The air smelt of damp and yeast.
‘You help me. Quick!’ At the far end of the cellar was some shelving. The Greek began removing boxes from it, then the planks themselves. Burton and Patrick joined him, lifting crates of Apollinaris mineral water and Reich-Kola; the SS was the largest producer of soft drinks in the world.
Once the shelving had been cleared a small cubby-hole was revealed. The Greek opened the door to cobwebs and crawling brickwork. ‘In you go.’
‘What is this?’ said Patrick.
‘Last owner. For contraband.’
Burton ducked and squeezed himself in. The space was no more than four feet by two, not high enough to stand upright. The mortar between the bricks was a hive of insects.
‘Quick!’
Patrick was shoved into the hole. With both of them in it there was barely room to breathe. It was like that place in Dunkirk where they had hidden from the Lebbs, Patrick’s blood soaking into Burton’s skin.
They had survived that, thought Burton, they would survive today.
The Greek began closing the door, then pulled it open again. ‘You promise you have rest of gold?’
Twisting his arm Burton managed to pull out his two remaining coins.
The Greek’s eyes darted to them. ‘You fuck me like dog, I tell blackshirts where you are.’
‘You’ll get your money,’ replied Burton.
‘When they gone, I wait half hour. Then come find you.’
The cupboard door closed, letting in only a splinter of light. There was a scraping sound as the shelves were put back in place, the barrels followed. The light pinged off. They heard the Greek climb the stairs, the door at the top being pulled to.
Silence.
Burton shut his eyes and realised it made no difference; open or closed everything was as black as the tomb. Stifling. He could hear Patrick’s breathing: calm and controlled … something tight as he exhaled. Could smell the sweat on his body, the clinging scent of pipe smoke. Neither of them said a word.
Suddenly – from above them – a sound. The clomp of boots on floorboards, reverberating through the walls. Muffled shouts.
Silence once more. Burton counted the seconds.
More shouts. A crash. The indeterminate tremble of voices. Getting closer.
Burton became aware of something crawling up his neck. He tried to raise his hand to swat it but couldn’t move far enough. Tiny legs burrowed into his hair. Behind him the whole wall felt alive with limbs and mandibles. His knees were already cramped at not being able to stand straight.
Next to him Patrick tried to shake something off.
The sound of shouting came again.
A bang that might have been a gunshot. They both breathed in.
One second, two, three, four, five, six …
Boots.
Fading away this time.
‘Are they leaving?’
‘Shhh!’
The minutes passed. Nothing. The darkness was solid around them, like deep water; the air turning acrid.
Burton’s mind was full of Dunkirk. He’d volunteered for the British Expeditionary Force, gone AWOL from the Legion to fight for his mother’s country. Africa might have been his birthplace but Mama had raised him to think of England as home.
He thought of the slaughter he’d seen, the charnel beaches; how he and Patrick had escaped to Calais then across the Channel in a motor launch, part of the flotilla Churchill had sent in a vain attempt to save the British forces. He still remembered the skipper’s lamentations: how he’d lost all his mates at the Somme; that it was supposed to be the war to end all wars. Yet here they were again. Bloody fools!
Back home the look of defeat in everyone’s face reminded him of his father. People avoided his gaze. He understood their need for peace but something about his own eyes gave him away – he wanted to keep fighting. Then came the October agreement, the Council of New Europe. The British Army stood down; returning to the Legion would have meant three years in a Vichy jail. That’s why he went to Madagaskar when the Waffen-SS invaded, why he had embraced the mercenary’s call to arms.
Patrick shifted uncomfortably. ‘You find it?’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘The truth. About your mother.’
Burton didn’t reply.
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s all been for nix.’
‘Hochburg’s dead.’
‘Damn coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Of all the people Ackerman could have chosen. You.’
‘I killed the bastard,’ replied Burton, trying not to think about the tears he’d shed that night. ‘That’s enough.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I can go back to Maddie now. Have a future, the one we both deserve.’ He forced a hushed laugh. ‘Be a farmer.’
A pause. When Patrick spoke again his voice was ragged. ‘When we get out of here, I’m on that boat.’
‘But, Chef.’
‘I’m sorry, Burton. I can’t keep pushing my luck. I’m finished with Africa.’
‘I should never have got you involved.’
‘It’s too late for that—’
Above them the cellar door opened with a creak.
Footsteps.
Something heavy-soled, thought Burton. Boots. He tried to count them, make sense of the different footfalls. Three pairs at least. Maybe more. They descended. Through the slit in the cupboard Burton glimpsed the beam of a torch. A hushed command.
The scrape of the barrels being moved.
Burton eased his Browning from his belt, tried to aim it at the door. In the enclosed space he couldn’t straighten his elbow. The pounding of his heart was as loud as artillery in his ears.
Now the shelving was being lifted, the planks pulled off by strong hands.
Burton cocked the trigger.
The last of the shelves was moved out of the way. Someone reached for the cubby-hole.
Burton tensed himself. Squeezed the handle of his pistol as though he would crush it.
The door swung open.
16 September, 13:30
LOVE. Everything he had achieved was a monument to love. Walter Hochburg stood on the veranda of his office gazing pensively over the Schädelplatz. In his hand was the knife Burton had tried to slay him with. He ran his thumb over the blade. Pushed down till the skin broke.
A drop of blood – white blood – ran into his palm. He sucked the wound.
Below him the sunlight throbbed on the skulls. When the swastika first flew over Africa it was the Kolonialpolitisches Amt that had governed. But the KPA was ineffectual, bound by what Hochburg regarded as an indulgent, nineteenth-century colonialism. Along with Himmler he had fought to sideline them. Only when the SS took command did the continent’s transformation truly begin. Hochburg’s vision was of a racial utopia – one emanating from the Schädelplatz. He had overseen the laying of the square in person, had taken a trowel in his hand to embed the cranium at the centre. It was a specimen he had prized for a long time: a Category Five, the first negroid he ever killed, the bone still black with cleansing fire. That was twenty years ago but seemed, as the scriptures said, only a few days for the love he had for her. Genesis 29:20. He still remembered the man he had been before his true calling.
From his desk behind him came the buzz of the intercom.
Twenty years of conquest and frenzied activity to expunge her memory. Everything he had accomplished in Africa was because of Eleanor. She still haunted him: the slender, almost malnourished frame, tangles of golden hair, eyes possessed of such warmth and compassion and intelligence. The thought of her brought tears to his heart. The niggers had her blood on their hands.
The niggers and her son.
He was as much to blame. If it hadn’t been for Burton his Eleanor would still be with him.
He thought the boy long dead, perished in the fire that gutted the family home in Togoland. Now that he knew he was alive, Hochburg had sworn to hunt him down. Another chapter and verse flared in his memory: Romans 12:19.