The Paris Architect: A Novel

The old man made a gurgling sound.

“This filthy Jew has an estimated fortune of over 100 million francs and possesses one of the greatest art collections in the entire world, one that Reich Marshal Hermann G?ring admires very much and wishes to take off Monsieur Janusky’s hands. Because once we find Monsieur Janusky, he won’t be having much time for art appreciation. We don’t consider this man just another rich, thieving Jew but an enemy of the Reich. He’s used his millions to help hundreds and hundreds of Jews throughout Europe to escape. Janusky found refuge for a bunch of Hungarian Jews in India of all places. It’s amazing what your client has accomplished. I’m really looking forward to meeting him. So, please tell me where I can find him.”

The old man said nothing.

“I guess it’s time for your lesson.”

Schlegal picked up a small square box with a lever attached to it and examined it closely.

“When I was a little boy in Leipzig, I had a box like this to run my electric train set. I was mad about model trains then, spent hours playing with them. If I remember right, it had a lever just like this to switch on the electric current, and if I turned the lever to the right…”

An ear-piercing scream rang out that seemed to reverberate for a full minute off the white plaster walls of the office. Schlegal’s eyes followed the wires from the box, which ran along the wooden floor, and up to the crotch of the old man, who was slumped over as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

“Heinz,” said Schlegal, “are you sure there’s enough juice coming from this box?”

“Why yes, Colonel,” said a flustered Captain Bruckner, who was sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of the room next to two other officers, Captain Wolf and Lieutenant Voss. “Please, try again. But this time, keep the lever all the way to the right.”

Another scream commenced, and it continued for quite a long time. Schlegal didn’t look at his guest but just stared at the box during the screaming. The old man’s upper body had jolted upright against the back of the wooden chair to which he was tied. When his cries began to produce a ringing in the Gestapo colonel’s ears, Schlegal turned the lever to the left, and there was an abrupt silence.

“Where will I find Mendel Janusky, Monsieur Deligny?”

The question was met with silence.

“I’m sorry, I missed that,” said Schlegal, who then quickly turned the lever to the right and back to the left to produce a short sharp scream.

“Still didn’t hear you.” A turn of the lever and another short scream.

The Gestapo colonel then amused himself by producing a whole series of screams of different lengths and pitches in an effort to create a kind of melody, which greatly entertained his staff officers.

“Did that sound at all like Lili Marlene?” Schlegal asked his staff.

Bruckner, Voss, and Wolf laughed hysterically and shook their heads.

“Too bad. Let me ask you one more time, Monsieur Deligny, where is Mendel Janusky?”

The old man’s full head of long white hair was drenched with sweat and hung down over his eyes. He lifted his head up a little to look at Schlegal, who now walked right up to him holding the box, his fingers on the lever.

The Gestapo officer had interrogated many a man since he’d arrived at 11 rue des Saussaies in 1941. Torture revealed a lot about a man’s character or moral fiber, he believed, whether he was French, German, Jew, or gentile. When he’d first started doing this type of work, he’d expected to come across men who wouldn’t crack, even under the most barbarous conditions, but that rarely happened. He wanted to meet some really brave men, but to his disappointment, they always broke down and talked. So he knew what was going to happen next.