by Max Ciampoli
My attention was drawn to the torture room when two guards entered with a woman prisoner around thirty years old. They chained her up to the two posts. She was about five foot four, maybe 120 pounds. A few minutes passed, and I watched as she tried to bend her knees a little but could not. The chains had her attached close to the poles with no room for any movement. Two other men entered the room wearing black leather coats. The Gestapo. They moved toward her until they stood directly in front of her.
“Are you ready to tell us what you know about the German officer?” they asked.
“I met him near the opera house. I was having coffee on the terrace of the café directly across the street. He turned to talk to me. He seemed nice and was very polite. We had a lovely conversation. He invited me to dinner at a restaurant called Le Boeuf sur le Toit, where they had a burlesque show in which men took on the personages of famous women entertainers. We enjoyed dinner while watching the show. We hardly talked to one another during the performance.
“At intermission, he asked me if I was married. I told him that my husband was a career officer and was a prisoner of war being held at a camp for officers near Mulhouse. I told him that just before being captured he had been promoted to the level of captain of artillery in the cavalry. I shared with the officer that I had received only one letter since his imprisonment, which had been mailed by an unknown third person. Apparently, he was not allowed to write to anyone or to receive any mail. I told him that since my husband was taken, my life had been extremely sad and difficult. That is everything.”
At this moment, two SS came into the room and dismissed the other two interrogators. I could tell they were SS by the insignia on their collars. The men took positions on either side of her. Each was holding a leather strap. They began whipping her back, alternating between the two about ten times in all. Her dress was torn up, and she was bleeding badly. She did not scream even once during the beating.
“Did the German officer know that you were Jewish?”
“Yes, I was wearing the yellow Star of David on my jacket. The officer didn’t do anything wrong. He just talked to me. I told him that I was married to an army officer who was a prisoner at Mulhouse.”
I watched the scene unfolding before my eyes. I was incensed. I listened as the two men conferred in German. One said, “She’s not telling the truth. Let’s release her and make her talk.” Then, in French, he yelled at the woman. “We’re going to drown you in this bathtub!” They unchained her, dragged her limp body over to the tub, and shoved her face in the water. One picked up her head for a moment and said, “When you’ve had enough to drink, maybe your memory will be refreshed.” Then, each holding an arm and a leg, they lifted her up and submerged her in the tub. They held her under for what seemed like an eternity to me. I was furious! The woman was resisting. Water was splashing everywhere, and the tub was overflowing. The water was turning red from her wounds.
It was impossible for me not to react. I needed to defend her. My whole life, it had enraged me to see someone strong pick on someone weaker. Such cowardice! And this, this was too much to take! Finally, I could no longer control myself. I screamed out, “You bastards! You are inhuman to relentlessly torture this poor woman, guilty or not. You are so degenerate that you are probably proud of yourselves! If I could, I would make you eat your own excrement! I would rub your noses in it! You’re nothing but cowards!”
They stopped suddenly and looked at me. One of them picked up a dried bull’s penis and angrily ran toward me. He thrust his arm through the bars of my cell and tried to hit me. With one hand I yanked him by the hair and pulled his head through the bars. With my other hand, I grabbed his forearm, pulled it all the way through the bars and broke it. I took his nose between my teeth and tried to bite it off by twisting his whole head. He screamed out in pain and pulled himself out of my cell, leaving his nostril behind between my teeth. I spit it out on the floor and yelled, “Would someone bring me some water to rinse out my mouth. I don’t want to catch their disease!” The man with only three-quarters of a nose was swearing in German. The other one was yelling in French, “We will make a report about this incident to our superiors!” In German, he said to his injured SS cohort, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him!”
While this exchange was going on, a major general of the German army walked into the torture room. Alarmed, he asked, “What happened to your nose and your arm?”
He pointed across the hall toward my cell, about eight meters away. “He did it!”
The major general demanded, “What were you doing outside this room? You’re supposed to be a professional! Explain this to me—now! He is not your prisoner. He has nothing to do with you, and you have nothing to do with him! He has already been interrogated. From now on, just mind your own business and mind it well! I believe you have enough to do with your own prisoners.”
He looked around as he was talking. “Why is there blood all over the place? And why is this woman lying in the tub with her back and bottom torn up and bleeding? We want results, but we want no trace of force. We don’t want you to drown the prisoners, either. Ask them questions. If we’re not happy with the answers, we’ll investigate further. And I don’t want you to use the wheel at all. From this moment on, if I see a mark on any prisoner, I will send you to the Russian front. I hope you have understood me well. I will have your superiors as well as your colleagues report your behavior to me. Now, send this poor woman to the hospital. Have them send me a report immediately after she is examined!” he ordered. “And get your nose taken care of!”
The major general turned, left the room, and approached my cell. He stopped a safe distance away and said, “I promise that this will not happen again under my command. We do not approve of these Gestapo methods. I know that your case is in the process of being investigated. Then he noticed the bull’s penis on the floor of my cell.
“Would you tell me how you happen to be in possession of that in your cell? Do you have difficulty walking? Do you use it like a cane? It’s too flexible. I must get you a cane.” I could see the comprehension in his eyes. “Give it to me now. I want to use it right away.” I picked up the appendage and handed it to him. “Watch me well when I return to the room. I understand what must have happened, so I won’t use it on that one. I’ve decided. He will get what he deserves. He’ll become a simple soldier on the Russian front as soon as his wounds heal. I offer, once again, my apologies for him. What he did is unacceptable in the German army.”
The officer turned and went back to the torture room. He addressed the SS man who was not injured. “I have decided not to wait for any further reports. I will send your colleague to the Russian front, but now I want you to keep him company at the hospital. Attach yourself to the poles with the cuffs!” he ordered. The man looked at the major general in astonishment but followed orders. With the smaller end of the penis in his hands, he whacked the SS officer four times with all of his force on the back of the legs, just above the knee. The man screamed out in pain. “You will not walk for a long time. This way you can keep your friend company during his convalescence. When you both recover, you can take the trip to Russia together where you can both freeze your feet off!”
The major general then turned and called the jail keeper who held the keys. “I have ordered these two SS to take this woman and admit her to the hospital. Since they are no longer officers, they cannot give the orders to admit her. I want you to have this woman admitted and taken care of immediately. These other two can wait their turn. I want a report on her condition as soon as the doctor has finished his examination. Write on your report that these two are officially demoted. They are now privates in the German army. They will be sent to Russia together as soon as possible upon their recovery. The report and appropriate paperwork will follow.”
This admirable German officer had appeased my fury. I lay back and fell asleep. What had just passed before my eyes was absolutely the worst experience I had during the war.
> When I woke up, the guards were at my cell door. They opened it and told me to get up. It was difficult to straighten up. My body ached everywhere. I had slept scrunched up on the humid, stone floor. Of course, I couldn’t stand tall in the cell, but once out I was able to stand up straight, little by little. I had no idea of the day or the time. The guards were French Militia. One of them said, “We have special instructions for you. I’ll put a chain around your neck, which will go from there around your waist, your wrists, down your legs to your feet and around your ankles.”
The chain was very heavy. It was difficult to move at all. They both seemed to have an air of compassion, unusual for the French Militia.
“It’s not your day today,” one of them said.
“You said it!” the other added.
The first continued, “The group of Gestapo that is going to interrogate you now is the most vicious of all. I suggest that you answer their questions as fast as you can. They torture the prisoners more if they answer slowly.”
The hallways were gloomy. I could hardly see anything. It was a real labyrinth of passageways going every which way. “I’ll let you walk with your shoes on till we arrive. After that I’ll take them with me because you will not be able to use them on the way back.”
I wondered what that meant but remained silent.
It took the three of us about a half hour to get to our destination. In the chains, I could only shuffle my way along. We stopped in front of a door. The guard took off my shoes. That left me barefooted because my socks had been taken when I was issued overalls.
“Be courageous,” the one guard said.
With a look of compassion on his face, the other said, “We’ll come back to take you to your cell. The quicker we can get you out of this room, the sooner we’ll be able to get you medical treatment. Before the war, my friend here was a veterinarian. He specialized in cats. Now a cat cannot be found in the streets.”
The former veterinarian said, “I joined the militia to avoid being sent to the factories in Germany. I still have some medication from the old days that I keep aside. If you are suffering too much, I’ll give you an injection that will calm you.” He opened the door to the interrogation room, and I shuffled in as best I could, restricted as I was by the chains.
“Sit down on that table,” one Gestapo said. Then they chained me to a stone pillar. I’ll have to tell the Brits to add this situation to the training. I could have used some practice. My plight was more difficult than it sounds because the tension I experienced made me perspire. The sweat went into my eyes and burned, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I also had an itch that I couldn’t scratch. Relative to the predicament as a whole, it may seem entirely insignificant. But obviously, I was totally helpless. The itch and my burning eyes became separate tortures in and of themselves.
Suddenly, a floodlight glared in my eyes. I couldn’t see what was going on because of the blinding effect of the light. What I smelled was smoke. A coal furnace? It seemed to be moving closer to where I sat on the examination table. To my right, I could barely see a man in a white smock. He pulled out red-hot branding irons, along with an array of instruments, which he laid out on a side table. Was this yet another test to add to our training, a scene producing drama and anxiety in the prisoner? They’ve created an operating room—a meticulous setup indeed! I was becoming impatient. When was their play going to start? I knew I was still the leading man. Out of nowhere came the thought Does Mr. Churchill even know I’m here?
A man smoking a cigar appeared on the left. Behind the floodlight, a loud voice spoke to me. “What is your name?” Textbook—same old routine. “Michel Carbonell,” I answered. The smoker, dressed entirely in black, walked up and slowly put out his cigar on the bottom of my right foot, twisting it slowly between his fingers—right, left, right, left. All my nerve endings screamed. This classic torture was far more painful than I ever expected.
A man appeared on the right, swinging a red rubber hose less than a meter long. Probably buckshot inside, I thought. Churchill’s team had familiarized me with the standard tools of torture.
“You must excuse me. When I asked you your name, we were interrupted by my friend who needed to put out his cigar. Will you repeat your answer, please?” I considered how grave my situation was. Though agitated, I restrained myself and replied evenly, “Michel Carbonell.”
The hose whipped across my thighs, ripping flesh that splattered blood. “If you come out from behind your screen and show me your face, I’ll tell you all that I know! If you’d take the time, you could read it in your dossier. I’m sure the facts are all there. Maybe I have a hard head, but if you don’t stop these barbaric tactics, I will refuse to open my mouth.”
At that moment, my rage was greater than my pain. I felt like Samson in the Bible. My chains felt as light as sewing needles that I could have broken with a mere contraction of the muscles of my torso. A small fat man, bald, white-skinned, and slimy, came out from behind the light. He was dressed in black like all of the Gestapo.
“I will tell you once more,” I said, “and this will be the last time.” The man stood in front of me, slouching, his fat lips partially opened. He looked slow and dumb. Strange as it may seem, I felt extremely powerful, even more so, after seeing this little nothing appear from behind the light. He was a disgusting little man. His body odor almost overwhelmed me to the point that I thought I would vomit.
So again I confessed the lie I had prepared. “Listen carefully,” I said. “I was parachuted outside of Neufchâteau, as you can read in the dossier. I already told this to your colleagues. I had become acquainted with a French man and his sister in Paris during the time of France’s defeat. The three of us became close friends. When it was clear that France was defeated, he and I took the opportunity to take a boat from Dunkirk to England. His sister stayed with her parents near Vincennes. He and I saw each other regularly while we were in London. One day, he told me of his decision to hire a private plane and parachute back into France. Not only did he want to find his family, but most important, he needed to contact the French partisans to let them know of the proposed Allied landing somewhere on the coast of southern France. He asked if I wanted to join him. He was wealthy and money was not an issue. I didn’t really have to think twice about it. I accepted right away. You see, I was in love with his sister—and still am—and I wanted nothing more than to see her again. That is all.”
“That was why you parachuted into France?” the ugly little man queried. He suddenly became furious and started yelling. “You take me for an imbecile?”
Yes, I do, I thought, but didn’t say.
“You think I’m going to swallow your little story? Not a chance!”
The stunning pain of the hose again, this time on my thighs and chest. I gasped for air. This was an opportune moment to pretend to faint. I faked passing out. A bucket of ice water was thrown in my face to revive me. Actually, that did me some good, but I didn’t move. If I could feign an unconscious state, maybe they’d stop the torture.
“Drag him to a cell and hang him by his thumbs! Let his toes barely touch the floor. If he isn’t conscious by the time you reach the cell, throw another bucket of ice water in his face. Before you hang him, remove all of his clothing. I plan to visit him often. I have a special way to make him tell the truth.”
The pain was unspeakable. I asked myself, as I was being dragged along the filthy, icy floor, what this repulsive little man was going to do to me next. Abruptly, the movement stopped. They opened a cell door, picked me up by the arms and legs, and tossed me inside. I landed facedown with a thud. The floor was covered with excrement and urine. I did not move so they would think I was still unconscious. That was a good idea, but it didn’t stop them from doing what they had been ordered to do. They threw another bucket of ice water on me before lifting me up. One held me while the other tied leather straps to my thumbs. They hoisted me up to the ceiling and tied each strap to a small ring. I could barely re
ach the floor with my toes. I did not give away that I was truly conscious. After they left, I tried to get some of the shit off my face by grimacing while keeping my mouth closed. I tried to get it off my lips by blowing out several times. Nothing worked. The more I tried, the more of it seemed to seep into my mouth. I needed to change my thoughts and not think about this at all.
Then—the sound of steps advancing toward my cell! Two German soldiers were talking about two Gestapo higher-ups who had discovered a better way to make prisoners talk. The method was to gather roaches and ants, put them in boxes and bring them to the interrogation room. Without warning, they would dump the roaches on the head of the prisoner and observe his reaction. Sometimes the prisoner would break, sometimes he wouldn’t. If he did not talk, they would take the other box filled with red ants and dump it on his head. This was always more effective because the ants would crawl into the nose and the ears. As they passed my cell, I didn’t move or make a sound. I thought to myself, At least I know what’s coming next.
Or did I? Despite the pain and biting cold, I had only one thought: Escape.
THIRTY-THREE
Breakout
I’ll push off the cap, bite down on the cyanide pill, and be out of this unbearable pain. This thought screamed in my head, over and over, as I helplessly hung by my thumbs, stark naked, my toes barely grazing the floor. For days, I passed in and out of an unconscious stupor. Sometimes the cold would be as overwhelming as the pain I felt in my thumbs, arms, back, neck—oh, everywhere. Thank God for the long periods of comatose oblivion. Then, coming to now and again, I would say to myself, “Hold on, Marc, just hold on. What good will come from dying?”
