His mind made up, Misha looked around for a weapon. The stones near the mangrove roots were either too little or too heavy. A stick, he decided. If he kept one hidden and at hand, he could plunge it into the major's black heart.
He picked up several sticks and tested them by stabbing them into the sand. The first two broke; the third bent into a bow.
Too tricky, he decided. If he chose the wrong stick, he'd end up not doing the job properly. He was going to have to find something more sophisticated. Something that couldn't miss, like a gun, or Pleshdimer's knife.
He found some shade under the second wing, lay down again, and looked up at the morning sky. He could see a rain cloud approaching rapidly, bringing with it the day's first cloudburst. He didn't mind, in fact he rather enjoyed the momentary coolness that the sudden showers brought in their wake. But a gust of wind diverted the cloud, and it dropped its weather just to the right of him, onto the water.
With no other cloud in sight to distract him, he turned his thoughts to his list. He had neglected it of late because, truth to tell, it had grown a little confusing--what with Hempel racking up points on the plus side just by leaving him alone. That the major deserved to die hadn't changed, only the urgency of it.
The same was not true of Wasj Pleshdimer.
In his mind's eye, Misha walked through multiple possibilities: death by knife--a small boy might not get it through the fat; by bullet--he had no gun. By fire--now there was something to contemplate. Better yet, he would set fire to the Zana-Malata's hut while the two of them were asleep. That way the fat Kapo and the syphilitic could fry together, like the grasshoppers on the fence yesterday--
"You think you can hide from me?"
Misha jumped at the sound of the Kapo's voice, so alive for someone who, in Misha's imaginings, was at that very moment being reduced to ashes. Not only was he very much alive, he held Taurus by a leash, which he slung over one of the plane's struts.
Knotting it firmly, he knelt down and leaned over Misha, his face so close and his breath so acrid that it alone made the boy sick. Misha turned his head to avoid the stench.
With one hand, Pleshdimer turned Misha's face back toward him; with the other he gripped Misha's crotch and twisted.
The boy cried out and the Kapo smiled with pleasure. "Think you can fly the plane and get away, that it?" He released Misha and laughed heartily at his own humor.
Misha crouched in a ready position, determined to make a run for it if the Kapo came near him again. To his right and slightly behind him, Taurus growled and strained at her leash. If he could release the dog quickly enough, he thought, maybe Taurus would attack Pleshdimer and tear off his balls. Despite everything, he grinned at the image.
Then all notion of immediate revenge flew away as Pleshdimer's boot struck hard and accurately into the small of his back.
"I hate you!" Misha screamed, unwilling to control his fury and unable to control the pain. "Hate you, hate you, hate you."
Pleshdimer smiled benignly and let out a satisfied sigh, as if Misha's hatred had momentarily sated him. Then, eyes filled with renewed ugliness, he advanced upon the boy.
"Move it!” Otto Hempel's voice floated up from the beach that ran alongside the lagoon. “I don’t have all day for this."
Pleshdimer stopped in his tracks.
Misha looked beyond the Kapo in the direction of the sound. He could see three figures walking along the beach. The major was in the lead. Behind him two men dragged their feet with the apparent weight of the wooden crate they were carrying. As they drew closer, Misha recognized Herr Alois and Herr Freund. The crate, about the size of a small coffin, was marked MUNITION" in large black print.
"Over there," the major instructed, pointing at Misha. "Put it down in the shade. Be careful with it, or we'll all blow up."
Sweating profusely, the two men carried the crate the rest of the way and laid it gently on the sand. Herr Alois' face was scrunched up in pain.
"You, Jew, return to the compound. Gefreiter, you stay here."
Solomon's gaze caught Misha's and they nodded slightly at each other in greeting before Sol turned and headed toward the foliage at the edge of the sand. Misha watched him stop once and turn to stare at the group near the Storch. Then, apparently seeing that their attention was focussed on the crate, Herr Freund moved quickly sideways into the greenery.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Erich stared incredulously at the bomb racks that had been rigged up underneath the Storch's wooden wings.
There were four wire-and-bracket clips on each side. A silver, crenellated cable ran the length of them and connected to eyehooks where each bomb would reside. The intent was clear: as the cable was engaged, the bombs would fall in sequence, beginning with the outermost ones.
Apparently, with forty barely pubescent camp guards, poorly trained for battle, less than a dozen dog handlers who would probably bolt the moment they regained mastery over their charges, and a bunch of Kalanaro who seemed more monkey than human, Major Otto Hempel meant to take the war in Europe onto the mainland of Madagascar--without orders or proper ordnance, and with over a hundred and forty Jews itching to get their fingers around his neck. What could drive even a megalomaniac like Hempel to attempt something so extreme?
It took Erich only a moment to guess the answer.
What better way to hope to have one's ashes enshrined in one of Himmler's holy urns than to almost single-handedly attempt an invasion? Erich would have laughed aloud were it not for the larger picture: he was supposed to be in command; he, not Hempel, would be blamed when the attempt failed. Goebbels would portray Hempel as a hero willing to sacrifice himself for the Reich's Greater Good--and would make scapegoats of the Jews.
He felt as if he were about to explode and clenched his fists, furious at his helplessness. Stripped of his rank, a private, a servant...forced to hand-carry bombs for Otto Hempel. He was hardly in a position to stop this, and yet stop it he must.
A muzzle touched the nape of his neck, making his hairs stand on end. "Straighten up, Gefreiter. You may be a private, but you are a still soldier in the German army."
Hempel stood on the seaward side, next to a growling Taurus. Erich stepped toward his animal, testing her response. The shepherd advanced to the end of her leash, savage-eyed, lowering her head in menace, the muscles along her back evident beneath her coat.
"In a few minutes, Gefreiter, the rest of my men will arrive. You will help them affix the bombs in this crate onto the apparatus we have rigged to the bottom of the wings. Is that clear?"
Erich continued to stare at Taurus.
"Answer me, Gefreiter."
"It is quite clear...Otto."
"Otto?" Hempel's face filled with rage. "Otto!"
His features smoothed and he smiled, the old feral smile Erich knew so well. "This is a private moment, so to speak," he said, pleased at his cleverness, "so I will allow your impudence to pass." He took a handmade pipe out of his pocket, tamped it, and lit it. "Not bad, these island leaves," he said, emitting a cloud of foul-smelling smoke.
He puffed for a while, then handed the pipe to Pleshdimer for safekeeping. The Kapo stared at it longingly but did not put it to his lips.
"I have often wondered, Weisser, whether you had any notion of the real mission of this contingent of Nazis and Jews. Did you really think that the Reich would allow Jew and Malagasy to live side-by-side? Are you that naïve?" Hempel looked at Erich with utter disdain. "Do you know what an affront a black Jew is to God? Why do you think the Führer so passionately supported Mussolini against the Ethiopians?"
Erich said nothing.
"We are here to test the effectiveness of tabun nerve-gas on isolated villages," Hempel said. Without waiting to judge the impact of his words, he went on. "As the Madagascar Homeland is implemented, the indigenous population will be eliminated rather than moved. This time, we will operate with real efficiency, against civilian populations, not just against soldiers--as was the case durin
g the Great War."
He gazed dreamily across the water.
"Once I demonstrate how well the nerve gas works in warfare, I will at last, at the age of fifty-eight, realize my goal of becoming one of Himmler's Twelve Lieutenants. I intend to test the weapon on mainland villages immediately, and to use the dogs as perimeter guards to kill anyone attempting escape."
Erich could not even hazard a guess as to why Hempel had grown so expansive. He felt as trapped by the monologue as by the loss of the compound, and stupid for not having guessed that Himmler had intended from the start to sacrifice the Madagascar operation to the good of the Reich by making a martyr out of Hempel. That the Reichsführer had every intention of turning the Jews into scapegoats was no surprise. His method of doing so, however, filled Erich with renewed shock at the depths to which the Reich would descend to achieve its ends.
The existence of tabun, a new, highly lethal chemical weapon, was not news to him. Word of the nerve gas had filtered through the Abwehr's channels and corridors, but along with that had come a warning: tabun was so unstable and so deadly that even the most ardent nationalists among the scientists treated it with wary respect. One miscue, and a commander could wipe out his own force rather than that of the enemy.
Being neither chemist nor physician, Erich did not fully understand the science behind the gas, but he did recall his Abwehr briefing: tabun was an organophosphorous compound which inhibited the action of the body enzyme, cholinesterase, and caused uncontrolled muscular contractions. Apparently, very small amounts resulted in paralysis, prostration, and death.
"After my men have taken body counts to determine gas-kill percentages, the Jews will bury the evidence," Hempel said. "I will get rid of them with the final bomb, and radio home to Berlin." He reached again for his pipe. Inhaled. Exhaled. "Yes, it's good enough. But I must confess that more than anything I long for a good cigar."
He removed the pipe from his mouth and stared at it intently.
"I wonder what your father would make of this," he said. "Did you know that he created a limited-edition cigar in my honor? Rittmeister, he called it, which of course is what I was at the time. He and I often sat in the tobacco shop, enjoying a cigar, a few cognacs. Reminiscing about the Great War, and about good German boys bewitched by Jewesses." He looked at Erich and shook his head, as if at a favorite but recalcitrant nephew. "It broke my heart to hear him go on about you, Erich. It really did. I told him I'd take care of you. As I do all my boys. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for your father." He gave Erich a knowing look. "Or he for me."
The man was deranged, over the brink of insanity, Erich thought. At this stage, killing him would be a kindness to Hempel and to humanity. He could do it here and now. Strangle him with his bare hands.
Why, then, did he not by now have Hempel's neck in his hands?
Because, unless he planned it right, it would be considered murder?
That was part, but not all of it, he told himself. There were other, more profound problems to be solved before dispatching the major. Like regaining control over the camp, and over the shepherds.
In the deepest part of his being, he could feel how torn Taurus was between her bloodlust and her desire to serve her former master. Somehow he had to break the hold the Zana-Malata had over her and over the other dogs.
He would need the trainers for that, as well as Solomon and the rest of the Jews. Until then, the death of the major would have to wait.
Hempel slipped an arm across Erich's shoulders and, contemplative, guided him toward the water's edge. Erich tried not to think of the pain in his hip and mind. Escape and vengeance: those were all that mattered now.
"How lucky we are to live in such a time as this!" Hempel swept an arm toward the box under the Storch's wing. "The day, Gefreiter, will come--and soon!--when one man," he lifted an index finger, "will control the world's destiny. One responsible, highly trained individual...," he paused for theatrical effect, "such as myself."
He held up both hands as if begging an enthusiastic audience to cease their applause. "I know, I know. You're wondering if I am worthy of such a challenge. I have asked myself that question many times. I am not always the man of action some people take me to be. In fact I am as committed to introspection and self-evaluation as any other officer of my caliber. Objective analysis--that's what sets men apart from women and Jews! I have assessed this situation with open eyes, and I tell you, the opportunity exists here for us to make a major moral contribution, not just to the world as we know it, but to all of history." He peered at the aircraft with an apparent sense of destiny. "The tides of men...you know what I mean." The timbre in his voice abruptly changed and he shook his head slightly, as though having awakened from daydream.
"So you're going to attempt to overthrow Madagascar," Erich said. "Now, before base camps are established."
For a moment Hempel appeared nonplussed and then gave Erich a loving, almost paternal look. He glanced around, as though to assure himself that no one else was within hearing range. "Had I fifty men such as myself I would attempt it. The balance of power in a backwater nation such as this could be tipped for the better with such a small fine force--but," he shook his head, "you know what abysmal men Reichsführer Himmler fettered me with for this operation. Not worth the price of the uniforms they wear." The smile, having wavered, returned. "Though they do have endearing qualities, especially the younger ones."
"You have no plans for an immediate attempt on the mainland?"
Hempel either did not notice or chose to ignore Erich's tone. Lifting his gaze toward the larger island, a sense of imperious longing in his eyes, he said, "See where the massif rises to an apex?" He pointed toward the line of beige cliffs that jutted high above the swell of greenery along the shore. "Beyond that, the jungle is broken into small, sunken pockets surrounded by walls of limestone. I've flown over them three times, and each time I'm more impressed with just how cut off from the rest of the world those pockets really are. No way in or out except along narrow waterways--though I understand that a labyrinth of tunnels where underground rivers used to flow is also supposed to exist."
He looked at Erich and again put an arm across his shoulders. Erich stepped away from the embrace.
"That topography provides us with ideal testing conditions," Hempel continued. "Sometimes I think it was divinely ordained that we come here to Madagascar, you and I. Your rapport with the slave laborers, my science...and," he added, "my military strength. Himmler himself could not have created a better melding. So here's my actual plan." He relit the pipe. "We identify a dozen--no, two dozen villages in those isolated jungle pockets. I come in low," he made a flying motion with his hand, "barely above the massif. For accuracy, you see. No sense wasting ordnance by neutralizing jungle rather than the Natives. Meanwhile, we station the dogs to block all avenues of escape. We don't want to endanger any of our own people, should the gas drift. After a few minutes, you and your Jews will go in, calculate the bomb-to-kill ratio, and bury or burn all evidence. Pity we don't have anybody around who could perform autopsies on the ones who're still twitching. The results would be of value--"
He gave Erich an amused look and added, "Don't worry. I've enough gas masks for your detail. Except for a few Jews we will dispose of as an example, I don't plan to eliminate any of your slave laborers until the experiment's been completed and I'm ready to report back to Himmler. The Jews and their military dupes may have stayed my hand when we gassed the enemy at Ypres, but this time I'll demonstrate the effectiveness of my ideas before we implement them in a crisis. The battlefield's no place for gas warfare...too many preventative measures exist! The civilian population--that's where we must hurt those who would harm the Reich!" He crabbed his fingers and pretended to reach for Erich's testicles. "Right down there where their gonads grow." He grinned. "You want a homeland for your Jew friends, Gefreiter?" Hempel pulled himself up straight, his chin set in triumph and his eyes uplifted in proud forbearance. "Fine. After the i
nitial experiment is concluded and the Reichsführer has made me one of his trusted lieutenants for my efforts, I'll eradicate Madagascar of its former inhabitants--and without firing a shot. I'll give you and your Jews a land you can populate without further contagion."
"And your Zana-Malata?" Erich asked sarcastically. "You'll eliminate him as well? I thought perhaps he was the one holding your leash."
"We have an arrangement, he and I. I admire his abilities, and he admires my strength. He helps to further our plans to ensure the progress toward perfection of an Aryan world in the knowledge that he will be provided for, and his enemies eliminated. Our syphilitic is of this land, but he holds no love for the people who have exiled him to this rock. Even a Jew lover such as yourself can appreciate that...or have I misread you?"
"Let me get this straight." Erich fought to maintain a calm posture. "After all the preparation and plans, what you want is to turn Madagascar into Sachsenhausen."
Hempel grinned. "Unless a simpler solution to the Jewish question can be found."
"Such as?" Erich's head was pounding, almost as much from the sun and his hangover as from the effort of keeping himself from making the futile gesture of breaking the major's neck with his bare hands.
"Don't look so distressed, Gefreiter. I will demonstrate how easy it is to kill, even when it is someone you know."
Calmly, he unholstered his Mann, released the safety, and cocked the pistol at Taurus. In the split-second before Erich could react, Hempel swiveled around, leveled the gun at Pleshdimer, and with a, "Sorry, Wasj," shot him through the chest.
An expression of absolute surprise crossed the Kapo's face before he fell. Erich watched the man twitch and the ground around him darken as blood seeped into the sand. Then he heard Misha let out a gurgle that contained more pain than joy and Taurus began to bark.
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