The Paris Architect: A Novel (29 page)

“This was a cottage in Epinay?”

“It’s just a pile of burnt rubble now. Now go get your car and start banging some of these French girls. A Renault’s got a nice wide backseat. Put it to good use, nephew.” Hermann tapped his driver on the shoulder to get moving.

Alain, left standing on the sidewalk, looked down at the keys in his hand. He stared at them for a few seconds, then walked toward the corner where the car was parked. His romantic efforts would have to wait for a while.

***

Alain examined the false drain pan and lowered himself into the cavity below. The tunnel had been crudely but efficiently constructed, with plank bracing on its ceiling to prevent a collapse. Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to save a Jew. But Alain wasn’t interested in the men who’d dug the tunnel but the man who’d thought of this ingenious solution. He discovered that the tunnel ended far into the garden, almost twenty meters away, where the Jew could escape unnoticed by the Gestapo who were busy ripping the house apart. Alain already knew who had designed the fake drain. It was the sketch of the metal frame and the brick that he’d found months earlier that still puzzled him. He decided to walk through the charred ruins of the house, poking around the debris until he reached the fireplace and chimney, the only things still intact. He smiled as he walked up to it because now everything made sense. The sketch was for a false wall at the back of a firebox. A very clever solution. The only thought that came into Alain’s mind at that moment was why Lucien would be stupid enough to design these hiding places.

46

“This is my favorite interior in all of Paris. No other comes close,” said Lucien, who stood behind Pierre, both hands resting on his shoulders.

“The reading room of the Bibliothèque Nationale is world famous. It’s the most important library in France. Look up at those domes. See all the light they let in—aren’t they incredible? And see how they’re carried on those skinny cast-iron columns?”

Lucien always got carried away when he explained his favorite architecture to Pierre. They had been to Notre Dame, La Madeleine, the Eiffel Tower, and the Paris Opera. In each place he jabbered away, but Pierre listened intently. He never seemed bored by Lucien’s lectures. On the contrary, he asked questions and pointed out structural and design elements that impressed Lucien.

“The architect, Henri Labrouste, in the 1860s, was the first to use exposed iron as an architectural element. It took a lot of nerve to do that. People criticized him and said it was ugly. Look at those beautiful iron arches that carry the domes. See how they spring out from the columns? Just incredible.”

“Shhh,” whispered an old man who placed his index finger to his lips. Lucien had forgotten he was in a library and nodded a silent apology.

They walked through the room between the rows of reading tables, gazing up at the skylights in the middle of the domes. Lucien took Pierre up to one of the columns and rapped his knuckles on it, producing a metallic sound. This brought another
shhh
from a patron.

“See. It’s metal, not stone.” Pierre did the same and smiled at the result.

Men sat at the tables immersed in their books, scribbling notes and marking pages with little scraps of paper. As Lucien walked by them, he wondered if they found solace in their books in bad times like these or whether they were always lost in their world of scholarship.

“It took them six years to build this library. Those are the stacks over there, where they keep the books. They’re behind that incredible glass wall, which is framed out in iron.”

Lucien and Pierre walked up to the wall and looked inside at row upon row of brown aged volumes. With his hand on Pierre’s shoulder, Lucien guided the boy around the perimeter of the great room, pointing out the detailing.

“All these buildings of Paris are treasures,” said Lucien.

“But they’re all old,” replied Pierre. “I thought you were a modern architect.”

Lucien stifled a laugh with his hand. “I surely am, but you can learn a lot from an old building.” He was pleased that Pierre could pull his leg.

As they moved on through the silent reading room, Lucien heard a sound in the distance. It became louder and louder, and the patrons, one by one, lifted their heads to listen. Lucien recognized the sound of German jackboots on a marble floor.

“Christ,” said Lucien. He looked down into Pierre’s eyes, which were full of terror.

Panic seized him, but Lucien kept his nerve and acted quickly. Because he’d been here many times, he knew the layout of the room well. Grabbing Pierre by the arm, he led him to a niche in the perimeter wall behind a column and shoved him into it.

“Keep down. You know where to go, don’t you?”

He squeezed the boy’s hand and kissed his cheek. Pierre nodded and crouched out of sight. At that moment, the double doors of the main entry to the reading room crashed open and a half-dozen German soldiers led by an SS captain walked in briskly. The officer slowly went down the main aisle followed by his men, all of whom were carrying machine guns. He looked up and down the tables. The patrons all kept their heads down as if they were studying their tomes. Lucien walked directly toward the officer between the tables to draw attention away from Pierre. But as he got closer, the captain walked up to a middle-aged man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a gray tweed coat.

“Professor Paul Mortier, you’re to come with me immediately.”

“But I’ve done nothing.”

Two soldiers grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the room.

“I’ve done nothing!” he screamed.

The Germans were out the doors, and the reading room was in total silence again. Patrons slowly returned to their books. Lucien was shaking as he walked back to Pierre. The boy had come out from behind the column and was slowly walking toward him. About three meters away he ran to Lucien and buried his face in his chest.

As Lucien hugged the boy, he knew he should get Pierre out of France, but the thought filled him with an awful sadness. He loved and needed the boy with all his heart and couldn’t bear to part with him. He didn’t want to do it.

47

“Good shabbos, Monsieur Laval,” Schlegal called out in a cheery voice as he entered the room.

Laval, whose hands were tied behind him, slumped forward in the wooden chair.

“I said good shabbos, Laval. Didn’t you hear me?” Schlegal grabbed Laval’s chin and yanked his swollen and bloody head up. “It is Saturday, so it is shabbos, isn’t it? Your people’s sabbath?”

Laval grunted, and Schlegal let his head flop down. Turning to Lieutenant Voss and Captain Bruckner, he threw up his hands in mock indignation.

“So what has Monsieur Laval told us of value?”

“I’m afraid Monsieur Laval has been most uncooperative. He hasn’t told us a thing about his business associate Mendel Janusky,” replied Voss, with deep regret in his voice.

“That’s a shame,” Schlegal said. “A real shame, Monsieur Laval. I was so counting on you. You know, I’ve been looking for you for three long months, and when I finally find you, you’re no help to me at all.” Schlegal bent over and looked directly into the old man’s blood-crusted eyes.

Schlegal placed his hands on his hips and paced back and forth in front of Laval.

“And as his banker, you must know where he deposits his fortune. He is no longer your client, so where did he take it?”

Laval raised his head and croaked out a sound.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“He…he hid it so no one would find it. I…don’t…even know where it is. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“I find that a little hard to believe. You must have some idea where he could’ve stashed his loot. Take a guess.”

“I’m telling you, I…don’t know,” groaned Laval.

“All those paintings, sculptures, gold goblets, and gems. Difficult to smuggle out of France into Switzerland. Is this stuff hidden in the countryside somewhere?”

Laval grunted again and his head rolled from side to side.

“Colonel, may I suggest a new means of interrogation?” asked Voss, taking a bag out of a large red leather satchel on the floor.

“Let me guess: it’s something electrical, isn’t it? My men love all things electrical,” said Schlegal to Laval with great amusement.

“It’s a soldering iron,” replied Voss as he plugged the electric cord into a wall outlet. “It’ll take about two minutes to get ready.”

“I’m quite impressed with your initiative, Voss.”

“Since I’ve been posted in Paris, Colonel, I’ve worked over scores of men and women, and it was taking a toll on me physically. Sometimes I go home at night in great pain,” said Voss, like an old woman complaining about her bad knees. “I decided there must be a more technologically efficient way to get the job done.”

“Voss, I like initiative in an officer.”

“I’m afraid it’s not an original idea, Colonel. I saw it demonstrated in Warsaw about a year ago.”

“Very well, let’s get on with it.” Schlegal turned to Laval. “Just two simple questions. Where is Janusky, and where is his money? One last chance.”

Laval remained silent. Voss walked over to check whether he had passed out, but after slapping his face, Laval opened his eyes.

The lieutenant stepped forward and placed the soldering iron on the old man’s forehead. He gave out a scream that reverberated for what seemed like a minute. Schlegal nodded his head vigorously, greatly impressed with the results of the device. Voss pressed the iron all over Laval’s face, then tore open his shirt and went to work on his chest. Each scream was louder than the previous one.

“I think there’s one obvious place you’re overlooking,” said Schlegal as he sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette.

Voss smiled at his superior. He unbuckled Laval’s belt and opened his zipper to extract the old man’s penis.

“Make sure you wash your hands after all this, my boy. You don’t know where that thing has been,” said Schlegal in all seriousness.

“It reminds me of a shriveled prune,” said Voss. He placed the iron on the head of the penis and held it there. The scream became one long continuous wail.

When the noise became too much to bear, Schlegal signaled him to stop. He got up from the chair and placed his face inches from Laval.

“We have an unlimited amount of electricity, Laval, and there’re plenty of places on your fat, disgusting body we haven’t touched. So what do you say?”

No answer was given and Voss set upon Laval, but Schlegal suddenly stopped him.

“I think Monsieur Laval can spare one of his eyes, don’t you?”

Without a second’s hesitation, the lieutenant plunged the iron into Laval’s left eye.

“86 rue d’Assas, apartment 5C!” screamed Laval.

Schlegal nodded at Voss, who bolted from the room, shouting orders to soldiers waiting down the hall.

“Who was hiding him there, you bastard? Tell me and you walk out of here alive.”

“All I know is that he’s a rich gentile. I swear that’s all I know. Janusky wouldn’t tell me anymore.”

“A gentile, you say?”

“He’s hidden him in a couple places already.”

“Has he helped other Jews or was it just Janusky?” screamed Schlegal.

“There were others,” moaned Laval.

Schlegal yanked the old man’s head back by his hair. “Does he hide them in special secret hiding places?”

This got a reaction out of Laval. His one good eye widened in fear, and Schlegal knew he was getting somewhere.

“Tell me, Laval, or you’ll lose the other eye.”

Laval began to cry and wail. “God forgive me,” he moaned.

Schlegal lit a cigarette and sat on the desk.

“You’re quite lucky you gave me something of value. Or you’d be using a cane and dark glasses begging on the streets for the rest of your life, old boy.”

48

“Maybe I should’ve bumped up the arches in the center section? The roof line would’ve looked more dynamic,” said Lucien.

“An architect should never rationalize a change in purely aesthetic terms, you know that. He should give the client a pragmatic reason for doing it.”

Lucien nodded when he heard Herzog’s advice, then thought for a moment.

“If we raise the center section two meters, then the plant can accommodate a taller crane.”

“Excellent suggestion, Monsieur Bernard,” exclaimed Herzog. “Labrune, come over here, there’s a change I need you to make.” Herzog and Lucien met at the construction site in Tremblay almost daily to discuss the progress of the job. The meetings always involved Labrune, the elderly cantankerous contractor who was in charge of the whole project. He had been called out of retirement by the Wehrmacht to work for them, which he resented greatly. A veteran of the first war, he still hadn’t forgiven the Boche for using poison gas on him in 1916. Labrune walked slowly over to Colonel Herzog, cursing under his breath. He glared at Lucien and spit on the ground as he always did when he saw the architect. Lucien was well aware that the old goat hated him, but then all contractors hated architects because they made changes all the time. Labrune had had a fifty-year career of hating architects.

“Labrune, you move like an old man, get the hell over here,” yelled Herzog. Labrune proceeded at the same speed.

“I am an old man, Colonel. Or haven’t you noticed? What’s your all-important change?”

“Raise the center four arches two meters. It won’t take that much lumber, and it won’t put us behind schedule,” said Herzog.

“It’s no big deal, Labrune, you can easily handle this,” added Lucien, which drew the evil eye from Labrune, who snorted like a horse and looked down at the ground as he spoke.

“It’s not that easy, Monsieur Bernard. I have to thicken the arches in order to raise them, add more reinforcing. I need a structural sketch.”

“Mangin, our engineer, will get you one by tomorrow morning. No problem.”

Labrune glanced at Herzog, who nodded, and the old man stomped away in disgust.

“Motherfucker,” muttered Labrune.

“What did you say, Labrune?” shouted Herzog.

“I said I’ll be glad to make your change,” answered Labrune. “What the hell choice do I have? I either make the change or get shot on the spot, eh Mein Fuehrer?”