The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien was delighted to take charge. For the next two hours he led a discussion of how the project should be sited, drawing the outline of the building on the map, then erasing it and placing it in another location, and then another, until all four men were in agreement on where the factory should be placed. They talked about entrances and exits, flow of production, and lighting.

While the Germans were talking to Manet about the cost of construction, Lucien, who had sat back down to listen, felt a shiver go up his back. He was so caught up in the planning of the new factory he’d completely forgotten about his extracurricular work for Manet. At this very moment, they both had their heads in the mouth of the lion. The realization made him nervous and prompted fierce perspiring. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

Herzog looked over at him with a concerned expression. “Monsieur Bernard, you don’t look well. Do you want some water?”

“No. No. I’m fine. It’s just hot in here, that’s all.”

The Germans continued haggling with Manet about the cost, and Lucien continued to perspire. He then heard the magic words that all architects dream of hearing.

“Well, Lucien,” said Manet, “if the gentlemen of the Reich are in agreement, you should start the plans immediately.”

The Germans nodded their approval, and both stood up from their chairs.

“Monsieur Bernard, because of our time constraints, we’re looking for the most basic of drawings,” said Herzog.

“Are you available for lunch, Monsieur Manet?” asked Lieber.

Lucien was well aware of what the answer would be. Lieber’s invitation was merely a courtesy. Doing business with Germans in private was one thing, but dining with them in public in the middle of the day was crossing a forbidden boundary. The Germans also knew this, and while they didn’t care what the French did to collaborators, they didn’t want to rock the boat by endangering their French contractors.

“I’m afraid not, Colonel Lieber, but thank you for asking,” replied Manet.

Herzog came up to Lucien to shake his hand. “I much admired the building you did for Monsieur Gaston. Wrapping the glass around that exterior staircase was a wonderful detail.”

When Lucien heard the word “detail,” he knew the man wasn’t a layman but one of the architecture fraternity.

“Are you an architect, Major Herzog?”

“I started out to be. In fact, I studied under Walter Gropius at the Bauhaus in Dessau in the late twenties. But when my father came to visit, he thought it was all nonsense and put a stop to it. I transferred to study structural engineering at the Polytechnic in Berlin.”

Lucien could sense a great deal of regret in that last sentence and empathized with the German, but all the same he was damned impressed. “Gropius is a genius,” said Lucien. “Even to study under him for a short time would be a great experience. It is a shame he had to leave Germany.”

“The Fuehrer has different ideas of what architecture should be. To him, Gropius and his work were subversive.”

Lucien was about to say that Hitler’s taste in architecture was rotten but held his tongue. Herzog may have once been a modernist architect, but he was still a German officer. Lucien could find himself in an internment camp.

“Still, it was quite unfortunate that Herr Gropius had to leave for America,” said Lucien sympathetically. “What kind of person was he?”

“Ah, rather harsh and pedantic, but a man of great vision and even greater talent. Have you ever seen the Fagus Factory?”

Lucien was eager to tell Herzog that he had indeed made the pilgrimage to Germany in the mid-1930s to see all the famous German modern buildings. Many snapshots of them were often scattered next to his drafting table for inspiration when he was designing. “I spent two months traveling throughout Germany seeing my favorite buildings, but Gropius’s Fagus Factory is a masterpiece. Better than the Bauhaus School, which I also visited.”

Lucien saw a smile come over Herzog’s face. The major picked up his cap and gloves off a side table and put them on, moving slowly toward the door.