In the extensive fourth-floor suites,
the vast machinery assembled for
the subjugation of the Lyonnais
runs smoothly on. Here, baths are augmented
by a central derrick allowing movement
of materials between the two.

                                                As if
summoned, a naked body explodes from
beneath the surface of the ice bath (froid),
sucking up with it a sheet of water.
The interrogator, Herr Doktor Tulp
(under direct tutelage from Klaus Barbie)
is immediately back to his questioning:
‘Names and addresses of your leader and
his colleagues, s’il vous plaît. And time and place
of your next meeting.’ The résistance fighter,
coughing, gasping, retching ice-flakes not yet
melted by the heat of the lungs, spits out
a chain of obscenities gathered against
pain. The derrick swings his trussed purple-fleshed
form across to the opposite bath (chaud).
Seven ruff-wearing students – suitably dressed
for a solemn social occasion – re-
gather at the rim to watch the body
lowered, screaming, into the bubbling water.
Occasionally, struck by inexplicable
compassion, Tulp leaves the trussed body under
water for longer periods; peering through
the surface to observe his subject’s death.
In these situations, the corpse is dumped
somewhere in the surrounding pasture land,
or let fall to the Rhône from the bridge at
Cours Lafeyette.

                           Not so now. The doctor
signals for the subject to be raised from
the bath. As you can see, he notes, the eyes
have already been poached to blindness by
previous immersions. (With boiling water,
the metaphors are all culinary.
With the icy cold it is more difficult.)
In the background Tulp can hear his daughter
at the piano practising the Chopin
polonaise l’héroïque. Fräulein Erne Kris
interleaves carbon in between the pages;
feeds the three sheets into the bail. Behind her,
Ferdinand Neukirchen peels an apple
with his pocket knife – the skin expertly
removed in a continuous ringlet.
In the room’s far corner, a famous Dutch
Master renders an oil of the procedure.

John A. Scott