The Paris Architect: A Novel

Laval grunted again and his head rolled from side to side.

“Colonel, may I suggest a new means of interrogation?” asked Voss, taking a bag out of a large red leather satchel on the floor.

“Let me guess: it’s something electrical, isn’t it? My men love all things electrical,” said Schlegal to Laval with great amusement.

“It’s a soldering iron,” replied Voss as he plugged the electric cord into a wall outlet. “It’ll take about two minutes to get ready.”

“I’m quite impressed with your initiative, Voss.”

“Since I’ve been posted in Paris, Colonel, I’ve worked over scores of men and women, and it was taking a toll on me physically. Sometimes I go home at night in great pain,” said Voss, like an old woman complaining about her bad knees. “I decided there must be a more technologically efficient way to get the job done.”

“Voss, I like initiative in an officer.”

“I’m afraid it’s not an original idea, Colonel. I saw it demonstrated in Warsaw about a year ago.”

“Very well, let’s get on with it.” Schlegal turned to Laval. “Just two simple questions. Where is Janusky, and where is his money? One last chance.”

Laval remained silent. Voss walked over to check whether he had passed out, but after slapping his face, Laval opened his eyes.

The lieutenant stepped forward and placed the soldering iron on the old man’s forehead. He gave out a scream that reverberated for what seemed like a minute. Schlegal nodded his head vigorously, greatly impressed with the results of the device. Voss pressed the iron all over Laval’s face, then tore open his shirt and went to work on his chest. Each scream was louder than the previous one.

“I think there’s one obvious place you’re overlooking,” said Schlegal as he sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette.

Voss smiled at his superior. He unbuckled Laval’s belt and opened his zipper to extract the old man’s penis.

“Make sure you wash your hands after all this, my boy. You don’t know where that thing has been,” said Schlegal in all seriousness.

“It reminds me of a shriveled prune,” said Voss. He placed the iron on the head of the penis and held it there. The scream became one long continuous wail.

When the noise became too much to bear, Schlegal signaled him to stop. He got up from the chair and placed his face inches from Laval.

“We have an unlimited amount of electricity, Laval, and there’re plenty of places on your fat, disgusting body we haven’t touched. So what do you say?”

No answer was given and Voss set upon Laval, but Schlegal suddenly stopped him.

“I think Monsieur Laval can spare one of his eyes, don’t you?”

Without a second’s hesitation, the lieutenant plunged the iron into Laval’s left eye.

“86 rue d’Assas, apartment 5C!” screamed Laval.

Schlegal nodded at Voss, who bolted from the room, shouting orders to soldiers waiting down the hall.

“Who was hiding him there, you bastard? Tell me and you walk out of here alive.”

“All I know is that he’s a rich gentile. I swear that’s all I know. Janusky wouldn’t tell me anymore.”

“A gentile, you say?”

“He’s hidden him in a couple places already.”

“Has he helped other Jews or was it just Janusky?” screamed Schlegal.

“There were others,” moaned Laval.

Schlegal yanked the old man’s head back by his hair. “Does he hide them in special secret hiding places?”

This got a reaction out of Laval. His one good eye widened in fear, and Schlegal knew he was getting somewhere.

“Tell me, Laval, or you’ll lose the other eye.”

Laval began to cry and wail. “God forgive me,” he moaned.

Schlegal lit a cigarette and sat on the desk.

“You’re quite lucky you gave me something of value. Or you’d be using a cane and dark glasses begging on the streets for the rest of your life, old boy.”





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