The Madagaskar Plan by Guy Saville Read Free Book Online Page A

buildings; serpents of tinsel, now clogged with brick dust, were coiled around lampposts. The battle of Stanleystadt had begun with a surprise bombardment the night before Christmas, or Julfest, as Nazi Party ideologues insisted it be called.
    He returned to SS headquarters on Eiskeller Strasse and was met by Zelman. Even in the gritty smoke, his deputy’s eyes remained unblinking. Sometimes Hochburg wanted to snap his fingers in front of them or find Zelman’s wife and have her shot while he was forced to watch—anything to elicit a bat of the eyelid.
    “Are my generals still here?” demanded Hochburg as they strode into the vestibule.
    The space was dominated by von Kursell’s portrait of Himmler: twenty-eight square meters of oil on canvas. The Reichsführer’s face was askew and peppered with shrapnel, as if he were suffering from shingles. Despite the Reichsführer’s eyes being in every public building, Hochburg ran Kongo with limited interference from Germania. So long as boats brimming with minerals, timber, cotton, and green bananas continued to flow to the Reich, Hochburg administered the colony as he saw fit, even if that meant war. To extend the borders of Kongo farther into southern Africa was Germany’s right, he told Himmler. Its destiny.
    Zelman handed Hochburg a damp towel. “The generals are waiting in the conference room.”
    “No tactical withdrawal to the bunker then?” he replied, mopping his neck.
    A weak smile. “If you recall, Oberstgruppenführer, you locked them in.”
    The lift wasn’t working. Hochburg bounded up the staircase, past bandaged soldiers slumped on the steps.
    Zelman continued his update: “Insurgent units have surrounded the entire city. Every district reports heavy shelling. All roads out are blocked.”
    “And elsewhere?”
    “Elisabethstadt says the siege is worsening. By the hour. They can’t hold on much longer.”
    “What about the Reichsführer? Have you made contact yet?”
    “We’ve opened a line to Wewelsburg, but communications are proving problematic.” Wewelsburg: Himmler’s castle in Westphalia, the spiritual headquarters of the SS. “We’re still trying to connect.”
    “I want to know as soon as you have his office on the phone,” said Hochburg.
    He continued his rapid ascent, with Zelman struggling to keep up. Occasionally the building shuddered. On the seventh floor he stormed into the conference room. The blast curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a murky light. Most of the generals were huddled together over a map. Shaking heads, murmuring. They straightened their backs as he entered. In the corner was a decorated fir tree that no one had bothered to remove; beneath it lay Fenris, dozing with one eye half open.
    “I hope you put my absence to good use,” said Hochburg, taking his place at the head of the table. He gestured for everyone to sit. “What plans for the counterattack?”
    Nobody replied.
    Hochburg scanned the faces in front of him. The air-conditioning had stopped working. They all glistened, the collars of their uniforms wet. Outside: the relentless beat of artillery.
    It was General Ockener who finally spoke for the group. He had a hewn face and thinning white hair atop a beach-resort tan. “Hochburg, we feel this is unacceptable.” He spoke with the measured tone of a man who wanted to scream. “To leave us in here with no refreshment, nowhere to relieve ourselves—”
    Hochburg smelled urine. “It would appear that one of you can’t control his functions.”
    “You locked the door,” shrieked a voice from the other end of the table. “This is the biggest target in the city. We could have been killed.”
    “If I hadn’t, you would have fled. What example is that?”
    “I will be reporting this matter to the Führer.”
    Hochburg was on his feet. “Then you can also tell him this.”
    He wrenched open the blast curtains, flooding the room with furious light. The city was pockmarked with columns of smoke.