The Paris Architect: A Novel (35 page)

It was time to end this nonsense. Lucien was glad that Devereaux was down on his luck. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.

“Henri, it’s been fun, talking about the old days. I’m sure you remember them with great fondness—all the wonderful commissions you once had. But I must go. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon about a new commission for an ammunition plant. I’m thinking of doing it all in reinforced concrete, which will give it a real expression of structure, don’t you think? When construction starts, I’ll take you out for a peek.”

That was too much for Devereaux. He slammed his fist on the table, upsetting all the glassware and attracting the glances of the café’s patrons. Lucien smiled. His last arrow had struck its target precisely. He expected a hysterical tirade, and he got one.

“You son of a bitch!” Devereaux said. “How does a nobody like you get all these jobs and someone of my talent and stature gets nothing?”

Lucien kept smiling, enjoying this moment enormously. He knew Devereaux was just getting started.

“I’ve seen that factory you did in Chaville. It’s shit. You wouldn’t know modernist design if it bit you on the ass. Who the hell do you think you are—Gropius?”

Lucien began to laugh. His face was turning beet red, and he had to take a drink of water. This made Devereaux even angrier. Up until now, he had insulted Lucien in a normal conversational tone, but his voice rose to a shout.

“Let me tell you something, friend. I wouldn’t want those goddamn jobs. I’m no goddamn collaborationist, working for the Boche. You’re a fuckin’ traitor to France. You’re going to pay for this after the war. I’ll see to it.”

“That’s an extraordinary case of sour grapes, Henri,” replied Lucien, still shaking with laughter. “If the Germans offered you a latrine to design tomorrow, you’d do it in the blink of an eye.”

Lucien stood up from the table. “Here, Henri, let me get this. It’s my treat.” He threw money on the white tablecloth. “It’s been worth every sou.”

“I’ll fix your ass, Bernard,” shouted Devereaux as Lucien strolled out of the café.

58

Bette let them pound on the door for almost a minute before she flung it open.

“What the hell do you want?” she screamed at the two Gestapo plainclothes officers, whose expressions changed from menacing evil to outright shock.

Before them stood Bette in a black bra and panties accompanied by a garter belt and sheer black silk stockings. They stood there speechless until the taller one with glasses started stammering.

“What the hell are you trying to say?” said Bette.

“I…I said that we’re here to search your apartment by order of the Reich.”

“Search for what, may I ask?”

“We’ve been informed that you may be hiding enemies of the Reich.”

“Is that a fact? And who told you that fairy tale? My neighbor downstairs, I bet.”

“That’s none of your business. Move aside,” said the other one, a man with enormous ears. Bette imagined that if he could flap them up and down, he could fly away.

Bette stood her ground with her hands on her hips and long slender legs spread apart. She wanted them to get a good long look at what she knew was one of the best bodies in Paris. She let them stare a few seconds more, then moved away from the door.

“Come on in, boys. I wouldn’t want to hinder the duties of the Gestapo. Look around all you like.”

The men slowly, almost shyly, came inside the apartment. They reluctantly began searching the living room. She strolled over to the windowsill where Emile and Carole were hiding. She moved a potted plant to the side, sat down on the sill, and crossed her legs, smiling at the man with the oversized ears. Bette began to slowly and carefully smooth out her stockings, one leg, then the other.

The men said nothing as they went into her bedroom and her bathroom. One looked out onto the roof.

“So, give me a hint,” Bette said. “What are you searching for? Maybe I can help you.”

“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 let 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.