The Paris Architect: A Novel Part 7

17.

"Who is it?"

"It's Aubier. I've got your food."

Cambon, whose stomach had been growling from hunger for the last two days, was about to unlock the door when he realized it was Thursday. Aubier always came on Fridays. Every Friday evening at 8:00 p.m. for the last six months, the entire time Cambon had been hiding in the apartment on the rue Blomet.

"It's not Friday; what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"I can't make it on Friday. Open up," whispered Aubier through the thick wood-paneled door. "Do you want your food or not?"

Cambon didn't move. He was thinking how unusual it was for Aubier to change his schedule. But his stomach persuaded him to open the door. Maybe Aubier would have a tin of sardines or a hunk of salami. Sitting alone in the apartment all these months, Cambon thought of little else but food. Once one of France's biggest clothing manufacturers, with palatial houses in the city and country, he could have any kind of food he desired-steak from America, olives from Greece, even walrus from the Arctic Circle if he'd wanted. Now, here he was starving to death, viewing a few morsels of moldy bread as a banquet.

"Hold on," he whispered. He was already planning his meal for the evening while he quietly unlocked the door. A bottle of wine would be wonderful. He'd had his last one four months ago. He opened the door a crack to see the tan leathery face of Aubier, his former servant from his home on the rue Copernic. Aubier flashed him a big smile of yellowed teeth and pulled an apple from a paper bag. Cambon's eyes lit up at that beautiful sight-it was easier to find gold on the streets of Paris than fruit. He opened the door just enough to let Aubier pa.s.s through. But the old servant came cras.h.i.+ng into the foyer onto his face, pushed from behind by three plainclothes Gestapo officers in brown leather overcoats. Cambon shoved a console table in their path and ran into the rear bedroom, straight to an ornate four-poster bed. He pulled a revolver from beneath the mattress and then sat on the bed. As the first Gestapo man came through the bedroom door, Cambon calmly aimed and fired off a round, hitting the man in the left thigh. The officer dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The officer directly behind him pulled back and ducked behind the wall next to the door. With his revolver in hand, he came out from behind the wall, blasting away, putting four bullets in Cambon, who was still sitting on the bed, making no effort to duck. He fell back, looking as if he'd just lain down for a nap.

A few minutes later, Captain Bruckner walked into the room with his hands clasped behind his back and silently surveyed the situation.

"f.u.c.kin' Jew b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" screamed the officer writhing in pain on the floor. "Did you see what he did to me? Did you kill the sonovab.i.t.c.h?"

Bruckner walked over to the bed and felt the pulse in Cambon's neck. "One dead Jew. How do you like that? He didn't want to be taken alive."

"I don't blame him after hearing what happens to these kikes once they go east," said the third officer, who was bending over his wounded comrade. "You know, that's the first time one of these kikes put up a fight. He went down fighting. I respect this Jew b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"I sure as h.e.l.l don't," yelled the wounded man, and the other two laughed at him. They helped him to his feet and dragged him to the door where Aubier was standing.

The wounded man glared at the Frenchman, who looked down at the floor.

"You've done your job, you can go," said Bruckner.

Aubier, clutching the bag of food to his chest, quickly made his way past Bruckner and out the door. Bruckner was always amazed at how easily the French would betray each other. Like Aubier, most did it in exchange for food or a favor, but many did it out of hatred or pure spite. His office would get dozens of letters a day, all of them beginning with some form of the sentence "I have the honor to draw your attention to a person living at..." The letter (usually unsigned) would finger a Jew with wealth: "He has an apartment full of fine objects." Many would ask the Germans to protect Christian families "from the actions of scheming Jews" or to help return a French husband "from the temptations of a Jewess."

And it wasn't always a Jew that was turned in. The French, who were always hungry because of the rationing, despised their fellow countrymen who ate well, so they too would be accused of plotting against the Reich. Was it a flaw in their national character or what? Of course, it served the Gestapo's purpose perfectly, and they encouraged it, but these people had absolutely no pride. The French even had a stock phrase for denunciation: "I'll go and tell the Germans about it." He hadn't expected them to act like this. It filled Bruckner with disgust because he had enormous respect for French culture and history. He wondered whether his own people would be as shameless as the French if they were under Occupation. They didn't understand that these denunciations deepened the contempt the Germans had for them and made it much easier to use brute force on the French.

"Duisberg, bring up the French police and have them round up the neighbors on this floor," said Bruckner. "If they aren't in, get some from the floor below. Bring them downstairs to me. We won't need the children. Becker here can handle Bloem."

Duisberg shouted down into the stairwell, and four police officers came running up the steps. They pounded on each of the wooden doors on the floor, screaming, "Police, everyone downstairs except children! Now!"

Like frightened mice inching out of their hiding places, the neighbors came out from behind their doors. Middle-aged men and women, a sixteen-year-old boy, an ancient man of about eighty-five, a woman around sixty, all silently gathered on the landing next to the lift.

"Move your a.s.ses!"

The group ran down the stairs, even the old man. Duisberg was behind them, cursing and shoving them down the four flights. No one uttered a word of protest or tried to make a run for it. As they pa.s.sed each floor, Bruckner knew that all the residents were behind their doors listening and praying with all their might that there wouldn't be a knock on their door. Duisberg herded them through the beautiful wood-paneled entry foyer and out into the street. Bruckner followed behind and walked to his car parked at the curb and lit a cigarette. When everyone was lined up in front of him, he threw out his unfinished cigarette and paced up and down in front of them.

"I'm thinking of a number from one to twenty. Each of you guess what it is," Bruckner said in a jovial voice. He went to the end of the line and faced the sixty-year-old woman.

"What number?"

The woman was tongue-tied, and this annoyed the captain.

"Give me a number, old woman."

"Eleven."

"No, that's not it." He moved to the next in line, the sixteen-year-old boy.

"One."

"No. How about you, beautiful?" he asked an attractive middle-aged woman.

"Seven."

"You win!" he shouted with glee, like an announcer on a game show on the radio. With lightning-fast reflexes, he whipped his Luger from his holster and shot the woman in the middle of her forehead. She dropped like a rock to the gray sidewalk. Bruckner holstered his weapon, walked to the middle of the street, and looked up at the apartment blocks that surrounded him.

"This woman lived on the floor where a Jew was hiding," he shouted at the windows of the buildings on both sides of the street. "I bet she didn't even know he was there. But that really doesn't matter, my friends. If a Jew is found in your building, every last one of you will be shot. If a Jew is found on the fifth floor and you live on the second floor-you die. It's as simple as that."

Bruckner walked a few meters down the street with his arms folded. His eyes scanned the facades of the elegantly designed apartment blocks. Not a single person was standing at a window, but they were there all right, standing a meter or two away from the sash listening. He understood how the neighbors behind those windows felt. They all were going to look the other way; they didn't want to see what was going to happen to the people waiting in the street. That's the way the French acted during the Occupation-they didn't want to see. All that mattered was that they weren't rounded up.

Becker and Bloem came out of the building, and Duisberg helped them get Bloem into a black Citroen by the curb. Bruckner watched impa.s.sively and then walked over to the remaining apartment dwellers. They hadn't even looked down at the dead woman but kept their eyes straight ahead. The Gestapo captain resumed pacing directly in front of them, looking each person straight in the eyes as he pa.s.sed. One of the most fascinating things he'd experienced in his three years of service in the Gestapo was how people acted when they were about to be shot. To his surprise, very few broke down and started sobbing or begged for their lives; most remained resigned to the fact and were quite stoic. The residents of rue Blomet were in the latter group. Like all Parisians, they seemed to accept that death was inevitable and that it could come at any hour of the day. It was odd that the French were so dignified in death but in life acted like s.h.i.+ts squealing on each other.

He wondered what they were thinking about. If Bruckner were in their place and were about to die, he'd try to think of the most enjoyable experience he'd ever had. That wonderful summer in Bavaria when he lost his virginity to Claus Hankel's aunt. Seeing Trudy Breker's t.i.ts for the first time. Or the time he was awarded his university's highest award for athletic achievement in the long jump.

He stopped in front of a middle-aged man in a rumpled gray suit who stared straight ahead. Maybe he was off in his own world, remembering something fun he had once done. Or was he betting that Bruckner only intended to execute one resident to make his point?

The Gestapo captain kept pacing for another minute, then returned to his car, leaned against the hood, and lit another cigarette.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's getting late and I don't want to keep you any longer. Thank you for your time. Good night to you all."

18.

"Ah, Monsieur Bernard, good to see you. Please, please come in."

Major Herzog looked very odd in civilian clothes. His dark green smoking jacket was quite handsome, and the cuff of his charcoal gray trousers broke just right on his polished chestnut-colored shoes. Lucien, who'd made sure no one saw him slip into the entrance of the apartment building on rue Pergolese, quickly stepped into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

Lucien saw that Herzog was amused by this. They both knew the French were in a precarious position, and they couldn't be seen in public socializing with their conquerors. That's why Lucien had been invited to dine with the major in his home. Lucien had said absolutely nothing for almost thirty seconds after Herzog had telephoned and extended the invitation. A debate had raged in his head whether to accept. Celeste had also been invited, but that had only been a formality; Herzog must have learned after a few months' duty in Paris that Frenchmen rarely mixed wives with pleasure, a combination of oil and water. Lucien had accepted because, like in peacetime, it was good business to socialize with the client. What the h.e.l.l, thought Lucien, he'd see Herzog once and that would be the end of it.

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 pa.s.s to visit him.

Lucien was surprised by the decor 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 s.e.x 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 furnis.h.i.+ngs 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 gla.s.s of cognac.

"Oh," said Lucien as he took the gla.s.s 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 Ja.n.u.sky 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 Goring will have first crack at the art. But I am expecting some very beautiful engravings by Durer any day now."

Lucien said nothing and looked down at his gla.s.s. He knew that the acquisition was from another man leaving on a "trip."

Herzog raised his gla.s.s. "To great architecture and the architects who create it," he said.

Lucien lifted his gla.s.s. He thought this was a good opportunity to kiss his client's a.s.s. 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 s.h.i.+pped 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 gla.s.s.

"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 s.h.i.+t.

"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 gla.s.s 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."