“Enemies of the Reich, I told you,” muttered the man with the glasses as he entered the living room.
“Ah, you mean Jews. Well, there’s got to be at least five or six hiding in here right now. Keep looking, you’ll find them. I can tell you if you’re getting hot or cold, if you like.”
The man with the glasses didn’t find this amusing.
“You’re ice cold, old boy…a little warmer…nope, now you’re getting colder.”
He started to search the hall closet. Bette kept all the children’s toys and books hidden in a compartment at the rear of her closet in her bedroom. Boxes and boxes of junk were piled against it.
“Wait a minute,” Bette shouted, and the men stopped in their tracks. “There’s one up on top of the chandelier. Look, don’t you see him? He’s right above you. A Jew with a really big nose.” She shrieked with laughter.
Bette could see that the Gestapo officers knew they were wasting their time, but being efficient Germans, they continued a cursory search anyway. The one with the big ears went back into the bedroom and opened the closet door. This made Bette uneasy, and she felt she had to act.
“You know, since you’re here, you boys can do me a favor. Wait right here.” She went to a stack of boxes in the corner of the living room and pulled the lids off two boxes. The men watched her with great interest as she took out a long burgundy evening gown and a white one of the same length.
“Which one should I wear tonight? I need a man’s opinion.” Bette placed the white gown against her body. In the swaying motion of a runway model, she walked toward them and stopped then repeated the walk with the other gown. “After all, we girls wear these things to please our men. Well?”
“It’s quite elegant, mademoiselle. Of course on you, they both look wonderful,” stuttered the man with the glasses.
“Oh, you’re sweet. But which one? Red or white?” asked Bette.
“Definitely the red,” opined the man with the big ears.
“So, you’re both quite certain?” Bette held the burgundy gown at arm’s length to give it a final inspection.
“Yes,” both men said in unison.
“All right, if you gentlemen say red, then red it is. You’ve been a great help to me this afternoon, and I’m going to reward you.”
Bette was sure that the same fantasy flashed in both of the Gestapo officers’ minds and that they were disappointed when she threw the gown aside and walked over to the liquor cabinet.
“Two cognacs coming up. And don’t you dare say you don’t drink on duty.”
Bette delivered the drinks to her guests, who were most grateful.
“I’m so sorry you couldn’t find any Jews. Usually, the place is crawling with them—they’re reading the Old Testament, counting their money.”
The men looked at each other and laughed, gulping down their drinks.
“There must have been a misunderstanding, madame,” the one with big ears said. “We’re so sorry for bothering you. I hope you’re not upset with us.”
“Not at all, these things happen all the time. You boys were just doing your job.”
“You’re most understanding. We’ll be on our way. We’ve taken up enough of your time.”
Bette put a hand on each of their shoulders and guided them to the door as if they were blind, their eyes craning desperately for a last look at her. Once the door was shut, she leaned her back against it and let out a sigh. Keeping her ear to the door, she waited until she heard them leave the building. Bette headed straight for the liquor cabinet; she needed a stiff bracer to calm herself down. After someone had called to tip her off about the Gestapo raid, Bette barely had ten minutes to prepare—to hide the children and their belongings and get undressed.
She looked over at the windowsill and smiled. Emile and Carole hadn’t uttered a peep. Her heart was brimming with love for them. What brave kids they were. Bette tapped three times on the sill, and Emile, with great dexterity for a six-year-old, unfastened the inside latches. She lifted up the sill to see her children still lying on their sides and holding each other tight. They both looked up at her and smiled. Bette was on the verge of crying, but she held it in and reached down to gently lift Carole out.
“Come, my little bunnies; it’s safe now. No one will hurt you.”
She cradled the little girl, running her hand through her soft brown hair. Emile crawled out by himself and hugged her thigh, not wanting to let go. Bette gazed down into the hiding place that Lucien had designed. He had saved her children, and she now loved him more than ever. Bette wanted to spend the rest of her life with Lucien.
Finally Emile let go of her thigh. “Aunt Bette, aren’t you cold in your underwear?”
59
Alain knew that Lucien was heading for a Jew hideout. He was taking an incredibly circuitous route to discover if anyone was following him. Alain would have done the same thing if he had been in Lucien’s place. But then, Alain would never do anything as insane as hiding Jews.
Lucien had strolled at a very leisurely pace through the Tuileries Gardens then over to the Place de la Concorde, where he circled the obelisk twice before heading north on the rue Royale. When he got to the Church of La Madeleine, he circled that twice, pretending to admire its neoclassical features, then went west on the rue Saint-Honoré until he turned right on the rue d’Anjou, then left on the rue de Surène. As soon as Alain turned the corner, he remembered that the last time he tailed Lucien, he’d lost him on the rue des Saussaies, which was the next street over. He kept close behind him as he walked down the rue des Saussaies. Two doors before the intersection of rue Montalivet, Lucien stopped and lit a cigarette. He backed into a doorway and looked intently at Gestapo headquarters across the street. Alain had made his way across the street, where he could get a clear view of his boss. With the quickness of a cat, Lucien darted out onto the sidewalk and in through the door of number 12.
Alain sprinted across the street to the side of the entry and opened one of the double doors to peek inside. He caught sight of Lucien’s left shoe as it stepped on the first stair riser. Alain slid inside the foyer and hid by the side of the stairway. He was relieved to see that the concierge was not about. He could hear Lucien’s quick steps as he ascended the stairs. When Lucien was up to the first floor, Alain started his ascent, hugging the wall, keeping out of sight in case Lucien looked down into the open stairwell. As Lucien reached the second floor, Alain was just a flight below him.
At the third floor Lucien walked over to an apartment door and knocked three times, then three times again. Alain was lying flat against the slope of the stair with his head peeking over the edge of the first riser at the landing when Lucien entered the apartment. He waited a few seconds then went right up to the door. He heard men in the distance talking, but the thick door muffled their voices. Even putting his ear to the panel didn’t help. He backed away from the door to take note of the apartment number, 3A, and quickly descended the stairs.
Out in the street, he closely examined the building, counting out where the third floor was. With an architect’s eye, he knew that the apartment looked over the street. He walked across the rue des Saussaies to get a better view of the building, but stood back in a doorway just in case Lucien looked out the windows, which were all tightly shuttered.
Alain started to imagine where Lucien would hide the Jew, but without being in the apartment, it was impossible to guess. Was it another fireplace recess? Or under a floor? The Jew probably wasn’t in there yet. Lucien had gone there today to check out the hiding place and give his approval before the Jew was brought in, which most likely would happen at night. There was no way Alain would be able to get into the apartment after everyone left. Bribing the concierge was a possibility, but whoever arranged all these things would have made sure he or she was honest. Showing up there and pretending to be on an errand from Lucien’s office wouldn’t work—all the workmen would know something was amiss. If this was a film, Alain would pick the lock and l
et himself in at night, but he didn’t know how to do that.
He decided to wait until Lucien and the others came out. Because the Gestapo had spies all over the city, he was sure that the men would leave one by one, so as not to call attention to themselves. It was quite clever of them to do this just ten meters from Gestapo headquarters. Who would even imagine such a thing? At least Alain could see who else was involved. But there could be a rear entrance—these big buildings all had one—so it was possible he wouldn’t see anyone come out. Stepping out from the doorway, Alain searched up and down the street for a café where he could sit and watch, but there wasn’t any. He had to stay where he was and wait. The dusk had now turned to night so he could stay better hidden in the doorway.
Then, after only fifteen minutes, Alain saw Lucien open the door slowly and quickly walk down the street. After another fifteen minutes, Alain was impatient to leave, no longer interested in discovering the conspirators. He was hungry and thirsty and had to go to the bathroom. As long as Lucien was arrested by the Gestapo, that would be satisfaction enough. He’d disappear into thin air like thousands of others in Paris.
He stamped out his cigarette and was about to leave when he saw Monsieur Manet come out of the building. The businessman was evidently the brains of the outfit, as they would say in an American film. Manet walked slowly down the rue des Saussaies, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. This fool was throwing away his life and fortune on such a dangerous, foolhardy scheme, Alain mused. To coordinate all these hiding places must be quite an undertaking. Alain had met and talked to Manet many times in the office about the details of his factories. He was a true gentleman from the upper classes, so it mystified Alain why such a person would help a bunch of Jews. It couldn’t be for the money, as he was already one of the richest men in Paris. Maybe he was being blackmailed into doing it. He knew damn well that Lucien, who got paid nothing for his work for the Germans, was in it for the money.
As Manet strolled toward the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, he passed a decrepit old truck parked at the curb and raised his walking stick to his shoulder. Two heavyset men in their thirties got out of the truck and walked to the back. They pulled out an enormous steamer trunk, and with one man at each end, they carried their heavy load up the street. Alain laughed aloud; he knew what was packed in the trunk. The Jew must have been a real big one, as the two men labored to get him through the doors of number 12. Elated, Alain could now make the call to his uncle. It would have been senseless to send in the Gestapo if he didn’t know that the Jew was actually in there. They would be on a wild goose chase, searching an empty apartment, embarrassing his uncle in front of his superiors. But now when the Gestapo came to call, they would have their Jew. Alain was itching to get to the telephone box on the rue du Faubourg, but he waited. He wanted to give the men time to unload the Jew. Thirty minutes later, the two men and a much lighter-looking trunk came back out into the street.
Alain felt like sprinting down the street, but he fought the urge and walked slowly. He was giddy with joy at the image of the Gestapo beating down Lucien’s door in the middle of the night and arresting him. It was almost eight o’clock and people had cleared off the streets, so the rue du Faubourg was deserted when he got to the telephone booth. Because it was getting late, he knew his uncle was no longer in his office at 11 rue des Saussaies, so Alain would try him at home before he went out for his usual night of socializing. He deposited the coins and was so excited he could barely dial the number. To his great relief, his uncle answered the phone.
“Hello, this is—”
Alain stopped in mid-sentence. Less than a meter away from him stood Pierre. He stared up into Alain’s eyes with such intense hatred that Alain dropped the receiver and stepped back into the box. Pierre then smiled at Alain but said nothing. Alain looked at him in disbelief, as if he was seeing an apparition. Alain regained his composure, and a wave of anger engulfed him.
“What are you doing here, you little shit?” He felt insulted that this useless orphan was interrupting a joyous occasion. The receiver was dangling in air and a voice kept coming from it, asking, “Who is it, who’s there?”
“What the hell do you want? Answer me, asshole,” Alain demanded as he grabbed the receiver and brought it up to his ear.
Still looking straight into Alain’s eyes, Pierre lunged forward. Alain felt a strange burning sensation in his chest. He looked down at his chest and saw a kitchen knife embedded to the hilt. He gasped and dropped the receiver, grabbing onto the call box for support. He tried to call out for help, but the words couldn’t make it out of his mouth. It was as if his throat had seized up. Blood rushed from the wound and soaked the front of his white shirt as he slowly dropped to the ground. Alain’s eyes bulged out in shock; he still couldn’t call out. Pierre watched in silence, not a shred of emotion on his face. Alain crumpled into a ball on the floor of the booth, dead. Pierre kicked the body with his foot to make sure he was gone, then hung up the receiver. He knelt down to pull Alain’s billfold from his jacket and slowly walked away.
As he walked home in the darkness, Pierre knew he had had no choice in the matter. Especially after finding out what Lucien was doing. If Lucien was saving his people, then he had to save Lucien. He was quite proud that he’d protected his protector this time—and he’d done it all on his own like a man should.
60
“Good evening, Monsieur Bernard; so good to see you again.”
From the floorboard in the rear of the moving car, Lucien looked up at his host, whom he recognized as the Resistance leader he’d met weeks ago. A few minutes earlier, while walking down a stretch of alley, Lucien had noticed a dark green sedan pull alongside of him. He knew it wasn’t a Gestapo car and paid it no mind until two men jumped out and dragged him by his arms into the backseat. The move was perfectly choreographed, taking only two seconds to accomplish.
“Please, sit up here with me, so we can talk,” said the old man, patting the seat.
Lucien pulled himself up and onto the seat. He smoothed out his suit and adjusted his tie. He was brimming with indignation but kept his temper in check. It was a bad sign that the Resistance had contacted him again and in so dramatic a fashion.
“Monsieur Bernard, we have a matter that only you can help us with.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can,” muttered Lucien, vividly remembering that the last time they met he’d been accused of being a collaborator.
“We have instructions from London to intensify our efforts in sabotage.”
“That’s great. So go cut some telephone lines. I wish you the best of luck. Now let me out at the next corner if you please.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. Our instructions direct us to disrupt German war production.”
“So have the workers mess up the manufacturing process. A little distortion in the milling or the cutting of a piece of materiel will do the trick. And the Boche will never know until they actually fire a shell or shoot a pistol. It’s foolproof. That’s the best advice I can give you, so will you let me out?”
“That’s not exactly what we have in mind, Monsieur. We’re planning something a bit more drastic.”
“So what can you do?”
“We’ll blow up a factory. The Allies aren’t in a position to bomb war production in France yet, so we’ll do it.”
Lucien burst out laughing. What a bunch of self-deluded fools. Every action they carried out, no matter how small, meant reprisals by the Germans. A munitions train gets diverted in the wrong direction, causing an hour’s delay, and twenty innocent Frenchmen are shot.
“You’re raving mad. You know how many people will be shot for something like that? At least a thousand,” shouted Lucien.
The old man gazed out the window. “Yes, there’s a price to be paid for every act of resistance, but in the end it will be worth it.”
“For chrissakes, you’re not going to give me that line about living defeated is dying every day.”<
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“Still, we must obey orders and do everything we can to fight the Germans. Even though the Allies won in North Africa, the Boche can still win this war. It’s far from over. Do you want France to become a province of Germany? Do you always want to be under their thumb?”
“The Americans are in this now. Sooner or later they’ll come marching in and win this thing,” said Lucien. “You’ll see, just like in 1918.”
“You may be right. In fact, I hope you are. But I still have my orders.”
“How the hell will you blow up a factory? They work twenty-four hours a day; you’ll kill all those people. How do you set the explosives with people in there?”
“We plan to blow up the factory in Tremblay that’s under construction.”
A shock jolted through Lucien’s entire body, as though he were being electrocuted. He was completely dazed.
“But that’s my factory,” said Lucien after he calmed down.
The man in the front passenger seat laughed.
“Armand, did you hear this shit? It’s his factory.”
“You can’t blow that up.”
“And why is that, monsieur?”
“Because I designed it…that’s why.”
The three men in the car all began laughing and shaking their heads. Lucien felt as if someone was asking him to kill his child. Like that story about God asking Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. But unlike Abraham, he wasn’t about to do it. Abraham, he always thought, was a shit to even consider such a thing.
“You don’t understand how hard I worked on it, detailing every inch, or how many sketches I did. It’s the best design I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Armand, remember you asked me what I wanted for my birthday? Forget about those sausages. As my present, I want you to let me shoot this goddamn traitor,” said the passenger.
“Calm down, Remy. No one is going to kill anyone,” ordered the old man. “Monsieur Bernard, it’s not your factory. It’s the Germans’ factory. A factory that produces objects that kill Frenchmen and our allies.”
The Paris Architect: A Novel Page 28