The Paris Architect: A Novel

by Charles Belfoure

  “Herr Colonel, I believe the Reich has some unfinished business here,” Adele said in a soft little girl’s voice.

  Schlegal turned around to face her and laughed. He pulled off his shirt and dove onto the bed. They made love for hours, but through it all, Adele knew the Gestapo colonel’s mind was somewhere else.

  27

  Lucien had always hated Lieber for criticizing his work, but now he loathed the drunken German pig as he guided him through the dark empty streets. Drinking nonstop since 9:00 p.m., Lieber was completely plastered. The café had closed before midnight because of the curfew, so now, along with Herzog and Manet, he was trying to find Lieber another place to drink. Not another soul was on the streets. All the French had to be home and German enlisted men in their barracks, so now the streets belonged to German officers, who had no curfew. There was a complete silence in Paris that lasted from midnight to 6:00 a.m., broken only by the sound of the hobnailed boots of the German five-man patrols walking the streets or a single rifle shot or the spray of machine-gun fire in the distance. A car speeding by meant the Gestapo had picked up some unfortunate soul.

  Normally, Lucien avoided Lieber at all costs, but tonight he’d been lassoed into a party by Herzog, who wouldn’t take no for an answer because he too had been forced against his will to come. They’d been accompanied by three very drunk young French prostitutes, each carrying a bottle of vintage wine. The girls were from a brothel reserved for German use only, one of seventeen in Paris. The Reich worried obsessively about sex between the French and their soldiers because of VD, so it restricted sex to these whores, who were kept clean as a whistle by constant medical checkups.

  Lucien thought the three tarts were part of the wave of girls from the country who came to the city to escape the poverty brought on by the loss of their husbands and lovers. Céline, Jeanne, and Suzy (if those were their real names) all had a wholesome attractiveness quite different from the cheap, painted look of the usual Parisian streetwalker. He was impressed that they had cards that listed their services and prices in both French and German; their business cards were nicer than his. Their cackling and high-pitched laughter caused some residents on the street to switch on their lights and peer out from behind their curtains. Normally, the Germans were highly motorized, but tonight, for some reason, they were without a car, so the whole parade turned down rue de Rivoli. It was an unusually damp and cold night for September, and a light drizzle began.

  “Damn it, Bernard, we have to get inside. The girls are freezing their tits off. And we can’t have that. Find me a place, now,” Lieber ordered. The girls shrieked in agreement, and one kissed Lieber’s cheek.

  Lucien could see that Herzog, who clearly wanted to be home in bed, was desperate. “What street is this, Lucien?” he asked testily.

  “Rue de Rivoli,” snapped Lucien, who, with Manet, was holding up Lieber’s drunken body.

  “Manet, don’t you have an apartment on the rue du Renard?” asked Herzog. “That’s the next left, isn’t it?”

  Manet suddenly dropped Lieber’s arm, and the German slumped to the pavement, Lucien barely holding him up. Manet looked up and down the street, thunderstruck, as if just realizing where he was. The entire party fell silent, waiting for his response.

  Manet then smiled. “How do you happen to know that, Major? Have you been spying on me?” he asked.

  “The Wehrmacht thoroughly checks the backgrounds of all its contractors,” blustered Lieber. “We have to be sure we’re not dealing with a Jew or a Communist. You’re not a Jew, are you?”

  The girls shrieked with laughter at the question. Suzy planted a kiss on the cheek of the old man. “He doesn’t look Jewish to me, Maxie,” she said, stroking Manet’s nose.

  “Well, do you or don’t you have an apartment on the rue du Renard?” demanded Lieber.

  “Well…Let me see. Yes, this is rue de Rivoli and—”

  “Goddamn it, man, don’t you know where one of your own properties is? He must have soooo many he can’t keep track of them, poor boy.”

  The girls found Lieber’s comment uproariously funny.

  Manet shot a glance at Lucien, who now was also quite alert and completely panic-stricken.

  “Well, speak up, sir,” asked Lieber. “Which one is it?”

  “It’s…number 29,” Manet whispered.

  “You said 29, Monsieur Manet?” asked Herzog.

  “Yes, follow me,” said Manet. Lucien felt like running away down the street, but he kept his wits about him and held on to Lieber, dragging the dead weight across the street.

  “The night is still young,” Lieber shouted into the cold night air. “Ladies, don’t drop any of that precious nectar, we’ll need every ounce tonight.”

  The girls pressed the bottles to their bodies and laughed.

  When they reached number 29, Manet told them he’d have to wake the concierge and to wait inside the foyer for him. After banging on the door for almost thirty seconds, a drowsy and angry old woman answered the door. She was about to let loose a torrent of obscenities when she saw it was the owner. Manet shoved his way in and closed the door behind him. Minutes passed, and Lieber became upset.

  “What the hell is taking him so damn long? All he had to do was get the key.”

  Lucien knew exactly why it was taking so long. Manet was calling the Jews upstairs to warn them. There was no way he could get up to the apartment before the rest of them. Manet finally appeared from behind the door with key in hand. “I’m sorry for keeping you so long. Madame Fournier had misplaced the key.”

  “You should fire the stupid bitch,” Lieber said. “That’s what I would have done.”

  Herzog rolled his eyes and guided the colonel toward the lift. Luckily, it was at the fourth floor so they had to wait for it to come down. Lucien was praying that Lieber would pass out, but the fool unfortunately seemed to be getting his second wind.

  The group piled in the lift, and it struggled with the excessive load to make it to the fifth floor. Manet unlocked the door, and Lucien held his breath. But the apartment was dark and empty. Maybe no one had used it yet. While taking off his coat, he glanced at the back of the fireplace and couldn’t tell if it had been moved. It looked perfectly normal. Lucien smiled to himself. This design definitely topped the stair hideaway at the hunting lodge.

  “Ladies, let the drinking commence,” said Lieber. “Manet, there must be glasses in so fine a flat. Get us some, will you?”

  The apartment didn’t look lived in at all. No trace of anyone. But when Manet returned from the kitchen with a tray of glass tumblers, Lucien saw an unmistakable look of fear in his eyes. The Jews were here.

  The party made themselves at home on the expensive furniture, with Lieber stretching out on the sofa. Céline sat at the end with Lieber’s feet on her knees and she stroked his boots, commenting on the fine quality of the leather. Herzog sat in an upholstered chair at the other end of the room and looked at Lieber with undisguised disgust. When Jeanne came over to sit on the arm of his chair, he waved her away, and she joined Lucien in his armchair. “Manet, there must be some music here,” said Lieber.

  “I’ll try the radio, Colonel,” said Manet, who walked over to a fine stand-alone set against a wall and switched it on. Pleasant dance music flooded the large apartment. The French radio station that spewed mostly German propaganda had shut down for the night, but one could always get music from Switzerland and England, even though it was against the rules to listen to overseas channels.

  “Manet, your company is doing damn fine work for the Reich. Together, we’re going to produce a war machine that will supply our troops for years. Here’s to you, monsieur,” shouted Lieber, lifting his glass in the air toward Manet, who in turn raised his.

  “And you, Herzog, you’ll be a colonel by next year for your efforts for the Fatherland.”

  Herzog barely raised his glass in acknowledgment and resumed leafing through a book he’d gotten from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Si
tting on the arm of Lucien’s leather upholstered chair, Jeanne stretched out her long, slender legs across his lap and refilled her glass with wine.

  “How do you like these, lover?” she said patting her thighs.

  “Real beauties. Not many girls have silk stockings in Paris anymore,” said Lucien.

  “You just have to be special…and know the right people,” she said, looking in Lieber’s direction.

  “And I bet you know the right people in your line of work.”

  Jeanne’s raucous laughter hurt Lucien’s ears. “The Maison de Chat only allows officers, none of those cheap bastard enlisted men. And they know how to treat a girl,” she said, putting her glass to Lucien’s lips. This was real honest-to-goodness wine, and he drained the glass in a gulp. He smiled up at her pretty, heart-shaped face. He didn’t condemn her for cavorting with the Boche. Girls like her, who were excluded from respectable society in peacetime, exacted a kind of revenge by associating with the enemy, who now held all the power. The women wanted to lord it over those who’d looked down at them before the war.

  “Oooohh, someone’s thirsty. Want some more?”

  “Not just yet, love.”

  “So, what does a handsome man like you do for a living?” she asked, stroking Lucien’s wavy brown hair. He knew she would soon be steering him to a bedroom for services rendered at a very steep price.

  “I’m an architect.”

  “What’s that?” Her question brought a bemused look from Herzog.

  “I design buildings.”

  “Like an engineer?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Like an interior decorator?”

  “Forget it, let me have some more wine.” What did he expect, thought Lucien, if a respectable member of society didn’t know what an architect did, why would a whore? Suzy, in the armchair across from Lieber, vigorously rubbed her hands together and gave him a pouty look.

  “You’re cold, my love,” said Lieber. “Manet, it’s damn cold in here. You French don’t know shit about central heating. In Germany, our homes are warm and toasty. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here.”

  “It’s not that cold in here. It’s only the end of September,” protested Lucien.

  “The building furnace hasn’t been turned on yet,” said Manet. “The radiators aren’t working yet.”

  “Nonsense, there’s some wood in the fireplace,” said Lieber. “Light a fire so the girls can warm up.”

  28

  Manet, who was lifting a glass of wine to his lips, froze. A look of terror passed over his face then instantly disappeared. He glanced at Lucien, who laid his head against Jeanne’s arm and closed his eyes. Drunk as he was, Lieber sensed the tension in the room and set down his glass. He stared at Manet. Like all senior officers, he wasn’t used to being ignored.

  “Monsieur Manet, didn’t you hear me?” he inquired in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. “I asked you to light a fire for us.”

  Manet set his glass down and slowly walked over to the fireplace. He gazed at the logs in the andiron for a few seconds.

  “Yes, Maxie, a fire would be so romantic,” said Céline, who was giving Major Herzog the eye.

  “But, Colonel, it’s really not that cold at all in here,” offered Manet in a quiet voice. “Maybe once you have some more wine, you’ll warm up.”

  “Bullshit. That is a working fireplace, isn’t it?” Lieber said. “So what the hell is your problem?”

  “I seem to remember a problem with the flue. I was supposed to get a chimney sweep in, and I don’t think he ever cleaned it,” said Manet.

  Lucien glanced over at Herzog, who had put his book aside and was watching this exchange with great interest. The major, he knew, had grown fond of the industrialist and respected him, so he no doubt hated to see Lieber treat him this way. Herzog jumped up and went over to the fireplace.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur Manet. Let me start the fire. I’ll check the flue first.” Herzog turned the cast-iron handle to the right, squatted on his knees, and peered up the chimney. “I can see the stars, so it must be clean,” he said.

  He expertly lit some newspaper and kindling and had the fire roaring in seconds. The girls gathered in front of the fireplace, rubbing their hands and legs. Céline lifted her skirt above her waist, to the delighted shrieks of her two coworkers. Manet walked over to an armchair in the corner of the room and sat down in a dejected heap. He stared at the floor. Lucien slumped back in his chair and couldn’t bring himself to look at the fireplace.

  “That’s much better,” said Lieber, downing another glass of wine. “The girls can warm up now. Besides, they’ve got work to do.”

  All three whores laughed like crazy and began whispering to each other, deciding who would do whom tonight. Each one probably wanted Herzog, with his good looks, thought Lucien.

  ***

  Serrault knew that Manet would never talk the German out of lighting a fire. When he heard the strike of a match, he put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her tightly against him. Sophie laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

  “Why, Albert, why?” whimpered Sophie.

  “My dear,” he replied softly, giving his wife a hug.

  It was now a question of time—how long the Germans would stay and how long before the logs were ablaze. They had been fast asleep when Manet had warned them with six rings of the telephone, and they hadn’t had time to change out of their bed clothes. Their hiding space was actually quite roomy; they could stand completely upright with enough room in front and behind their bodies. Never did they think they’d actually have to use the hiding space. Only three days from now, they’d be in Switzerland. Serrault could only begin to imagine what was going on in Manet’s mind. Just sitting there watching the logs ignite. If he got up and revealed to the Germans that two people were hiding behind the fireplace, then all of them, including the architect, whose voice Serrault recognized, would be arrested.

  The inside of the hiding space was pitch black; he couldn’t see Sophie’s face, only felt the warmth of her body and her pounding heart. Music coming from a radio could be heard quite clearly. With his free hand, Serrault reached in front of him and touched the back of the false fire wall.

  “Albert, I’m so frightened. What are we going to do?”

  “Do you remember the winter we spent in Morocco—in Rabat? When was that?” whispered Serrault.

  “1908—no, 1909.”

  “Our suite overlooked the beach, and the first evening we were there, we didn’t go out. We stayed in and watched the sun drop below the horizon. Do you remember the incredible color it cast on the sea?”

  “It was such a beautiful intense shade of red, almost an orange red. Yes, you’re right; it was incredible. I’d never seen such a color.”

  “It’s funny how things stay in one’s mind. Like it happened just yesterday. That’s how vivid a memory it was.”

  “I think Morocco was the most beautiful place we ever visited, don’t you?”

  “Even the desert had this magnificent beauty in its desolation. It was breathtaking.”

  “And at night, there was that blanket of stars, and it seemed to be right on top of us.”

  “You could almost reach up and pull one down,” said Serrault.

  “And put it in your pocket and take it home,” said Sophie with a quiet laugh.

  It was just the faintest of scents, as the smoke seeped through the edges of the false wall, but Serrault recognized it as ash, a wood he had used for his fires at home. After a few minutes, the blackness of the space became dusty with smoke as if someone had beaten out a dirty rug.

  “Yes, of all the places we’ve visited, Morocco may have been the most beautiful,” said Serrault, feeling that Sophie was beginning to wheeze. Her breathing became labored, and her chest heaved in and out. Serrault’s throat seized up as if he had swallowed cotton.

  “I loved walking through…the bazaars, all the wonderful sights and…sounds, right
out of the…Arabian nights,” replied Sophie with great difficulty. Her speech had become a series of gasps.

  “I still carry that Moroccan leather wallet around, can you believe that?”

  “Of course, it’s so…beautiful with the red leather…and gold inlay.”

  The air was almost gone now, and thick smoke filled the chamber. Their eyes began to burn and water. Sophie started gagging and coughing, but no matter how hard she tried to stifle her cough with her hand, it came spilling out. Serrault’s coughing began and wouldn’t let up. He felt for her face and leaned down to give her a long kiss.

  “I couldn’t have asked for a better a wife.”

  “And God couldn’t have given me a better husband.”

  Serrault took out the handkerchief from Sophie’s dressing gown and placed it in her mouth while she kept her head against his chest. He placed his own handkerchief in his mouth.

  ***

  As the blaze died down, the wood glowed a reddish orange and smoldered away. Meanwhile, the party dragged on for another fifteen minutes, until Lieber vomited all over the beautiful scarlet and tan Persian rug and finally passed out. Immediately, Herzog called his office for a staff car. Then, with Manet’s and Lucien’s help, he dragged Lieber into the lift, shoving the three tarts in behind. Lucien declined the major’s offer of a ride and waited for the lift to descend. Manet had rushed into the kitchen to fetch a pot of water and doused the fire, then, with Lucien’s help, dragged out the false wall.

  “They’ll be all right, monsieur. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine,” Lucien said in a confident tone as they pulled away the wall.