Read Online B004U2USMY EBOK by Michael Wallace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Wallace
Ads: Link
moment,
then he nodded and turned to go. He did not look back until he got
to the car. As he did, he saw Marie-Élise on her hands and knees,
collecting ration cards from the mud and wiping them clean on her
dress. Her shoulders shuddered.
Chapter Six:
Colonel Hans Hoekman picked up the gold coin
in a pair of forceps. He’d removed the top of the lamp, and now
held the coin in the direct flame.
“Does anyone know what the melting point of
gold is?” he asked.
One of the young lieutenants answered. “A
little over one thousand degrees centigrade.”
“That high? I never would have guessed, are
you sure?”
“ Ja, Polizeiführer. I’m sure.
One thousand sixteen degrees, to be exact.”
“Now if you had given me the exact number to
begin with, I never would have doubted you. You were afraid to say
it, because you didn’t want to appear to be showing off. It
sounded officious, an affectation. Can you be more precise,
still?”
“One thousand sixteen point one-eight
degrees, Polizeiführer. ”
“Excellent.” Hoekman considered. “But that is
interesting. You think of gold, it is so soft. You would expect it
to melt like chocolate or butter. And look at that, it is not even
turning red. How would you even know it was getting hot? Apart
from the fact that I’m holding it in direct flame, of course.”
He smiled at his own joke. None of the other
three people in the room seemed amused. The two lieutenants
watched intently; they were wondering what he was doing. Perhaps
hoping he would let them get involved, maybe scheming to get
ahead. How best to please him, how to crush him in turn when the
time came. There was always scheming.
The third—the boy—didn’t speak German, but no
doubt the conversation and the coin in the lamp flame had focused
his attention. He must have noticed Hoekman’s tone of voice.
Why was it that a calm, measured tone and
perfect control—like a snake, never blinking, never
agitated—inspired more fear than ranting, pacing, loss of temper,
threats?
Hoekman was taking French classes, two hours
a day, plus study when he had the chance. His French was coming
along at a rapid clip and even the old man giving him lessons
seemed genuinely impressed. Nevertheless, it was not yet strong
enough to complete the interrogation.
“You will translate for me, now,” he told the
younger of his two aides. “Bring him here.”
They dragged the third young man—Roger
Leblanc—out of the chair and brought him across the room to where
Hoekman turned the coin over in the flame to evenly distribute the
heat. “Your French coins are very beautiful. I especially like the
detail on this rooster. Where did you get this one?”
The lieutenant translated.
The boy was sweating, shaking so badly that
he would have collapsed to the floor if the two lieutenants
weren’t holding him upright. He muttered something.
“What did he say?”
“He doesn’t remember.”
“You had a gold coin in your pocket. What a
strange thing to find on a seventeen-year-old boy in Paris these
days. And you do not remember where it came from? Even more
strange.” Hoekman removed the coin from the fire and brought it
near the boy’s cheek.
“Non, mais no, s’il vous plait, non.”
“Look at you. A faggot, it is disgusting. And
look at your clothes, your hair. A Clark Gable mustache, hair
untidy. You have been watching too many American movies, it is not
healthy.” He waited, while the lieutenant caught up translating.
“You are a zazou, aren’t you? A disgusting little group of
faggots. Very soon we will clean the entire city of this scum.”
He brought the coin closer. The fuzz on the
boy’s cheek curled and smoked. A whiff of burning hair.
“I found it!” he blurted.
“You found it? I think you are lying.”
A frightened burst of French. “I swear, my
god, please, you must
then he nodded and turned to go. He did not look back until he got
to the car. As he did, he saw Marie-Élise on her hands and knees,
collecting ration cards from the mud and wiping them clean on her
dress. Her shoulders shuddered.
Chapter Six:
Colonel Hans Hoekman picked up the gold coin
in a pair of forceps. He’d removed the top of the lamp, and now
held the coin in the direct flame.
“Does anyone know what the melting point of
gold is?” he asked.
One of the young lieutenants answered. “A
little over one thousand degrees centigrade.”
“That high? I never would have guessed, are
you sure?”
“ Ja, Polizeiführer. I’m sure.
One thousand sixteen degrees, to be exact.”
“Now if you had given me the exact number to
begin with, I never would have doubted you. You were afraid to say
it, because you didn’t want to appear to be showing off. It
sounded officious, an affectation. Can you be more precise,
still?”
“One thousand sixteen point one-eight
degrees, Polizeiführer. ”
“Excellent.” Hoekman considered. “But that is
interesting. You think of gold, it is so soft. You would expect it
to melt like chocolate or butter. And look at that, it is not even
turning red. How would you even know it was getting hot? Apart
from the fact that I’m holding it in direct flame, of course.”
He smiled at his own joke. None of the other
three people in the room seemed amused. The two lieutenants
watched intently; they were wondering what he was doing. Perhaps
hoping he would let them get involved, maybe scheming to get
ahead. How best to please him, how to crush him in turn when the
time came. There was always scheming.
The third—the boy—didn’t speak German, but no
doubt the conversation and the coin in the lamp flame had focused
his attention. He must have noticed Hoekman’s tone of voice.
Why was it that a calm, measured tone and
perfect control—like a snake, never blinking, never
agitated—inspired more fear than ranting, pacing, loss of temper,
threats?
Hoekman was taking French classes, two hours
a day, plus study when he had the chance. His French was coming
along at a rapid clip and even the old man giving him lessons
seemed genuinely impressed. Nevertheless, it was not yet strong
enough to complete the interrogation.
“You will translate for me, now,” he told the
younger of his two aides. “Bring him here.”
They dragged the third young man—Roger
Leblanc—out of the chair and brought him across the room to where
Hoekman turned the coin over in the flame to evenly distribute the
heat. “Your French coins are very beautiful. I especially like the
detail on this rooster. Where did you get this one?”
The lieutenant translated.
The boy was sweating, shaking so badly that
he would have collapsed to the floor if the two lieutenants
weren’t holding him upright. He muttered something.
“What did he say?”
“He doesn’t remember.”
“You had a gold coin in your pocket. What a
strange thing to find on a seventeen-year-old boy in Paris these
days. And you do not remember where it came from? Even more
strange.” Hoekman removed the coin from the fire and brought it
near the boy’s cheek.
“Non, mais no, s’il vous plait, non.”
“Look at you. A faggot, it is disgusting. And
look at your clothes, your hair. A Clark Gable mustache, hair
untidy. You have been watching too many American movies, it is not
healthy.” He waited, while the lieutenant caught up translating.
“You are a zazou, aren’t you? A disgusting little group of
faggots. Very soon we will clean the entire city of this scum.”
He brought the coin closer. The fuzz on the
boy’s cheek curled and smoked. A whiff of burning hair.
“I found it!” he blurted.
“You found it? I think you are lying.”
A frightened burst of French. “I swear, my
god, please, you must
Similar Books
