The Paris Architect: A Novel Part 5

At the beginning of the Occupation, Lucien had been worried that he and all other Frenchmen would be turned into slave laborers, but to his surprise, workers were paid. This, of course, added salt to the wounds of the defeated-most of the French now depended on the Germans for their incomes. Many worked directly for the Germans, especially in construction, where a quarter of a million worked for the Todt organization, which was building fortifications along the Atlantic coast to protect against an Allied invasion. Thousands of French, mainly the sc.u.m of the working cla.s.s, had volunteered to go to Germany to work in factories. The Germans paid higher wages than French employers, but the work was backbreaking-plus, one could get killed by Allied bombing. Manet's men knew they weren't getting paid as much, but they would be treated well.

"That won't be necessary at this time, Major."

"This building is to be constructed in less than two months, Manet. Your men will work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Berlin is expecting no less from you," Lieber stated in a bullying tone. "I don't care how many men it takes."

"Well then," replied Herzog, who turned to Lucien, "this is a very successful start. And I believe Monsieur Manet may have mentioned his new armaments facility for the Luftwaffe?"

Lucien turned to Manet, who gave him a slight smile. Herzog picked up his cap and gloves and followed Lieber out the door. Manet watched them leave. He had a look of disgust on his face that surprised Lucien, given that the meeting had gone so well. "Lieber is a pig," Manet said. "I know he's going to be trouble."

"But our meeting seemed so successful, monsieur. What's your concern?"

Manet looked at Lucien coldly. "Your design may have won the day, but the Boche are squeezing me on my compensation and on the schedule. Lieber won't listen to reason. He wants me to know that the French are under the heel of the Germans and always will be. In the end, I will have to use their labor to finish on time. It turns my stomach to use those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Once production is under way, they may be more flexible," said Lucien.

"Monsieur Bernard, it's evident that you don't know a d.a.m.n thing about Germans."

Lucien looked down at the floor.

"And yes, I will be making guns for the Luftwaffe. The Germans have appropriated a large estate in Tremblay to build on. It may be a project you'd be interested in. But I have a small problem I'd like your advice on."

"Why yes, I'd be glad to help."

"An acquaintance of mine has decided to let some friends use his country home in Le Chesnay for a while. But there may be some complications with the Germans. There is a need for some arrangements if the Germans do come to call on them."

The smile on Lucien's face disappeared in an instant.

"This plant in Tremblay will be almost twice as large as the one you just designed. And it will adjoin a small airfield where fighters will be fitted out with the new guns to test fire," said Manet. "So you'll be designing a small airport as well. I hope you'll be interested. I'll send a car for you."

With great reluctance, Lucien reached into his jacket pocket for his notebook to write down the appointment time. But while he was writing, he was envisioning the design of the small control tower for his new airport.

12.

Lucien sat bolt upright in bed as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice-cold water in the middle of the night.

He rubbed his face with both hands to make sure he wasn't dreaming, then prodded Celeste, who was sleeping soundly on her stomach.

"Did you hear that?"

Celeste groaned.

"It sounded like a-"

A loud rapping on their apartment door interrupted Lucien. He began breathing heavily. When the rapping started again, he began to tremble uncontrollably. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, and started rocking back and forth. He shook Celeste's shoulder violently, and she rolled over on her side.

"There's someone at the door," whispered Lucien.

"What time is it?"

"It's almost three in the morning."

"Who'd be at our door at this hour?" mumbled Celeste, burying her head in her pillow.

Lucien knew the answer to that question. There could be only one visitor who'd come calling at 3:00 a.m.: the French police-or worse, the Gestapo. He had heard that they always raided a house in the middle of the night when their prey was asleep. People woke up confused and disoriented, making it easier for the police to cart them away. He couldn't decide what to do. Face the music or run like a rabbit out the servants' entry in the rear of the apartment? He felt like an idiot for not having an escape plan, but then what about Celeste? He couldn't leave her. Lucien looked down at Celeste, who'd fallen back asleep. If the Germans came through the front door with Panzer tanks, she would sleep right through it.

The rapping began again, this time harder and more impatient. He took a deep breath and finally mustered the courage to jump out of bed. An invisible hand in the middle of his back pushed him toward the door. In the six meters it took to get there, the same gruesome image flashed over and over through his mind: a lead pipe splitting his head open like a melon.

By the time he reached the door, Lucien was shaking with fright. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then calmly opened the door and stood face to face with a man in his forties wearing a dark gray suit and a black fedora. Lucien was surprised to see an actual Gestapo agent instead of a French policeman who usually made these kinds of arrests. He must be in a s.h.i.+tload of trouble, he realized, if the Gestapo was making a personal call. He wasn't able to see any of the other men out in the corridor with him.

"You must come with me at once," said the man in a very loud voice.

"May I get dressed?"

"Yes."

Leaving the door open, Lucien turned and started to walk back to the bedroom. He didn't really want to wake Celeste and tell her, but he had to. This would probably be the last time he would ever see her, so he had to say good-bye. He began to sob.

"And please bring your bag," shouted the man through the doorway.

Lucien stopped and looked back at the man.

"I need my bag?" So they'd be taking him straight to Drancy, not to rue des Saussaies.

"Yes, bring your instruments. My wife's condition has worsened. You must come right away."

"My instruments?"

"You're Doctor Auteuil, right? I was told you live in apartment 4C. Please, we must hurry."

Lucien felt he was about to faint and steadied himself against a bookcase. His chest started heaving. His first instinct was to curse the man out, but he stopped himself. When his breathing returned to normal, he walked back to the doorway.

"Doctor Auteuil lives in 3C."

A look of panic came over the man's face, and he turned and sprinted down the corridor to the stairs. Lucien slowly closed the door and leaned against it. He gazed down at the olive and crimson rug in the foyer, his mind a complete blank. Suddenly, he felt a warm sensation about his thighs and crotch. Lucien let out a great sigh. He hadn't p.i.s.sed himself in thirty years.

Incredibly tired and emotionally drained, Lucien shuffled straight to the liquor cabinet in the living room and pulled out a gla.s.s tumbler and a decanter of cognac. He stared at the gla.s.s, then tossed it onto the sofa and drank straight from the decanter.

When he fell back asleep, he dreamed he'd designed a secret hiding place for Manet. It was a box with a lid sitting in the middle of a room. When a b.u.t.ton on the front was pushed, the lid opened, and Lucien's father popped out like a jack-in-the box. He was dressed like one of those orthodox rabbis with a prayer shawl and a yarmulke, and he was laughing hysterically at his son.

13.

"Good, then I can pick you up around eight. Oh no, nothing fancy, just a small private dinner party. Yes, yes, your blue-gray evening dress will be quite appropriate. You'll be the toast of the evening, my Adele. But now you must excuse me; it's been a very busy day, and I have to get back to work. I've got a visitor waiting here who's been very patient. Good-bye, my love."

Schlegal smiled as he put down the receiver. The thought of arriving at the party tonight with Adele on his arm made him quite happy. Every man on the general's staff would be jealous of him, and that's exactly the reaction he wanted. He considered himself very lucky to a.s.sociate with a woman of Adele's status. Most of the French women Germans came into daily contact with were working-cla.s.s types-waitresses, shopgirls, and chambermaids, as well as the cooks and laundresses who worked in the homes of Germans.

Even though the high command frowned upon Germans having intimate relations with French women except with registered wh.o.r.es, German soldiers always slept with these working-cla.s.s French women. s.e.x became the common language of the Occupation. Still, there were rules. Germans weren't permitted to walk arm in arm with a French woman in public or to take her back to the barracks. A German soldier of any rank would rarely get the chance to sleep with a respectable bourgeois French woman, most of whom would die before having s.e.x with a German. That was why Schlegal considered his finding Adele a miracle.

Schlegal had been sitting on top of a large wooden desk and now swiveled around to face the opposite direction. Stretching out his legs, he clicked the heels of his s.h.i.+ny black boots, then crossed his arms. In front of him sat an elderly man in a wooden chair with his arms tied behind him. The old man's head drooped, and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.

"Let's see. Where were we? Ah, yes. I asked you to tell me the whereabouts of Mendel Ja.n.u.sky, and you said you had no idea. Then I said you were a filthy lying pig, and if you didn't tell me, I would teach you a very hard lesson. But you're in luck, Monsieur Deligny. Because I'm going out with one of the most beautiful women in Paris tonight, I'm in a very charitable mood. So, I'll give you one more chance. Where is Ja.n.u.sky? You do know who he is, don't you? Let me refresh your memory. Ja.n.u.sky is a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion and very, very rich. Maybe the richest man in Paris. The former owner of the Madelin Steel Works. Where you had been an executive since 1932."

Schlegal held a glossy black-and-white photo in front of Deligny's face. It was a formal portrait of an imposing-looking man in his sixties, dressed in a suit, standing next to a table. His right hand, which had a very large and ornate ring on it, was resting on a book on the table.

"Do you recognize him, monsieur?"

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 Goring admires very much and wishes to take off Monsieur Ja.n.u.sky's hands. Because once we find Monsieur Ja.n.u.sky, 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. Ja.n.u.sky 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 fl.u.s.tered 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 Ja.n.u.sky, 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 Ja.n.u.sky?"

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.

With great difficulty, the old man took a deep breath, and in a low, almost inaudible voice, said, "Rue de Tournon, at Gattier's, the wine merchant."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" said Schlegal. He tossed the box on his desk. He nodded to Bruckner, who immediately left the room.

"My goodness, what time is it? Lunchtime already?" asked Schlegal, glancing at his wrist.w.a.tch. "I'm starving. Gentlemen, will you join me for lunch at the Cafe Daunou?"

His officers exchanged smiles and picked up their gloves and caps. They knew their boss was in a good mood and would be paying. As the three Germans made for the door, Schlegal stopped and reached over for the box on the desk, turning the lever all the way to the right. "I hope you'll excuse us, Monsieur Deligny," he said in a very solicitous tone. "We'll be back in an hour or two to continue our conversation."

The screaming could still be heard as they reached the street four flights below.

14.

"I fixed you a real cup of tea."

Celeste was surprised to see Lucien in the kitchen first thing in the morning. He proudly handed Celeste a cup with a saucer. She remembered her husband telling her that on a trip to England, he'd found out that you never just give someone a cup of tea; it always has to be on a saucer. She smiled at the gesture.

"Real tea?" said Celeste. "Not brewed from catnip leaves?"

"Taste it."

"Good G.o.d. It is real tea," she said, holding the first sip in her mouth, relis.h.i.+ng the taste. In wartime, Celeste had learned how to be thankful for the smallest pleasures in life. The finest champagne wouldn't have tasted better.

For some time now, Lucien had been bringing home hard-to-get food like cheese, b.u.t.ter, and coffee. She knew it was from the black market but didn't ask any questions. The other thing she learned during the Occupation was that law-abiding citizens now turned a blind eye to the breaking of the law. She could see that Lucien was very proud to provide these things.

"Thank you, it's delicious."

"Now, I must be off. Lots of work to be done at the office," said Lucien cheerfully. He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the stainless steel kitchen chair. "What's on your schedule today?"

"Nothing much. I heard there's toilet paper at a shop on rue de Bretagne. I'll try my luck." Shopping during the Occupation meant women standing in long lines to try to buy the bare essentials.