The Paris Architect: A Novel Part 18

"I'll be out of here in a second. Still time for him to get it up again. So don't despair, my love," said Bette.

Adele came out of her study with a black portfolio under her arm. Bette rose from the sofa and took the portfolio from Adele. "How about a drink? You know-one for the road?"

Adele glanced toward the open bedroom door and nodded. Bette walked over to a black and steel liquor cabinet and helped herself to a generous serving of cognac.

"Save me a molecule or two of that, will you?" said Adele, tightening the belt around her gown.

Bette smiled and smacked her lips, then placed the cut gla.s.s tumbler on the top of the cabinet.

"Again, please forgive me for the coitus-interruptus, but like you've said before, business is business."

"Next time, call first."

"I'll be sure to do that. Or maybe a singing telegram."

"Take care," said Adele in a singsong voice as she shoved Bette out the door.

"You will remember to come to the fitting this afternoon, around four? You will be finished with him by then?"

Bette found herself in the corridor and the door slammed shut behind her. She put her ear to the thick paneled door and heard shouting going on toward the rear of the flat. A smile came over her face as she walked to the lift. As she'd walked across Adele's salon, she'd looked into the bedroom and seen a very distinctive black uniform draped over the footboard of the bed. She knew Adele adored anything in black, but that piece didn't belong to her-nor did the Gestapo cap sitting on top of it.

Outside the entrance of Adele's building, in the span of thirty seconds three men smiled and tipped their hats to Bette. This was nothing out of the ordinary. Last February she'd turned thirty-one, but she knew she was even more beautiful now than she'd been at nineteen when she began her modeling career. If Bette had believed in G.o.d, she would've thanked him for her long-lasting beauty. She knew that when she hit fifty, she would still be ravis.h.i.+ng. Bette was a big believer in luck, and it was pure luck that she had turned out beautiful while her sister Simone had turned out as ugly as a bulldog. Just a freak happenstance of nature, she thought. Bette often shuddered when she envisioned Simone as a beauty and herself resembling something canine. It could've gone either way.

Bette had had to beat off men with a stick since p.u.b.erty. Almost every day of her life, even Christmas and Easter, a man had called to ask her out. Bette thought it was wonderful to be beautiful. Besides the attention of men, there was no waiting in lines at stores, no waiting for tables in fine restaurants-and no paying for meals in those fine restaurants-and presents showing up unexpectedly on her doorstep. Poor Simone, her only hope of getting a man would be either to have her family pay someone to marry her or to be matched with a blind man. She was a sweet, gentle girl with a heart of gold who would make a wonderful wife and mother, but she was likely doomed to a bleak, unhappy life of spinsterhood.

There was a time when Bette wouldn't go out with a boy unless he arranged a date for Simone. One minute after the boy saw Simone, he always vanished. Simone never showed a shred of jealousy toward her gorgeous younger sister. She would do anything for her. Bette's mother and father had resigned themselves to the sad fact that Simone would never marry and that Bette would be the daughter who would give them their beloved grandchildren. But that would never happen. Three years ago, Bette's doctor had explained that because of an abnormality in her uterus, she could never bear children. He'd tied her tubes and that was that. Offsetting the crus.h.i.+ng news was the realization that she could screw as much as she wanted and never have to worry about getting pregnant. It was actually a tremendous burden off her shoulders. Many of her friends who were models had to endure the pain and anxiety of back-street abortions to continue their careers because they didn't want to give up the good life. Not one of them wanted to be a single mother-the shame of that would be too much to bear. They'd be outcasts from their own families, who already viewed them as unrespectable.

Bette turned right onto the rue Saint-Martin, where Andre, Adele's cutter, had his shop. She dropped off the portfolio, issued precise instructions, and was on her way home to her flat on the rue Payenne. One block before she reached her building, she stopped and knocked on the door of the shop of Denis Borge, a chocolatier. The shop windows were covered with shades, and presently, the edge of a shade was pulled back, then the door unlocked.

"Good afternoon, Denis," said Bette.

"Mademoiselle Bette, so good to see you," gushed Denis. All shopkeepers fawned over Bette.

"I'm here for my chocolates. Are they ready?"

"Of course, they've been ready since yesterday. I'd never forget your order. All the special items are here as you wished." Denis handed her a small brown paper bag to inspect. She reached her hand in and picked through the individually wrapped candies.

"You're an angel, Denis. Chocolates are harder to come by than diamonds these days."

"I'll always fill any order you wish. You're my best customer, Mademoiselle Bette. Every two weeks for almost the past year. I envy you. You eat so much chocolate and never gain a gram. How do you do it?"

Bette looked down shyly at the floor and smiled. "It's just my metabolism. I can eat a lot. I can devour an entire baguette slathered with b.u.t.ter in one sitting."

"I definitely can't manage that without paying for it, if you know what I mean," said Denis, patting his enormous belly. Bette playfully gave it a poke and Denis laughed delightedly. Because of rationing, shopkeepers, grocers, and butchers in Paris had a newfound power during the Occupation and lorded it over their customers, but they never treated Bette unfairly-another advantage to being beautiful.

"Good-bye, my friend. I'll see you on the fourteenth."

When Bette reached the top floor of the building where her flat was located, she knocked three times on the door, paused, then knocked three more times before she unlocked the door. Once inside, she called out in a gentle voice, "I'm home, my little ones."

Like small animals cautiously peeking out of their burrows, a six-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl appeared at the edge of the doorway to the living room.

"It's chocolate time, come and get it," cooed Bette as she held the bag toward the children.

Slowly, smiles came over their faces, and they took the bag from her.

"Remember what I told you."

"Fifty-fifty," they sang out in unison.

Bette watched with delight as they divvied up the candy. Then, as they always did, the children offered her a piece, which she took from them and popped into her mouth.

She always wondered if she would've raised children as well-behaved and polite as the Kaminskys had. Bette had never paid any attention to the children who had lived on the second floor of her building. She had been on cordial terms with Mr. and Mrs. Kaminsky but had never said more than "how do you do" or "good morning" to them. That all changed over a year ago when Mrs. Kaminsky and another woman knocked on her door late one night. She told Bette that she'd just received a call informing her that the French police were on the way to arrest her family. She was desperate to find someone to hide her children. Bette had nothing against Jews but knew full well that helping them meant certain death. Bette tried brus.h.i.+ng them off, saying she knew nothing about raising children, but Mrs. Kaminsky began to cry and plead with her. Normally a refined and well-dressed woman whom Bette admired, she was now reduced to a terrified, miserable supplicant. She wailed loudly and went down on her knees, offering a huge wad of cash to Bette. Just to stop the woman's hysterics, Bette told her to bring them up, along with their clothes.

Minutes later, there were two frightened children in their pajamas holding each other tightly in the middle of Bette's living room. She went over to the window that overlooked the street and saw a police car pull up. Three French policemen got out and ran into her building. She expected to hear shouting and crying from the stairwell, but it was eerily quiet. Ten minutes later, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Kaminsky get in the police car, which drove off. She would never see them again. Bette had turned to face the children, who were still huddled together. She smiled at them and extended her hand. "Come, let's have some chocolate." At that moment, Bette, with her hard-as-nails att.i.tude about the world, had thought this was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

Very quickly she realized that it had been the best thing.

39.

"But didn't the Jews kill Christ, Father?"

"That's debatable, my son. But even if they did, I'd still help them."

Schlegal liked Father Jacques's nerve. He'd always hated the clergy, Protestant or Catholic. All self-righteous fools. His men had discovered that the old priest had been running a safe house for Jewish children in Montparna.s.se before they were whisked across the Pyrenees and into Spain. Another priest from Carca.s.sonne who escorted the children had also been caught. Schlegal was slowly circling the chair where Father Jacques had been sitting since 2:00 a.m. The priest didn't show the slightest sign of fatigue. In fact, he seemed quite cheerful as the morning light streamed through the window of the interrogation room.

"I thought the Jewish elders forced Pilate to condemn Christ to death," Schlegal said. "They wanted him out of the way."

"Mm...some theologians make that case. It could be true."

"So why risk your life for a bunch of Christ killers?"

"You don't understand, Colonel, that we're all brothers on this earth."

"Brothers." Schlegal let out a great laugh. "What a load of bulls.h.i.+t."

He had nothing but contempt for the old priest or any gentile who tried to hide Jews. Yet there were many who risked their lives to help them. It puzzled him to no end. Why die because of this human vermin? Frenchmen who had no connection to Jews before the war all of a sudden hid them in their attics or barns, knowing full well what would happen if they were caught. To risk one's life for these thieving sc.u.m, who had brought nothing but misery to the world, was incomprehensible. Just last week, during a raid on Rue Saint-Honore, a gendarme had lent a Jew his cape and hat so he could escape. Both were caught and shot on the spot. And the crazy thing was that the French cop didn't even know the man. No, the planet would be a far better place if all the Jews just disappeared. And in Paris, he and the Gestapo were trying their hardest to make that happen.

"How many children have you helped to escape into Spain, Father?"

"I'm proud to say that it numbers in the hundreds by now." Father Jacques gave him an ear-to-ear smile.

The priest's smug expression angered Lieutenant Voss, who'd been standing in the shadows, and he punched Father Jacques in the side of the face so hard that the old man landed hard on the floor.

"Please, Voss," said Schlegal. "That was quite unnecessary. Father Jacques has outwitted the Reich and is naturally quite proud of it. Let him have his moment of glory."

Voss snorted, yanked the priest by his collar, and threw him back into the chair, then walked behind Schlegal and folded his arms.

"You must forgive Lieutenant Voss, Father. He's grouchy because he hasn't had his breakfast. So, if you could just confess your sins, he could go and eat."

The priest rubbed the side of his face, then defiantly looked directly into Schlegal's eyes. "Then I'm afraid Lieutenant Voss will have to wait until h.e.l.l freezes over for his breakfast."

This impressed Schlegal, who despised the priest for what he'd done, yet had respect for the old man. He wondered if a younger priest would be as defiant as an old man near the end of his life. With all those years of living ahead of him, would he act the same?

"So I guess if I let you go, you wouldn't stop doing this," asked Schlegal with a great smile.

Father Jacques shook with laughter for a few seconds. Schlegal laughed along with him.

"Colonel Schlegal, you're a most amusing fellow. I could almost like you if you weren't such a Gestapo swine."

Schlegal laughed uncontrollably at this remark. Voss looked on with disapproval.

"Ah, Father Jacques," said Schlegal, tears welling up in his eyes, "you almost make me wish I was Catholic."

"But you do have your own church, Colonel. It's run by Satan himself-Herr Hitler."

Schlegal walked up to the priest and stooped down to face him. He placed his hand on the old man's knee.

"So, Father, you've been working quite hard these days hiding these Jewish brats. It must have been an enormous strain on you. So I'm going to do something special for you."

"Convert to Judaism?"

Voss started to lunge at the priest, but Schlegal waved him off.

"You need to take a trip, Father. You need a rest. So I'm arranging a vacation for you."

"What a nice thing to do."

"Have you ever been to southwestern Poland? Very beautiful country. I think you're really going to like it. Fresh air. Trees. Nature. It's kind of a retreat. One with lots of Jews, and since you like Jews, you'll really feel at home."

"Sounds wonderful. I've got a feeling I'm going to leave right away."

"Indeed you are. In about two minutes you'll be on your way. But one last thing. I suppose you won't tell me if there were any others besides Father Philippe in Carca.s.sonne helping the Jews?"

Father Jacques just smiled. "I can't say it's been a pleasure, Colonel, but I did enjoy talking to you. I even hope that when you die and your a.s.s is burning in the fires of h.e.l.l, you won't suffer too much. In fact, I'll pray for your soul, my son."

"How very kind of you. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Father. It's not often I meet a brave man. Voss here will direct you to your train. I'm afraid you may find the train trip a bit cramped and uncomfortable."

"Yes, I've heard that German train accommodations are not up to French standards. Rumor has it that you can get two hundred into one car."

"Ah, in war, one must make sacrifices."

Father Jacques knew it was time to go and rose from his seat. He bowed slightly to Schlegal and turned to Voss. "Herr Voss, I'm ready for our trip to Drancy."

"Good news, Father," Voss said with a smile on his face. "You can bypa.s.s Drancy and get on your train right away."

"Yes, I've gotten you a berth on an express run," added Schlegal. "It's a long trip, but I hear you can get a nice hot shower when you arrive at your destination."

40.

"Did you fall into the pot and drown?" Alain yelled.

He heard Pierre flush the toilet and unlatch the door. Alain was leaning against the wall as he came out.

"What the h.e.l.l were you doing in there? Sounded like you were talking to yourself in gibberish. What language was that, boy?"

Pierre just smiled at Alain.

Alain had disliked him the minute he'd laid eyes on him. Pierre was just supposed to clean up and fetch things, but then Lucien started giving him drawing lessons, saying the boy could take some of the drafting load off Alain, and he did. Once, to Alain's great annoyance, Lucien said that the kid might have found his calling as an architect. The truth was that the twelve-year-old was a quick study, and he could quickly handle increasingly complex tasks. His line work was becoming quite good, and he was very detail-oriented, an important quality in an architect.

Pierre went back to his drawing board and began drawing a mezzanine plan for the Tremblay factory. After he'd finished his business in the WC, Alain walked over to Pierre.

"Your wall lines aren't dark enough," he told him.

"Yes, you're right. They could be a lot darker," answered Pierre cheerfully. It irritated the h.e.l.l out of Alain that Pierre was always grateful for his advice. Alain ordered Pierre around and cursed at him on a routine basis but always out of earshot of Lucien.

"So what were you muttering in the bathroom? Sounded like Chinese or something," asked Alain, leaning on Pierre's drawing board.

"I was just saying a Hail Mary-in Latin."

"Didn't sound like Latin to me. I was an altar boy, and I know Latin when I hear it."

"Well, it was Latin."

"Do you always pray in the can?"

"It's the only private place to pray in the office, don't you think?"

Alain stared at the boy. There was something odd about the whole situation. Him popping up out of nowhere. Lucien telling him that Pierre was the son of a friend who died in the fighting in 1940. He tried to connect it to the strange goings-on with Manet and the cottage. Alain still couldn't figure that one out. He'd followed Lucien a few times, but he hadn't discovered anything. At least once a week, he'd gone through Lucien's desk to look for any odd sc.r.a.ps of details like the one of the fireplace, but he'd found nothing. It was hard to snoop around with this d.a.m.n kid hanging about all the time.

"So you're a Catholic?"