by Guy Saville
‘Now you understand why I didn’t want you to come.’
For a long moment Zuri said nothing, just stood there ringing her plait. When she spoke, her voice was thick. ‘None of this. None of this will bring them back.’
‘I know.’
Zuri spoke on. ‘I always think of that day when we hid … the screams … the smell of the cesspit. It still lives in my nose. You were sick, remember?’ She looked up, brushed away a tear. ‘I want to fight. Just as much as you.’
‘If you’re scared, think of the north. Of Ina and Papai. All the others.’ She rubbed her scar. ‘It gives me the rage of a lion.’
‘I’m not scared.’
Neliah squeezed her shoulder and knelt by the dead skull-troop. She dragged the panga from his body, re-sheathed it without wiping the blade. Next she picked up his rifle and went through his kit. She found bullets, grenades, cigarettes, some bonbons. She took the ammunition and grenades, offered the sweets to Zuri.
She shook her head. ‘What do we do with the body?’
‘I don’t know. Dump it in the river. It’ll look like the crocodiles chewed him.’
‘You said there weren’t any.’
‘It’s a joke.’
Zuri frowned, just like their ina used to.
Neliah took out the dynamite. ‘The escape-holes are for if there’s a fire in the tunnel. There are three of them along this passage, with ladders to the road below. You go to the far one, I’ll do the other two.
‘Why have I got to go to the far one?’
‘Because it’s safest. The skull-troops are at this end.’ Neliah handed over three bundles of dynamite. ‘Climb to the bottom and hide two there, leave another at the top. Turn on the switch like I showed you.’
Before she could tell her to be careful, Zuri was gone. Neliah watched as she scampered along the passage, her long tail of hair swishing behind her.
Then Neliah slung the haversack over her shoulder and followed till she reached the second hole. It was in the middle of the tunnel, was cut from the rock itself. Metal ladder rungs jutted out from the side. At the bottom, where she should have seen the opening to the road, there was nothing but debris. Somewhere she could hear the hiss of water.
Neliah took a fistful of dynamite and began to climb down. Gonsalves’s voice was in her head: she’s a cook-girl. A negra. How could she know what she was doing? This time the tunnel would come crashing down. She swore it.
By the time they got back to the others the scouts had returned.
They were on a rise above the tunnel, hidden by enga-grass as tall as a man. The night was still. After Neliah and Zuri planted the explosives they had swum back to the far shore, pulled their boots back on and silently made their way to the rest of the women.
They were a band of seven, all of them Herero or Bantu. All of them with their own tales of murder and families vanished to the north, the hunger for vengeance in their guts. For the Herero that hunger went deeper: back to their parents’ parents and earlier. Long before the Nazistas, other Germans had come to the Herero lands, men with huge whiskers and strange hats. They had butchered their ancestors. Driven them out into the desert, poisoned the wells. If all the generations of Herero dead rose from their graves their number would be so huge that no German army could defeat them.
‘I want to press the detonator,’ said Zuri, making sure her plait was tight.
Neliah kept the haversack close to her chest, in her hand was the rifle she had taken from the dead skull-troop. She turned to Ajiah, one of the scouts. She was from Benguela with spindly legs that could run and run. They spoke in Bantu, the common tongue. ‘Did you find the camp, the place of chimneys?’
Ajiah nodded. ‘Not many Germans there.’
‘Tanks?’
‘No.’
‘Prisoners?’
‘Many many.’
‘Portuguese? Angolans?’
‘And others. Many tongues, all colours of white.’
All colours of white. Neliah gazed down at the tunnel. She was thinking, trying to plan for the future the way Papai used to. They would need as many fighters as possible when the Germans invaded Loanda. From high on the ridge she could see inside the tunnel, see the men working to remove the debris. They were passing out rocks in a chain of bodies. For a heartbeat she thought they were her people. Then she realised their skin was black only from dirt and toil. Skull-troops were guarding them.
‘Give me the detonator,’ said Zuri. ‘It’s time.’
Neliah was bewitched by the scene below. Every last man would be crushed to death when the dynamite exploded. Killed by her. ‘We have to wait,’ she replied.
‘Wait for what?’
‘They’re digging by hand, the Nazistas always use machines. If we wait till they bring them we can destroy both. After that, they’ll have nothing to clear the rocks with.’
She turned to the north towards the chimneys, could see fleeces of smoke glowing in the night sky. When the tunnel exploded the Germans would send more soldiers to hunt them down. Neliah made up her mind. This was the more dangerous place to be.
‘Do you really want to fight, Zuri?’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘Go with Ajiah and two others, she knows the way. Close to here is a chimney-camp—’
‘We said pamue. I want to stay with you.’
‘It’s what your Alberto wanted.’
Zuri shook her head. ‘He said wear a white dress, stay at the camp. Cook.’
‘Please, sister. Do as I ask. There will be danger enough. Go to the chimney-camp, find a place to hide where you can watch it. When we blow the dynamite they’ll send skull-troops from there to help. That’s when you attack. Free as many prisoners as you can, get them to join us. I will wait till high-sun tomorrow for the digging machines. If none is here by then …’ Neliah patted the haversack.
‘Ajiah said they’re white. Why will they come with us?’
‘Promise them your pork stew! Tell them how good it is.’ When her sister didn’t laugh, Neliah became grave again. ‘You rescued them, they’re far from home, they’ll follow. If not, let the savannah have them. We meet back at Terras de Chisengue.’
‘And then?’
‘We save our land, like Papai wanted. Go to Loanda. There will be many Germans to kill in the city.’
Neliah handed her the gun from the dead soldier, the bullets and one of the grenades. Zuri took them and reached out to hug her. Neliah allowed her a brief embrace, curled her fingers round her sister’s plait, brought the tuft to her mouth. It was smooth and prickly against her lips, smelt of mafuta oil. Memories of home. Then she pushed her away. ‘Go! And remember what I said: think of Muspel and your heart will roar.’
Ajiah strode off through the grass, the other two followed, finally Zuri.
Neliah watched her sister go, the rifle looking awkward in her hands. She moved with the same short, rolling stride as their mother.
A sudden feeling wrenched at Neliah’s chest, the feeling she would never see her sister again, never hear the comforting swish of her hair. With it came the urge to touch her one last time, to feel the smooth skin of her cheek against hers. To grasp her hands. She wished she hadn’t pushed her away.
‘Zuri,’ she called after her. ‘Zuri!’ But there was no wind to carry her voice.
Her sister vanished into the grass and was gone.
PAA, Kongo
17 September, 08:50
ON the horizon: stacks of poisonous smoke. It was then that Burton guessed what their destination would be. He felt a plunging wave of dread.
The convoy had continued south throughout the night. Somewhere along the road Burton drifted off into a shivering sleep. He dreamed fleetingly: saw the driveway back home, the potholes he kept promising Madeleine to repair. They had been filled with skulls.
When he awoke the sun was glinting on the autobahn; the shimmer of pink tarmac. His eyes felt raw, joints and muscles set like concrete. Several of the other p
risoners had pissed themselves during the night. Now the lorry stank of urine. Urine and despair. Burton tried to flex his limbs but the chains around his wrists and ankles were too tight. Movement had returned to his knee though. He imagined harba-dogo, the dambe kick to the head. Rottman tumbling backwards.
An hour after dawn the lorries stopped to refuel once more. The guards got out, stretched their legs. Himmler had insisted that all members of the Schutzstaffel start their day with a breakfast of raw leeks and mineral water (Apollinaris, no doubt), a diet to fortify the new masters of Africa. But it seemed the Unterjocher paid little heed: there was the smell of coffee, cigarettes, bacon frying. Burton’s stomach howled. Then another ladle of water for the prisoners, no phlegm this time, and they were back on the road.
Craning his neck, Burton glimpsed the first of the chimneys. They were caged inside girders and walkways, built on a scale that only an inferiority complex could conceive. The smell of the smoke reminded him of those final days in Tana – when the Luftwaffe bombed the city into powder. Tana: it had been his first job as a soldier of fortune. But whereas the Legion offered hardship and discipline, a regime to fill the void left by his childhood, the mercenary’s way was chaotic. There were no rules to cling to, just violence. Even as he prospered in Madagaskar, then the wars of central Africa, Burton knew he was emptying out again.
Ten minutes later the convoy rolled through a barbed wire gate into the factory complex. A rusting sign by the entrance read: Deutsche Erd & Steinwerke GmbH Afrika – the German Earth & Stoneworks Company; part of Department W, better known by its acronym: DESTA.
This then was to be his fate: worked to death in some Nazi labour camp. The price of revenge. Unless …
Burton looked to the other lorries trying to find Patrick. By his calculation they had travelled far enough to be near the border with Northern Rhodesia; it couldn’t be more than fifty, sixty miles away. Une petite promenade they would have called that in the Legion. A stroll.
If only he could get out of these chains!
Rottman leapt out of the lead vehicle and was met by a hulking SS officer twirling a baton. They exchanged words, the officer gesturing to the trucks, to the factory – a furious swipe of the baton – over to the south.
Eddies of dust swirled up from the ground.
Rottman gave a Führer-salute and ran back to the convoy, blowing his whistle. The guards unloaded the men, all except Burton who remained chained to the lorry. Rottman selected twenty of the brawniest prisoners and ordered them back on. ‘Punishment detail,’ Burton overheard one of the guards say as the cage was shut. Rottman climbed on board; the engine started.
The captives who had been left behind were led away towards the factory. Burton scanned their shuffling forms. Whatever had happened on the quayside or cellar, they couldn’t be parted like this.
‘Patrick,’ he yelled, trying to stand. ‘Patrick!’
He glimpsed his old friend towards the rear.
Rottman leaned out of the cab. ‘Shut him up!’
‘Chef!’
Patrick hesitated, cocked his head as if he might turn back. Burton caught a hint of his face in profile.
A scowl.
‘I’ll get you back to Hannah.’ It was the only thing he could think to say. ‘I promise—’
A rifle butt slammed into Burton’s stomach.
He doubled up, dropping back on to the bench with a crash of chains. The lorry pulled away. By the time he had enough breath to look up again, Patrick had turned to the front, was continuing with the other prisoners. Soon he was swallowed by the swirling dust.
The lorry drove for another twenty minutes before reaching its destination. It parked on a siding next to a tank.
Burton was unchained and herded out with the rest of the prisoners. He moved like an old, arthritic man; pins and needles screamed down his legs. When he couldn’t climb off the lorry a hand shoved him out. He landed hard – a jolt to the knee – and tasted dirt. Rottman flashed a disapproving glare at the guards.
They had reached a tunnel.
Ahead was a fast-flowing river, a tributary of the Kassai, guessed Burton. The Lulua or maybe Lukoshi – which meant he was right about Rhodesia. As the PAA approached it the autobahn narrowed to four lanes and disappeared below into the tunnel. The tunnel itself appeared to have been damaged: the brickwork around the entrance was cracked, and Burton could see scorch marks. Inside a construction gang was at work.
His eyes roved over the rest of the site, calculating his chances of escape.
There were three tanks: two Panthers and a FP5 armed with a flamethrower; a sandbag emplacement with MG48 machine gun; at least twenty Waffen-SS soldiers. Their uniforms looked out of place in the sunlight. Near the entrance of the tunnel were several tents. From the largest emerged a man in a white coat. He pulled off his swastika armband, replaced it with a Red Cross one.
Behind him came two soldiers carrying a cast-iron cauldron. The cauldron was smoking.
I hope this means food, thought Burton. Some soup, any old slop. His belly was hollow.
The prisoners were made to stand in rows, the guards casually aiming their weapons at them. Rottman climbed on to the tailgate of the lorry and addressed the crowd. In his hand was a jambok: a hippo-hide whip, the favoured tool of discipline when the Germans had colonised DSWA in the previous century.
‘Arbeit macht frei,’ he said in his carbolic voice. ‘Work brings freedom.
‘As illegals in German Africa commandeered by the Unterjocher you are now officially chattels of the SS. RAD-Afrika laws stipulate you must work for the benefit of the Reich for the period of a year and one day. After such time you will be granted official papers and may choose your own employment.’
Burton suppressed a grim laugh, glanced at his fellow prisoners. Most were staring at Rottman dumbfounded; he doubted they spoke enough German to understand what was being said. They were men from the fringes of Europe, who had come to Africa with false dreams of getting rich or living unmolested.
‘Prior to that happy day,’ continued Rottman, ‘and to dissuade you from escape, you will be marked as press-ganged workers.’ He nodded to the two soldiers with the cauldron. They took off the lid.
Burton’s heart shrivelled. Not soup.
A brazier.
Rottman was still speaking. ‘Terrorists have attempted to destroy the tunnel behind us. Naturally they failed. Part of the PAA has been blocked, however. You are the relief gang; your task will be to clear the debris before the heavy machinery arrives.’ He raised the whip in his hand. ‘Any man found shirking will be punished. Severely. Take that as your sole warning.’
Rottman jumped off the lorry and nodded to the Red Cross man. ‘Continue.’
The soldiers carried the brazier to the prisoners. Inside coals burned scarlet, orange and white. Several branding irons were buried in the heat.
The first prisoner was made to kneel and hold out his left arm, palm upwards. The two soldiers held him down while the Red Cross official shoved a wooden bit into his mouth.
Rottman wrapped a cloth round his hand and withdrew one of the branding irons from the fire. He lingered for a moment, then pressed it against the prisoner’s forearm, halfway between the wrist and elbow.
The smell of charred flesh. A scream to silence the blood.
Rottman released the brand. The prisoner collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. Cauterised on his arm were an inverted triangle and two letters: UJ.
The Red Cross man dabbed the wound with an iodine rag before wrapping it in a bandage. They moved on to the next prisoner.
Burton stared straight ahead, fought to control his lungs. In the gloom of the tunnel he saw men working, saw their exhaustion as they hacked away at the rockfall. Even if they survived the press gang they were all marked for life now.
Another agonised yell, more smoke.
There would be no easy escape to Rhodesia. Even if he managed to break out, even if he stole an SS uniform or found fr
esh papers, one look at his arm and he was finished.
He had to get away before they burned him.
Burton’s eyes searched for an escape route. Anything. Above him was a ridge hidden in grass, beyond that the river. He saw the sunlight shimmering on its surface, indigo and brown. In front, tanks; behind him the endless road to Stanleystadt.
And everywhere black uniforms. BK44s. He’d be pumped full of holes before he took a dozen paces.
Rottman continued down the line. A steady process of bit, brand and iodine. He didn’t seem to register the screams.
The air smelt like pork spitting on a barbecue.
Rottman had reached the prisoner next to Burton. He shook uncontrollably. The guards grabbed his arm, exposed the skin.
Burton tried to blank his mind … but for some reason kept fixating on the chest of drawers in his bedroom. Maddie had this annoying habit of leaving them open; it drove him to distraction sometimes. Now, though, Burton saw himself dash through the house opening every drawer he could find, pulling out the contents till it was raining socks and stockings and woollen scarves.
Rottman was standing over him.
Burton glimpsed the ivory handle of his Browning poking out of Rottman’s trousers, felt a prickle of fury.
They forced him to kneel. His left kneecap jarred as it crunched into the ground. The Red Cross official reached for the bit. Burton could see the other men’s saliva glistening on it.
‘Wait,’ said Rottman. ‘This one’s a tough bastard. He can do without.’
The official shrugged.
The soldiers forced Burton’s arm out. Held it in place. He felt their grip tug at the hairs around his wrist. His tendons bulged.
Rottman tightened the cloth covering his hand, reached for a fresh brand, pulled it out of the fire.
Burton smelt its black, volcanic heat at the back of his throat.
For an instant he closed his eyes, tensed his jaw. Then they were open again. He wasn’t going to give Rottman the satisfaction; first chance he got he swore he was going to break the fucker’s neck.
The letters blazed before him.