The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon

up the good old German martial spirit. “We demand that the unjust Treaty of Versailles be scrapped! We demand our Lebensraum, space for expansion! It was international Jewish money which waged the war against us! The Jews – the Jews!” And we know what happened to the Jews. The same that happened to the Hereros. The German Solution …’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, the Germans in South West Africa and Tanganyika loved all this rhetoric … They loved Hitler’s shouting. They were smarting under South African rule. And Hitler was bellowing that the former German colonies had to be returned to Germany, to provide Lebensraum and raw materials to rebuild her economy which had been bled white by international Jewry. And Hitler’s bully-boys were running around kicking the living shit out of any German who disagreed. Remember?’

      McQuade nodded. Roger continued:

      ‘Hitler and his Nazis created a tyranny – before they were even elected as the government – and they intimidated the rest of Europe as well. The Germans were on the march again, rattling their sabres and singing “Tomorrow Belongs to Me …” And all the time demanding their African colonies back. Then …’ Roger held up his finger again, ‘Hitler was elected the Chancellor of Germany. And within weeks German democracy ceased to exist. Within weeks Hitler had suspended the German parliament, the Nazi Party became Germany and Adolf Hitler became the Nazi Party. Absolute dictator.’

      Roger leant across the bar at him. ‘But even before Hitler came to power the Nazi Party had formed branches here and in Tanganyika! Bullying, just as in Germany. They set up cells across this country ruling the German community with a rod of iron. They kept dossiers on everybody, and any uncooperative German was reported to Berlin and the SS took reprisals against their relatives in Germany.’ He waved his hand. ‘They set up their own courts, circumventing the local courts, and a vast local Hitler Youth, with the Ordeal of Fire ritual – kids leaping over flames to cleanse and harden themselves for the Führer. Taking the oath of undying loyalty to the Führer.’ Roger snorted. ‘Of course, the South African government banned the Nazi Party – these Germans were legally British subjects, because South Africa was the legal government, and owed allegiance to the King of England. So it was unlawful to swear allegiance to Hitler.’ He shook his head. ‘The Nazis respected no such niceties. The Hitler Youth changed their name to the Pathfinders and sent local Germans to Berlin to undergo training courses in preparation for the day when Hitler would retake the place.’ He shook his head. ‘Most Germans here were caught up in this fever. Every day they huddled around the radios listening to the propaganda bellowed from Berlin, listening for the joyful news of the day of liberation. “Der Tag” they called it, The Day, and they went around warning the South Africans to watch their step. “Nobody can stop our Führer!”’ Roger smiled grimly. ‘They were bloody nearly right, weren’t they?’

      McQuade’s mind was working ahead. ‘And?’

      ‘The Berlin Colonial Office – and remember that since Germany didn’t have any colonies, how the hell did they have the nerve to have a “Colonial Office” – anyway, they even published a celebrated map of how Africa was going to look after Hitler had got their colonies back. Did you know that?’

      The door bell rang. The first dinner guest had arrived. Roger stood up. He pointed at the books.

      ‘It’s all in there. It was an improved version of the Kaiser’s plan, but, in short, it was South Africa Hitler was after and from there the whole of Africa would crumble under the German might, with its vast reservoirs of raw materials and black slave labour to build the Thousand Year Reich.’ He jabbed his finger again. ‘That was his plan.’

      Roger left to go to the front door. McQuade stared out the window.

8

      It was dark when McQuade got back to his house in Fifth Street, It was three days since he had been home and he was in dire need of a shower. He unlocked the peeling front door. Something scraped across the floor. It was a bulky brown envelope, which had been pushed through his letter box.

      His name on it had been typed: McQuade. No initial, no Mr. He tore it open. Inside was a book.

      It was The Hoax of the Twentieth Century. The very same book he had been reading that afternoon, which denied that the Holocaust had taken place. He looked inside. Passages had been underlined throughout. McQuade stared across the room.

      Who had sent him this, and typed his surname only? It was insulting, almost aggressive. The Stormtrooper? But if Helga had sent it she would surely have hand-written his full name. No, it was typed because the sender wished to be anonymous. But who, apart from Helga, would worry what McQuade thought about the Holocaust? People he had seen at the Schmidt ranch? But for what reason? To explain? To tell him to keep his mouth shut?

      He walked pensively through to his office, carrying Roger’s books. He stood a moment, thinking; then he reached for the answering machine.

      It clicked; there followed the soft hiss of the tape, and then a deep male voice said softly, ‘Mind your own business, McQuade.’

      Then another click as the machine cut off.

      McQuade stared across the room. Then he rewound and played it again.

      He could not recognize the voice. Even the accent was hard to identify. It sounded as if the speaker had disguised it. It might have been Afrikaner, but it could also have been a German accent, or even an English-speaking South African. But what was unmistakable was the menace.

      McQuade frowned. What he felt was anger that some person was trying to frighten him. And, yes, he felt a twinge of fear. The bastard had succeeded! His first reaction was to snatch up the telephone and tell the Stormtrooper to tell her bloody friends to leave him alone before he reported them to the police. Just then the telephone rang.

      He jerked. It shrilled in the empty house. There was a click as the answering machine took the call. McQuade stabbed the audio button. There was a moment’s pause, then a softly sneering voice said: ‘Did you get my message, McQuade?’

      McQuade’s hand reached out for the telephone, and the voice said softly: ‘I know you’re there, McQuade, because your lights are on and your Landrover’s outside.’

      McQuade snatched up the telephone. ‘Who is this?’

      There was a smirk. ‘Just to confirm you got the message.’

      McQuade barked: ‘What are you talking about, you big oaf?’

      There was a chuckle, then the voice said, ‘Just forget about everything, and stay healthy.’ The telephone went dead. McQuade slammed it down.

      He was furious. And shaky.

      He snatched up the telephone again. Then hesitated.

      And tell the police what?

      He slowly sat down.

      Tell them how much? ‘Mind your own business,’ the voice had said. ‘Forget about everything.’ What business? Forget about what? What you saw on the Schmidt ranch? A bunch of Germans getting sentimental about the old days? Or the submarine-business?

      He stared at the wall.

      But how could the voice know he had been looking into the submarine story? It was hardly possible for anyone to know he’d been sitting on the Skeleton Coast with his sextant. Somebody saw him talking to Skellum outside Kukki’s Pub and put two and two together? Certainly nobody followed him to Jakob’s kraal. So? So the only possibility was Skellum or Jakob had opened their mouths about the strange things McQuade had been up to. But that seemed hardly likely, in the short time since he left them.

      McQuade sat. Trying to think it through.

      If the voice had been referring to the submarine, it could only mean that he was trying to scare McQuade off, or was trying to hush up the story. That could only mean that there was a political connection. Somebody did not want it known