The Paris Architect: A Novel

by Charles Belfoure

“Thank you, Colonel. But it is Monsieur Bernard’s building. His fine design gives us a most efficient facility,” said Herzog, nodding toward the architect.

  Lieber barely acknowledged Lucien. “Yes, an interesting building, monsieur.”

  When a client said a building was interesting, it meant he didn’t like it but didn’t have the nerve to say so outright. He smiled at the colonel and bowed his head slightly. His hatred of the man had increased exponentially since the night at rue du Renard. But as Manet had repeatedly told him, there was nothing to be done about it. Lieber wasn’t going away.

  “Now Reich Minister Speer, there’s a great architect,” exclaimed Lieber. “The Fuehrer’s personal architect. He’s designed some incredible buildings. The great dome in Berlin will hold two hundred thousand people. His new Reichstag is an incredibly beautiful structure.”

  Herzog, who was standing behind Lieber, rolled his eyes, and Lucien looked down at his shoes, trying to suppress a smile. Speer’s design for Berlin was an over-scaled, pompous display of egomania. Hitler, who had twice failed to get into the Royal Academy of Art in Vienna when he was a young man, had always harbored the wish to be an architect and took a personal interest in designing the new Berlin. Lucien didn’t fault Speer for designing to please the Fuehrer. Maybe Speer secretly hated the neoclassical style that Hitler loved. All architects kissed ass to get commissions; it was part and parcel of the job. Lucien had seen examples of Hitler’s art and frankly thought he had an innate talent. He would’ve hired him to do a rendering of one of his buildings. Just think how the world would’ve turned out if Hitler had gotten into art school, thought Lucien.

  31

  “What do you mean, you’re not interested in seeing my building?”

  Celeste kept her back turned to Lucien, vigorously washing a dinner plate in the sink. Lucien walked up to her and spoke directly into her right ear. There was a time when he would’ve planted a kiss on that slender neck, but that time had long since passed.

  “I said…what do you—?”

  “You heard me the first time,” Celeste said.

  Lucien turned and sat back down at the kitchen table and began to play with the little white enameled scale they used to weigh portions of their food. All Parisians had one, so they could stretch their meals as much as possible. He pressed his finger down on the metal pan and the dial read 200 grams. The rage was building inside of him, but he decided he wasn’t going to lose his temper this time.

  “All right, you don’t have to see it. But can you at least have the courtesy of giving me your reason for not wanting to come with me?”

  “I don’t want to be seen with a collaborator.”

  “You’re calling me a collaborator?”

  “You and that Manet, you’re profiting from the misery of the French people. Helping Germans to kill our allies. And the worst thing is that you enjoy doing it. You throw your heart and soul into those goddamn projects. And you’re always kissing that German major’s ass. You spend so much time with that guy that I think you may secretly be a queer.”

  “Did you happen to notice that we eat three meals a day, have decent clothes, and don’t have to scrounge around for the basic necessities of life?” Lucien shot back, still keeping the pent-up rage from spewing out like a geyser.

  “But at what price, Lucien?”

  “Are you saying I’m a traitor?”

  Celeste put down her dish rag and hesitated a moment before answering, which infuriated Lucien. He wanted her to instantly say that it wasn’t true.

  “No, traitor’s not the right word. You’re a sort of an architectural Mephistopheles. You know, you’ve sold your soul to the devil in order to design.”

  Lucien didn’t react but sat there absorbing the word “Mephistopheles,” repeating it in his mind. He didn’t know what to say to defend himself.

  “So don’t ask me to go see your buildings again. I won’t go.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t trouble you. After all, you never bothered to see my work before the war, so what the hell’s the difference.”

  “You’ll be damn lucky if France doesn’t find you guilty of being a collaborator after the war. The disgrace…and you could be hanged.”

  “Knock off the dramatics. No one’s going to be hanged because I’m not helping the Germans; I’m doing buildings that will help France recover after the war.”

  “Nice rationalization—or should I call it fantasy? Your buildings have swastikas on them, never forget that.”

  “You don’t know a goddamn thing, woman. I am fighting the Nazis.”

  “You? That’s a joke.

  “I’ve saved French lives.”

  “The only life you care about is your own.”

  “Bullshit! I saved two Jews,” Lucien said vehemently.

  An awful silence enveloped the kitchen. He knew he’d made a horrible mistake. A look of disgust began to form on Celeste’s face. She walked over to the table and sat in the chair across from him. Celeste swallowed hard.

  “Lucien, have you gone mad? Tell me you didn’t help any Jews. Don’t you know you’ve signed our death warrants? Tell me you’re lying.”

  “I can’t tell you any more.”

  “The Gaumont family on the rue Rousselet were all shot for hiding that little Jewish kid. Just for pretending a four-year-old boy was a Christian relative. The mother, the father, the grandparents, and all their kids are dead. All for some stupid self-righteous notion about helping one’s fellow man.”

  “Maybe it isn’t so stupid.”

  “In wartime, Christian brotherhood takes a backseat to saving one’s own skin. It’s not pretty or noble, but it’s the cold hard truth.”

  “That wasn’t why I did it.”

  Celeste smiled. “I wondered where that money came from. I knew it wasn’t from the Nazis. They don’t pay their collaborators that well. It must have been a big temptation to have all that money in your pocket. To buy nice things for you, me, and your mistress.”

  Lucien, who had been holding his head in his hands, looked up at Celeste.

  “You idiot,” said Celeste. “A wife always knows.”

  “I did it for us, whether you believe it or not.”

  “I don’t believe it. But I am impressed that you played both sides. Getting money from the Jews and designing your beloved architecture for the Boche. I guess you can have your cake and eat it too. But leave it to you to screw yourself in both directions. You’re either going to be killed by the Gestapo for helping Jews or killed for being a collaborator. I don’t know exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into—I don’t want to know. I could put up with that slut you have on the side, but not this. I’m not going to be tortured or deported because of your foolishness.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m leaving you.”

  “You’re what?” Stunned, Lucien shot up from his chair and looked down at his wife.

  “You heard me. Our marriage was finished anyway. It was a bad match from the beginning. To use one of your dumb architecture metaphors, the marriage was built on a weak foundation, and it just crumbled.”

  “In war you have to make hard decisions. I—”

  “And you made the wrong decisions. No matter how you look at it, you’re screwed. Stop fooling yourself, Lucien; you’re not a man of high moral fiber. It’s just like I said before—an architectural Mephistopheles.”

  Lucien walked to the tall kitchen window that overlooked the courtyard. Except for a scrawny black cat prowling at its edge, the space was deserted.

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?” he answered irritably, his back toward her, bracing for more abuse to be hurled at him.

  “I’ve met someone,” she said in a soft quiet voice.

  It was as though someone had hit him on the back of his head with a shovel. He almost fell forward. Lucien placed his hands on the sides of the window frame and dropped his head. After a minute, he walked out of the kitchen t
o the foyer closet and grabbed his tweed jacket. Slamming the door behind him, he ran down the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. He was so beside himself with anger that it took him almost five minutes to notice he’d walked ten blocks along the rue Saint-Denis. Three hours later, when he returned to the apartment, Celeste and her clothes were gone.

  32

  “Don’t lie to me, Gaspard. You’re not leaving me for another woman.”

  “One of my students. We’ve…”

  Juliette Trenet walked up to her husband and looked into his eyes. He immediately looked away.

  “I wish it were one of your students,” Juliette said. “Then I could bear the heartbreak.”

  Gaspard said nothing, gazing at the oriental rug in the vestibule of their apartment.

  “Professor Pinard called you into his office, didn’t he?”

  “No, that’s not…”

  “And he gave you a choice—me…or your job.”

  “Juliette, please…”

  “And you chose your professorship in medieval literature.”

  Gaspard, a short, handsome man with light brown hair, stepped back from Juliette.

  “All because Vichy and the Nazis decreed that because my grandmother—whom I never even met—was Jewish…I’m now officially Jewish.”

  Juliette went over to the coat rack and held up her forest-green flannel blazer, which had a yellow felt star on its front breast pocket. “Even though I’ve never set foot in a synagogue or know a single word of Hebrew.”

  “The way they decide who’s a Jew is ridiculous.” Gaspard shook his head. “A priest at a parish in Ménilmontant was classified a Jew.”

  “I was fired from a job I loved because I’m a Jew. And now the only man I’ve ever loved is leaving me because I’m a Jew.”

  “It’s not…”

  “Please, please tell me this isn’t happening, Gaspard,” Juliette cried out. “That I’m just having a terrible nightmare. For God’s sake, wake me up.”

  Juliette placed her hand on the lapel of his tweed jacket. Gaspard stepped away from her until his back was against the wood-paneled apartment door.

  “You know, I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you at Jean’s party,” said Juliette. “So handsome. And when we started talking, I knew right then how brilliant you were. Remember?”

  “Of course, I remember. And you won my heart in an instant. For a woman to be so pretty and to have a doctorate in bacteriology doing such important research at the university,” replied Gaspard. “I was so happy to find you.”

  “All the wonderful trips we took and all the good times we’ve had together in the last five years. The parties we gave.”

  “Why, yes,” said Gaspard with a smile.

  “Then please stay, my love. Together, we can get through this,” Juliette pleaded with tears welling up in her eyes.

  A pained expression replaced her husband’s smile.

  “I…just can’t do it, Juliette. I can’t.”

  “Is it the thought of us being penniless? Or the loss of your position?” Juliette started toward him but stopped. “Do you think you’ll be sent to Drancy with me?”

  Gaspard’s reply was an agonizing silence.

  Juliette put her head in her hands. “Please don’t do this,” she begged. She wanted to run up to him, put her arms around his waist, and bury her face in his broad chest as she’d done in the past when she was upset or sad.

  Gaspard’s fair complexion was now flushed with shame. He turned and placed his hand on the door handle. Without saying a word, Juliette grabbed hold of his sleeve, and Gaspard shook his arm to get loose of her as he opened the door. With a furious tug, he finally freed himself and slammed the door.

  “Come back,” Juliette yelled after him. “Please!”

  She stood staring at the door, tears streaming down her face. She walked into the salon where she sobbed uncontrollably and loudly, not caring who might hear her.

  God, I married a coward, she thought. But it doesn’t matter. I still love him!

  Juliette sat down in an armchair and tried to calm herself. She gently rubbed her belly. She and her baby were now totally alone in the world.

  ***

  Six weeks later, as Juliette sat in the empty lion’s den, the memory of that terrible day still played over and over in her mind. Every time she thought of Gaspard’s shocking betrayal, she felt like crying. Time hadn’t lessened the pain in the least. She had loved her husband so much…and then to see this handsome, intelligent man turn into a frightened little boy who ran away.

  Everything had come down on them so suddenly. First, Juliette lost her position at the university where they both worked, then came the unexpected pregnancy. Gaspard hadn’t seemed truly happy when she told him the news, though for her sake, he’d tried to seem so. Just after the surrender, when they’d seen a couple pushing a pram, Juliette remembered he’d said that no one should bring a child into a hell like the Occupation. She knew it wasn’t the best time to have a baby, but she was still overjoyed; being a mother would always trump her career, no matter how successful she became.

  Gaspard had loved being a professor. More than a job, it was his whole identity. If he were fired, the loss of the prestige and his place in elite intellectual circles, she realized, would be even more devastating than the loss of income. A full professor at only thirty-two with a highly praised book on twelfth-century epic poetry, he was admired and respected by everyone at the university, even outside the history and literature departments. A shining star in the academic universe. Juliette had really never understood how much it all meant to Gaspard. Much more than his wife…and his own child meant to him.

  Because Juliette didn’t consider herself a Jew, she found little solace in the fact that thousands of Jews had been kicked out of universities throughout France. Or that hundreds of gentile husbands in Paris had abandoned their Jewish wives when faced with the same situation as Gaspard. They too knew they couldn’t bear the hardship, poverty, and threat to their lives that suddenly came with being married to a Jew.

  The lingering smell of lion piss on top of her morning sickness had made Juliette even more nauseous. Still, she knew she was very lucky to have found this hiding place. Just a week after Gaspard had left, Monsieur Ducreux, her landlord, had showed up at the door of her apartment and ordered her to get out right then and there. A man who had been friendly and cordial to her every day of the five years she had lived there now treated her like a complete stranger. Waving an official-looking paper in her face, he claimed he could evict her. Juliette didn’t argue but just replied in a quiet voice that she needed an hour to pack and calmly shut the door. After being turned out, she had been able to stay with her former lab assistant, Henri Leroy, and his family in their small apartment. After a few days, a neighbor down the hall knocked on the door and started asking questions, and Juliette knew it was time to move on. Henri had been a loyal colleague for seven years, and she had no intention of having his family suffer on her account. When Juliette told Henri she had nowhere else to go, he told her he wouldn’t abandon her. In desperation, he had asked his cousin, Michel Dauphin, who also refused. His wife, he said, would never risk her life to help anyone, let alone a Jew. But Dauphin was a kind-hearted man, and he had offered a temporary solution.

  He was a zookeeper and told his cousin that Professor Trenet could hide for a while in one of the unused cages in the section of animal houses that were completely shut up. Despite the food shortages, the zoo was kept up during the Occupation, mainly for the benefit of the German soldiers. The animals ate better than most Parisians. Now Juliette was living in a concrete den behind the empty lions’ cage at the zoo. It was the enclosed space where the lions slept and ate when they weren’t walking around in the cage in front of the public. Even lions want their privacy occasionally, thought Juliette. Out of her savings, Juliette gave Dauphin five thousand francs, even though the man hadn’t asked for payment. If Juliette was found, the zookeep
er would be arrested too, so she had insisted.

  Dauphin, a short, rotund man in his sixties, brought Juliette food and drink every night without fail. She knew he was spending the five thousand to take care of her. Dauphin, she discovered, had three grown daughters of his own and knew what a pregnant woman looked like, so no one had to tell him he was feeding two people. She could see that Dauphin devoted a lot of effort to preparing her meals. Juliette ate meat, chicken, potatoes, carrots, and beets, all thoroughly cooked and served in a covered metal platter. With all of her meals came a large cup of milk. He had also supplied a big thick mattress with a sheet for her bed.

  As a bacteriologist, Juliette knew how important it was to keep clean from germs to protect Marie or Pierre (her baby was to be named after her heroine Madame Curie or her husband and, of course, grow up to be a scientist). Dauphin obliged by providing abundant amounts of soap and water so she could bathe. And as a man who was used to cleaning out lion and elephant excrement, he cheerfully dumped out Juliette’s slop bucket daily. The problem with the space was that a human could not stand upright in it. Juliette sat the whole day and was only able to walk around in the open cage at night.

  One evening, after Dauphin brought her a meal and some clean clothes, Juliette asked him why he was putting his life in so much danger. His answer stunned her. “Oh, madame, you don’t know how good it makes me feel about myself to help a human in this time of evil.” The zookeeper, who probably had no more than a few years of schooling, had a far more profound sense of morality, Juliette realized, than many of the highly trained scientists she used to work with.

  Sitting in her cage by herself, day after day, Juliette sometimes found her loneliness unbearable. She often placed her hand on her belly and talked about her happy childhood in Lyon to Marie or Pierre. Sometimes she sang her baby her favorite songs. During the day, by placing heavy canvas over the den opening, Juliette could burn candles, which enabled her to read and write. She tried to keep her mind occupied by pretending she was on a sabbatical where she could concentrate on theoretical work. On notebooks provided by the good Dauphin, she scribbled formulas and ideas then stared off into space thinking and thinking. She did some preliminary work that she hoped would one day be the basis of a research paper.