The Paris Architect: A Novel

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing your design for Monsieur Manet. Maybe it’ll be another Fagus Factory,” said Herzog with his hand on the door handle.

Lucien grinned and shook his head. “Nothing of mine can ever come close to it, I assure you. But I will produce a building of advanced ideas.”

“The Reich will be most pleased,” replied Herzog.





7





Lucien had soon discovered one of the prices he’d be paying for all that money, the commission, and the thrill of designing the hiding place: living in a constant state of fear. He stopped in the doorways of three shops to check if he was being followed. Manet had insisted on a meeting. Lucien didn’t think one was necessary; he had done the drawings and that was the end of it. But Manet wanted him to see the finished work. On rue Euler, just a block away from the apartment building, Lucien looked out from another doorway and came face to face with three smiling German enlisted men.

“Pardon, monsieur, could you please tell us the way to Notre Dame? We’re totally lost,” said a handsome soldier with golden blond hair.

His companions laughed and shrugged their shoulders, admitting their helplessness. Lucien knew his face registered a look of abject terror, but the men didn’t seem to notice. The Occupation had brought busloads of German tourist-soldiers like these. Carrying cameras and guidebooks, they hit every main attraction in Paris, including climbing the Eiffel Tower and seeing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where they all insisted on getting their photo taken. Ever since Hitler had taken a two-hour tour of the city right after the armistice, every German soldier had had to see Paris, and the army encouraged them to do so. On one hand, it was kind of flattering to have Germans come to admire the city—they had nothing like it in Germany. Berlin was a second-rate city compared to the City of Light. Giving directions to Germans was a delicate matter, though, as misdirecting them could cause problems if the soldiers ran into you again. Teenagers and the elderly routinely gave them wrong directions—it became a running joke—but many adult Parisians put their hatred aside for a moment and directed the Germans as they would any stranger. Lucien fought the overwhelming urge to bolt. He swallowed hard and smiled.

“Certainly, gentlemen. Go down this street to the avenue Marceau, turn left, and stay on it until you hit the Seine, turn left, and walk along the river for about fifteen minutes, and you’ll see Notre Dame. It’s on its own little island in the Seine.”

A soldier with reddish-brown hair scribbled the directions in a little notebook. The blond one repeated Lucien’s directions aloud to make sure he had it right.

“Thank you so much, monsieur. You have a very beautiful city.”

“Enjoy yourselves. And remember, we have the best collection of dirty postcards in Europe.”

The soldiers roared with laughter, waved, and went on their way. Lucien stayed where he was until they were out of sight. He leaned against a wall of a building and reached inside his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. Could they be Gestapo men disguised as Wehrmacht soldiers who were following him? His hands were shaking, but he managed to light a cigarette and take a few drags before flicking it into the gutter. He waited another five minutes then finally made it to the building, nodded at the concierge, who ignored him, and started up the stairs.