German officers were quartered in the affluent western section of Paris, an area that was closed to all French citizens except residents who lived there. Herzog had arranged for Lucien to get a pass to visit him.
Lucien was surprised by the décor of the German’s apartment. He’d expected curtains with a swastika pattern, busts of Hitler or at least a portrait of the Fuehrer in a heroic pose, maybe wearing knight’s armor. But it was wonderfully decorated with modernist paintings, sculpture, and modern furniture. The rugs were of a dynamic abstract design in bold colors of olive, terra cotta, red, and black. He was instantly drawn to a sleek, streamlined piece of sculpture made of shiny stainless steel.
“This is quite magnificent, Major,” said Lucien, careful not to touch the sculpture for fear of leaving fingerprints.
“It’s interesting that you’re drawn to my favorite piece, my Brancusi. A lot of his work has an almost phallic appearance. The American postal authorities once denied entry to one of his pieces because they thought it was a sex object.”
“Puritans,” said Lucien, who moved on to a painting of a grid of primary colors. “Is this a Mondrian?”
“A very small one, I’m afraid.”
Lucien took a few steps back and gave the German’s apartment a 360-degree sweep. It was an elegant dwelling built during Haussmann’s reign, with beautiful walnut paneling and a white plaster ceiling done in very fine low-relief work. But it was the juxtaposition of the modern artwork and moderne furnishings with the fine nineteenth-century architectural detailing that made the interior so unique. He was impressed and quite envious at the same time, realizing that a German had better taste than he did.
“What an incredible flat. I would’ve thought that German officers lived—”
“In a cold stone barracks with just a cot, table, and chair with a picture of Hitler on the wall?” Herzog said, smiling. “No, we’re allowed to secure our own quarters. This used to belong to a Jewish fellow who wouldn’t cooperate with the Reich. So he had to forfeit his property.”
“And where is he living now?” Lucien asked, realizing a millisecond after he spoke that it was an incredibly naive question.
“In somewhat less comfortable accommodations,” replied Herzog. He poured his guest a glass of cognac.
“Oh,” said Lucien as he took the glass from his host, who was pouring one for himself.
“I think you’re surprised by my taste in art,” said Herzog with a smile. “A bit avant-garde for a soldier of the Reich?”
“Well, I…” Lucien was thinking exactly that.
“I try to keep an open mind when it comes to collecting. Come, let me show you something that I’m especially proud of,” said Herzog, leading Lucien down a dark corridor.
Herzog switched on the overhead light and pointed to two small paintings on the wall. One was of a lush green landscape along a riverbank and the other was a portrait of a well-fed man in a black outfit and hat.
“This is my Corot,” said Herzog, nodding toward the landscape. “And my Franz Hals. So you see, Monsieur Bernard, not everything has to be decadent and modern.”
“They’re beautiful. Look at the brushwork on the trees,” exclaimed Lucien.
“Two extraordinary masters. No one can capture an expression like Hals.”
“They must have been quite expensive.”
“Not at all. A gentleman who was about to take a long trip didn’t need them anymore,” replied Herzog. “And he let me have them for almost nothing.”
Lucien could imagine the kind of trip the man was on.
“You’ve started quite a collection.”
Herzog laughed. “Just a modest beginning. But I hope to pick up more bargains in Paris. There’s an incredible collection owned by a Jew named Janusky whom the Gestapo is going crazy trying to find. I’d love to get my hands on the two Franz Hals portraits he’s supposed to have. But you can be sure Reich Marshal Göring will have first crack at the art. But I am expecting some very beautiful engravings by Dürer any day now.”
Lucien said nothing and looked down at his glass. He knew that the acquisition was from another man leaving on a “trip.”
Herzog raised his glass. “To great architecture and the architects who create it,” he said.
Lucien lifted his glass. He thought this was a good opportunity to kiss his client’s ass. After all, the Germans, not Manet, were his real clients. “To great architecture and the great clients who allow architects to create.”
Herzog seemed amused by Lucien’s toast and took a sip of his cognac. “Come and sit down,” he said, beckoning to a Barcelona chair designed by a fellow German, Mies van der Rohe.
The chair was quite comfortable, and Lucien crossed his legs and sipped his cognac. He was beginning to get into the spirit of the evening and relaxed a bit. “Did you get all the furniture here in Paris?” he asked, patting his hand on the seat.
“Just a few pieces, most of them were shipped from Hamburg where I was living before the war started,” said Herzog. “Since I’m going to be here for quite a while, I wanted to feel at home.” He seemed to expect that Lucien and all the rest of the French accepted this plain fact of life. The Germans were here to stay. Herzog reclined on a chaise lounge and reached for the bottle of cognac to refill his glass.
“Your pony chaise is very handsome. I met Le Corbusier in the ’30s. A very important talent,” said Lucien, even though he thought the man an arrogant shit.
“Indeed, I’ve driven out to see the Villa Savoye. I’d always wanted to see it. A tremendous building,” exclaimed Herzog. “Where is Le Corbusier these days? Switzerland?”
“He made it over the Pyrenees into Spain, I believe.”
“Architects who run away live to design another day, mm?”
“You’ve got a very fine eye for design, Major,” replied Lucien, changing the subject.
“Dieter. Please call me Dieter.”
“If you call me Lucien.”
“My father may have turned me into an engineer, but he couldn’t take away my love of architecture and design, Lucien.”
It bothered Lucien that a German could value such beautiful things—like an ape appreciating a string of rare pearls or an ancient Grecian red and black vase. They were monsters without a shred of decency, yet they could hold the same things in high esteem as a Frenchman could. It didn’t seem right.
“I brought some things from my time at the Bauhaus, but I purchased most of it over the years. It wasn’t that expensive, either. Most Germans think this stuff is decadent trash, and few people want it in their homes.”
“They prefer a romantic ticky-tacky landscape on the wall. Or a faux Louis XIV chair,” said Lucien with great resignation.
“Exactly. Pure garbage.”
“To garbage,” said Lucien before he drained his cognac. While the liquor oozed down his throat, he noticed a photo of a woman and child on a glass and steel end table. He had been debating whether Herzog was a family man or not.
“Your wife and daughter?” asked Lucien, nodding toward the picture.
Herzog got up from his seat, went over to the end table, and handed Lucien the photo.
“Yes, my wife Trude and my daughter Greta; she just turned nine.”
“Very nice. So does your wife share your modernist tendencies?” asked Lucien, curious because Celeste hated what he liked.
“Oh, yes, she’s a very talented graphic designer, but now she only designs propaganda material for the Reich. We’re hoping when the war ends, she’ll go back to real design.”
“You must miss them.”
“I haven’t seen them in nine months, but I get leave in a few weeks. I can’t wait to see my daughter,” replied the German with a sad look in his eyes. “I’ve collected many gifts to bring them.”
Herzog put back the photo. Most parents would next start boring the hell out of their guest by relating every school prize their kid had won in the last five years, but Herzog said nothing more.
&
nbsp; Herzog held the bottle toward Lucien for a refill. “Your factory design was quite impressive. The horizontal bands of glass and the way they butt into the concrete piers were magnificent.”
Lucien emptied his glass and immediately it was refilled. A warm glow within his chest was growing warmer by the minute. “Thank you…Dieter.”
“Those wonderful arches just soar through the space, and they can support all those cranes and hoists. Excellent work.”
There was nothing that Lucien—or any architect—liked better than flattery laid on with a trowel. Whether it came from a Frenchman or a Nazi, it was just as satisfying.
“I think you’ll be pleased with the next building,” Lucien slurred.
“I like that your architecture reflects its function with pure form.”
“Ah, I hope Colonel Lieber sees it that way.”
“Don’t concern yourself with Lieber. All he cares about is that the plants get built on schedule. And I’ll see to that.”
From the far end of the living room, a pair of paneled sliding doors parted, and a young German corporal appeared and stood at attention.
“Major, your supper is ready.”
“Thank you, Hausen. You can go back to the barracks. Come, Lucien, a rack of lamb is awaiting us.”
With a bit of difficulty due to all the cognac he’d already consumed, Lucien lifted himself from the Barcelona chair and joined his new soul mate for supper.
19
“Sol, I think I saw a light at the gate.”
Geiber knew his wife wasn’t the hysterical type. In fact, he admired her for always being so calm and levelheaded. So the minute she said this, Geiber dropped his book and went into action. When Miriam saw him leap out of the leather armchair, she immediately did what she was supposed to do in an emergency. They had only minutes to act. If they hesitated, it would mean certain death for both of them.
Geiber first ran to the kitchen, located on the first floor at the back of the great hunting lodge. He flung open the rear door and tossed an old felt hat on the stone path to the garden. Leaving the door wide open, he then sprinted up the kitchen service stair as fast as a sixty-eight-year-old could. Outside the second-floor master bedroom, he met Miriam, who was holding the small leather bag, packed weeks before with their forged papers, cash, and a change of clothing for both of them. He looked straight into her dark brown eyes and stroked her rouged cheek.
“Are you ready, my dear?”
“God, I hope this works,” said Miriam. Her hands were trembling terribly, and her knees threatened to give out at any second.
“Follow me,” whispered Geiber.
They hurried through the master bedroom to a flight of four carpeted steps that led to a study, and knelt down as if they were going to offer a prayer before it. Geiber placed his hands on the edge of the bottom step and slowly lifted up the entire stair, which was hinged at the upper floor level. It took all his strength to raise it high enough so that Miriam could slip under it with the bag. She crawled in and placed her frail body at the very back of the cavity, parallel to the steps.
“Are you in?” gasped Geiber, straining to hold up the stairs.
“For God’s sake, hurry, Sol.”
Geiber slid under the stairway, letting it fall back into place with a heavy thud. Sliding next to Miriam, he fastened two bolts that locked the stairs in place. He was breathing so heavily he thought he would pass out. His back was against Miriam’s chest, and he could feel her heart pounding. He moved the bag up by his chest, laid it on its side, and unlatched it. Miriam placed her arm over her husband’s body and tightly grasped his hand. She hid her face against the back of his head. For just a fraction of a second, it made him forget about the approaching danger.
Such a warm, comforting feeling, thought Geiber, like they were back in their big bed at home snuggling under the goose down duvet. It was mostly airless and pitch black in the cramped space under the stairs, but the mattress they were lying on was quite comfortable, and because the stairs were almost two meters wide, the Geibers could fully stretch out their legs. The underside of the steps was just centimeters from Geiber’s face, so close he could smell the wood. They could do nothing now but wait, seconds passing like hours.
“Our fate’s in God’s hands,” whispered Geiber. “They’ll be inside any second, and we can’t utter a sound. But there’s something I’ve never told you. And I’ve got to tell you now.”
“Now, Sol?”
“The first time I saw you was at L’Opéra Garnier. You were wearing a light blue gown; I couldn’t take my eyes off you. After the opera, I had my carriage follow yours to your house. I bribed your footman to tell me your name, and I sent you a bouquet of roses anonymously the next day.”
“You sent those roses. My father had a fit.”
“Yes, it was me.”
“I love you, you old fool.”
There was an enormous crash at the front door, the sound of splintering wood, then shouting. Simultaneously, the couple’s bodies jerked violently with fear. Men were running through the house yelling and cursing, their boots pounding on the wood planks of the lodge. They could hear furniture being overturned, tables crashing to the floor, bookcases yanked from walls, and cabinets violently emptied of their contents. Then what sounded like a stampede of horses came rushing up the main staircase. Men sprinted down the corridor and into the bedrooms. Miriam was so scared that she couldn’t think anymore. Shutting her eyes tight, she began to silently sob.
Soldiers entered the master bedroom, yanking open the closet doors, rifling through the dresser drawers and the armoire, and flipping over the huge bed. After a few minutes, they ran out of the bedroom.
“There’s no one here, Colonel,” someone shouted.
“Impossible,” answered a baritone voice. “Keep looking, they must still be around. Messier’s never been wrong yet. Check the backs of the closets for a false wall; that’s where we’ve found some before.” There had been a pause in the commotion when the colonel spoke, but now it resumed at an even more furious pace.
Suddenly, someone ran back into the master bedroom and stomped up the flight of steps over Miriam and Geiber. The stairs sagged under the impact of the man’s weight, almost touching Geiber’s nose. A wave of panic swept over them. With superhuman effort, Miriam stifled a scream, squeezing the life out of her husband’s hand. She felt her husband’s body tremble uncontrollably as if he were having an epileptic fit. The soldier stayed in the small study, pulling all the books off the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, sending some of them crashing down on the stairs. The Geibers flinched every time a book came down upon them. When the soldier finished with the books, he started ripping out the wooden shelving. He ran back down the stairs, where he was met by another soldier.
“Did you check behind the bookcase? They hide in spaces behind those shelves, you know.”
“What the hell did you think I was just doing?” yelled the soldier.
“Where the fuck are those kikes? I thought this would be an easy detail. Marianne is waiting for me in town.”
“Which one’s Marianne? You never said anything about her.”
“The one with the great jugs who stole that case of wine for me that time. You remember, don’t you?”
“What wine? You had wine and didn’t tell me?”
One of the soldiers sat down heavily on the steps. Geiber and Miriam could feel the stairs creak and sag directly above them. With a German’s body just ten centimeters away, their fright was unbearable. Miriam had almost passed out from fear and wished she would faint dead away to escape this torment. Both clenched their mouths shut with all their might. The tiniest sound would give them away.
“Christ, I’m beat running up all these goddamn steps. These houses are like fuckin’ museums. Hold up for a moment.”
“Better not let Schlegal see you sitting on your ass.”
“Fuck him and all Gestapo bastards.”
“You better
get the hell up, or your ass will be in Russia.”
“Just let me catch my breath. Schlegal’s downstairs, anyway.”
“Hurry up. I’m going down the hall here to look again.”
The soldier didn’t move from his spot on the stairs. The Geibers could hear the strike of a match, then smelled the faint aroma of a cigarette. As they waited and waited for the man to leave, the stress was too much to bear. To his horror, Geiber realized that he’d soiled himself. After about a minute, a strong smell filled the space. Then mercifully came the sound of a boot stamping out a cigarette butt on the floor. The steps creaked as the soldier rose from his seat.
“Jesus Christ, are you still here? Schlegal’s coming down the hall,” said a soldier.
“Do you smell something? Like shit?”
“You’re going to be shit if Schlegal sees you.”
“No, wait…I—”
“Stauffen, you goddamn moron,” a voice yelled out. “Get moving and look for those kikes! Did you check the attic?”
“No, Colonel, I was just—”
“Asshole. You should’ve done that first. Get the hell up there now.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
The Geibers could hear more commotion down the hall and in the attic. After fifteen minutes, a group of soldiers congregated outside the master bedroom. The colonel’s voice pierced the silence. “The back door was open. They must have gone out through the garden to a car at the rear of the property. But they won’t get far. All of you fan out in the garden and sweep the area. Find the cesspool and see if they’re in there. And don’t shoot them, did you hear what I said? I want them alive.”
The soldiers trudged down the main staircase and out the back door. There was complete silence, but the Geibers stayed where they were. The plan was to wait two hours before moving. It was like slowly waking up from a terrible nightmare, but it hadn’t been a surreal dream created by their subconscious minds but a horribly real event. They were emotionally exhausted, completely drained. As their breathing slowly returned to normal, both could feel that their clothes were soaked through with sweat, as if they had jumped into a lake. Even the mattress was drenched. While they waited, their bodies began to ache from being frozen in the same position. Geiber was lying in his own feces, but he wasn’t ashamed; all that mattered was that they had survived. He removed his hand from inside the bag and was relieved they wouldn’t be needing the revolver. In hindsight, he wished he’d accepted the pharmacist’s vials of cyanide.
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