The Afrika Reich Page 5
‘Do you think I care?’
‘I’ve seen how you live, remember. The servants. Hot water. Furniture so expensive you could buy a racehorse with it.’ Every time he pictured her house in Hampstead his thoughts turned to shards of the blackest glass. ‘I want to give you all that.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? None of it matters. I’d sleep on the floor as long as I was next to you.’
Burton felt a pang go through him. ‘What about my aunt? Do you have any idea how it felt to take that money from her?’
‘It bought you the farm.’
‘Us the farm.’
‘It was only a loan. She wanted to give it to you.’
Yes, thought Burton. Blood money to make up for her sister. ‘This job pays a fortune,’ he said. ‘I do it and everything is ours. No debt, no loans. We won’t have to worry about anyone. My aunt. Him. I’ll be able to get you everything you want. And the baby.’
‘But I don’t want anything!’ The words came out as a howl of exasperation. ‘Just a future. If you go away, you might never come back.’
‘Does he know? About you being pregnant.’
‘That’s why I have to leave. It was scandal enough when he married me. Can you imagine how he’ll react to this?’
‘And I thought it was because you were so happy here.’
Madeleine puckered her mouth to control the rising tears. ‘Why are you doing this? What job could be so important?’
‘I can’t tell you. There’s no time.’
‘No time: when are you leaving?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
Her eyes began to blur. Burton reached out to touch her, but Madeleine brushed him away. An angry, hurt flick of the hand. ‘You promised.’
‘And I promise I’ll be back.’
‘And the next time? How many other promises will there be? You won’t even tell me where you’re going.’
Burton slid off the arbour and knelt before her. Her face was flushed, so beautiful he wanted to cup it and kiss her. Instead he took her hands. Madeleine resisted before allowing their fingers to entwine again.
‘Africa,’ he said. ‘That’s where I have to go.’
Madeleine tried to pull away but he held her fast. ‘It’s Angola, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I heard it on the wireless: the Nazis are going to invade.’
‘No. German Africa. Kongo.’
‘But you don’t care about Africa any more. Nobody does. What is it they say? Let the Germans get on with it—’
‘Because the alternative is worse, and at least there’s peace and we kept the empire and it’s all so far away … I know, I read the papers.’
‘Then why?’
For an instant Burton saw Hochburg’s face, laughing like a jackal. Then the smoking ruins of his childhood home: burned timbers, wawa trees, the indifferent flow of the Oti River. ‘It’s to do with the past. A score that needs to be settled.’
‘You said it was for the money.’
Burton hesitated. ‘It’s both. I swear to you I’ll be back in three weeks.’
‘And I’ll be in London. I can’t do it, Burton. Leave if you must – but don’t ask me to wait. It’s too much.’
‘After all we’ve been through? All those plans we made?’
‘I don’t remember mentioning Kongo in any of them.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘I want another girl. Want her to know her father.’ Fear was rising in her voice. Fear, hysteria, a torrent of weeping. Madeleine rarely cried, even after her husband’s outbursts.
‘You’re talking about me as if I’m already dead.’
‘You won’t even tell me why.’
Burton hesitated. ‘To kill a man. A Nazi.’
‘A Nazi?’
‘One of the SS leadership. Someone who stands for everything you hate.’
‘I don’t need a lecture on the Schutzstaffel.’
‘Everything that’s wrong in Africa.’
‘Kill him and you change nothing. Another will come in his place. And another. What is it Goebbels says? This is going to be the German millennium. It’s not worth it.’
For a long moment Burton said nothing, just looked at her hands in his.
Then he told.
Told her it all. A tale he had never breathed to a single soul, not even Patrick. And every time he mentioned Hochburg’s name his resolve grew more bloodthirsty. Burton never imagined he’d be a father. The idea filled him with panic and pleasure equally. But even less did he think he’d be an absent parent. Not after what his mother had done. He sometimes wondered if he was still that fourteen-year-old boy watching the tree line, hoping that one day she might emerge again from the jungle.
Madeleine listened intently. She knew his parents had died when he was young. But not how. That part of his childhood had always been an omission to her, something he was ashamed to admit. Maddie had learned to accept the cruelties of life, why couldn’t he? At first she was intrigued, then tears fell from her eyes. Finally her face became as cold and impassive as a mountain god. It was as if she were seeing Burton anew.
By the time he finished a thin, chilly mist was curling off the fields. For a while neither of them spoke. Close by, Burton heard the wind-chime that hung over the back door. It had been his mother’s, was one of the few possessions of hers he still had. When he was a boy she had taken to decking their home with them, much to Father’s disapproval. At night Burton would fall asleep to their shimmering.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Madeleine eventually.
‘You want me to make you something? How about a jam sandwich?’ She loved jam sandwiches, especially with bread dipped in milk, eaten off one of their chipped plates with a knife and fork.
She shook her head. ‘You know, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if things were different. Would I still be in Austria? Or shipped off to Madagaskar? What about my parents? My brothers, sister?’ Her voice trailed off.
‘We wouldn’t have met.’
‘Papa used to say, let them have their fun. They’ll soon get bored and leave us alone. I think he believed it, even as they made him scrub the streets. Even when they spat in his face.’
Every time Burton heard this story he wanted to pull Maddie into his chest and never let go.
‘But if I could get my hands on those fuckers,’ she continued, ‘if I could make them feel all this—’ she thumped her breast ‘—I’d do it without a care.’
Burton felt the tension in his gut slacken: she was going to give her blessing. He didn’t think he could have left without it.
‘But you, Burton, you should forget it. You’ve kept this buried in you so long, it should stay in the ground. There’s nothing for you in Africa.’ She looked him full in the eye, pleading and defiant. ‘Hochburg’s a ghost. Don’t bring him back to life.’ She spoke those last words in German.
‘I love you, Madeleine,’ said Burton. ‘You’ve given me so much. But I need to do this, need to know the truth about my mother.’
‘And what will it bring you?’
He traced the lines on his palm. Before they had met his life had been brutal, incessant. We’re hollow men, he remembered a fellow legionnaire once saying, lost violent souls. That’s why he had signed up to begin with: the Legion’s hard days and short nights left little time for dwelling on the past. That’s why he had returned to Africa when the rest of Europe was celebrating peace. He needed something to slake his rage, to blot out the past. Except somehow the past always managed to bore through. The same unanswered questions taunting him. Now he had a chance to exorcise them for good.
‘A future,’ he replied. ‘No more looking back, always wondering what happened. I’m so tired of it. Once I know the truth, once Hochburg is dead, I’ll never leave you or the baby or Alice again.’ He turned his eye to the orchards, the dilapidated farm buildings around them. ‘Everything I want is here.’
For a long moment Madeleine was silent again. ‘Three weeks?’
‘Lamb’s not in season, silly.’ Her voice ached with misery.
‘Then mutton. Or beef. All washed down with champagne. Something to toast our future.’
A long pause, then Madeleine spoke. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, but don’t you dare – don’t you dare – get yourself hurt. Or killed.’
He took her in his arms, cupped the back of her head with his hand. It felt as if he were holding the entire weight of her. ‘You have my word, Madeleine. I promise you.’
And he had meant it.
The burning plane was to have taken him to Khartoum; then to Cairo, London and finally back to that potholed driveway and home.
Mupe Airstrip, Kongo
14 September, 02:25
A screaming sound. A second rocket slammed into the plane. Then a third.
Burton hit the deck, the stench of kerosene and fire in his mouth. Another missile screamed past. Hidden among the trees he could see a Nebelwerfer, a rocket-lorry.
Burning debris rained down on them. Dolan was rolling around, the whole of his left arm in flames. Patrick tore off his smock and threw it over the Welshman, smothered the fire. Bullets were whipping round them like hailstones.
For several seconds Burton was overcome with disbelief … then he was on his feet yanking Lapinksi up next to him. ‘Back to the jeeps. Everyone: move!’
They sprinted to the vehicles. From all round the perimeter of the airfield soldiers were appearing. Burton recognised the black uniform of the Waffen-SS, the grinning skull badges.
‘What about him?’ said Lapinski as he started the Ziege.
Nares was still standing where they left him, eyes clenched shut, his body shaking violently. Somehow not a single bullet had struck him. ‘Nares!’ Burton called. ‘Move yourself!’
The airman remained dumbfounded.
‘Leave him,’ said Patrick.
Burton darted back, willing himself not to get hit. He grabbed Nares and dragged him to the jeep. They were off before he even closed the door.
Gunfire raked the windscreen, shattered part of it. Burton got a face full of glass: a thousand burning stings. Troops appeared in front of them. Lapinski floored the accelerator, knocking through them like skittles. Burton snatched a glimpse of a startled white face. Next moment it was gone. Somewhere there was another blast.
‘Stop the jeep,’ said Patrick from the rear.
‘Faster!’ yelled Burton. ‘Faster!’
‘I said stop.’
Lapinski ignored him. Suddenly Patrick was between them, his pistol hard against the driver’s head. ‘Stop it now!’
Lapinski stamped on the brakes. They all lurched forward as the jeep skidded to a halt. The engine stalled. Behind them the second vehicle, driven by Vacher, also tried to stop. There was a crunch of metal and glass as the two collided.
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ said Burton.
The driver was struggling with the ignition.
‘The road,’ said Patrick; he was still wearing his night-vision equipment. ‘I’ll cover you.’
Burton was out of the Ziege in an instant. Behind them headlights were beginning to appear like the eyes of monsters. Stretched out in front was a chain of steel spikes, enough to shred the tyres of any vehicle. Burton prised the chain off the ground and hurled it into the jungle.
‘Major?’ Dolan was also out of his vehicle. In his fist was a bundle of dynamite.
‘Twenty seconds,’ Burton shouted back.
Dolan flicked a timer and wedged the explosives at the base of a tree then clambered back into the Ziege. Vacher hit reverse, manoeuvred round the lead vehicle and throttled away.
Lapinski had restarted the engine, was revving it wildly.
Burton got in beside him. ‘Go!’
Before he could press the accelerator again they were surrounded by soldiers. There was a burst of gunfire, close enough to taste. The remainder of the windscreen vanished. The jeep’s cab exploded in sparks and smoke, somebody screamed.
Burton pulled his Browning and fired it blindly out of the window.
The jeep lurched forward in first gear, the revs biting red. They were heading off the road, into the trees.
‘Lapinski. Watch out,’ cried Burton, turning to the driver. He was slumped over, foot jammed on the throttle. Half his face was missing.
Burton grabbed the wheel and pulled hard to avoid the trees. The jeep bashed a trunk, buckling the bonnet, but skidded back on to the road.
In the rear Nares was bawling.
Burton reached for the handbrake, yanked it with such force he felt it would rip off. The jeep ground to a halt. Nearby he heard German voices. And the silenced retort of Patrick’s rifle.
He hauled Lapinski back and stared at him for a moment that seemed to last for ever. His skull was caved in, the blood turning black as it gushed out. The one remaining eye looked accusingly at him for what would happen next.
Burton opened the driver door. Shoved Lapinski’s body out. Climbed over and took the wheel.
There was an explosion as Dolan’s dynamite detonated, then a terrible cracking sound as the base of the tree gave way and the trunk crashed down across the road. Burton stamped on the throttle. The jeep bucked up and down. ‘I need the lights on,’ he shouted back at Patrick.
‘You want more of them shooting us?’
‘I can’t fucking see! Kill the rear ones.’
Burton flicked the main beams as Patrick leaned over the side and smashed his rifle butt into the red glass below. Ahead the road was bathed in silver light, Dolan already disappearing beyond its glow. The road was bumpy but straight. Burton watched the speedo rise to 30 kph. Then 40, 45, 50. Behind them the flash of gunfire began to diminish till it was swallowed by the jungle. Burton let out a sigh of strangled relief.
In the rear-view mirror Patrick scowled at him.
They drove through the night, always sticking to the old dirt roads. To the west were the vast rubber plantations of Volkswagen, producing cheap tyres for their ubiquitous People’s Car; the coffee and cocoa fields that kept Europe happy at breakfast. But this region, deep in the interior, had largely been ignored since Deutsch Kongo became the official name of the country. Burton was astounded at how much the jungle had swallowed Belgian efforts to master it. There’s a lesson for the Nazis here, he thought. No matter how high they fly the swastika, sooner or later the vines will reach it.
At some point the road widened and Burton had overtaken the front vehicle. After that he stayed in the lead. Eventually the adrenaline subsided, his limbs grew stiff, the tiny cuts in his face began to sting. In the back Patrick had removed the night-goggles. His eyes were shut though Burton guessed he wasn’t asleep – it was an old habit of his. He nestled his rifle close to him, tracing the words carved on the stock. Nares was as sweaty and pale as a man about to have his leg amputated.
An hour after sunrise, with the morning mists reducing visibility, Burton decided to stop. He slowed to 20 kph and when he spied a gap in the jungle turned off. Vacher followed. They reversed the vehicles under the trees, moving far enough beneath the canopy to be hidden from the road. Around them were the remnants of a native village. From the state of the rotting huts it was clear no one had lived there for a long time; not since the Windhuk Decree, thought Burton.
Windhuk, the capital of DSWA, Deutsch Südwest Afrika. In 1949 it had been the location of a conference chaired by Himmler to discuss ‘the racial security of German Africa’. The details remained shrouded in secrecy, but in the months that followed the resettlement of the blacks to the Sahara – ‘Muspel’ – had begun. ‘Ethnic reallocation and consolidation’ was the official description, though exactly what this meant was a question most preferred not to ask.
Burton turned off the igniti
on. Silence except for the brittle pinging of the engines. After the constant roar of driving the sound seemed supernaturally loud, as if it might give away their position. The trees dripped above them.
Burton faced Patrick. Earlier in the night he’d put atropine drops in his eyes to dilate the pupils, a common practice among snipers to maximise the effect of night-vision equipment. His eyes were still wide: he looked manic and startled. ‘You good, Chef?’ Burton asked. Chef, his Legion title: boss.
‘Nares has been hit.’
‘Is it serious?’ he said, turning to the airman. He was older than Burton, with a tuft of Stan Laurel hair, but somehow seemed younger. His lips were like strips of raw liver.
‘Flesh wound,’ replied Patrick. ‘I already bandaged it.’
They got out of the Ziege and headed towards the others. As they approached, Dolan whispered something to Vacher. They exchanged knowing looks, then half stood to attention. Their eyes were bleary but expectant. Poor bastards, thought Burton, this was still some sort of adventure to them.
‘Where’s Lapinski?’ asked Vacher.
Burton shook his head. ‘Gone for six.’
‘Oh.’ The Rhodesian’s face turned grey, his shoulders sagged. ‘He was … a good bloke.’
‘For a Pole,’ added Dolan.
Vacher continued, ‘Who gets to tell his fiancée when we get back?’
‘We have to get there first,’ said Burton. ‘Anyone climb trees?’
Nobody answered.
‘I need someone to get above the mist. See what’s going on.’
‘I already had enough tree climbing for one night,’ said Patrick.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Dolan, flashing the older man a toothy sneer.
‘What about your arm?’ said Burton. It was wrapped in moist bandages, the hand that emerged from the end of the dressing livid.
‘It’s nothing.’ He laid down his BK44 and shinned up the nearest trunk.
While they waited Burton reached for his canteen. He washed the blood – Hochburg’s blood – from his hands, splashed his face. Then he raised it to his lips. ‘The Kaiser!’ he said to Patrick, an old Legion joke of theirs.