The Paris Architect: A Novel

“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.”

“You must miss them.”

“I haven’t seen them in nine months, but I get leave in a few weeks. I can’t wait to see my daughter,” replied the German with a sad look in his eyes. “I’ve collected many gifts to bring them.”

Herzog put back the photo. Most parents would next start boring the hell out of their guest by relating every school prize their kid had won in the last five years, but Herzog said nothing more.

Herzog held the bottle toward Lucien for a refill. “Your factory design was quite impressive. The horizontal bands of glass and the way they butt into the concrete piers were magnificent.”

Lucien emptied his glass and immediately it was refilled. A warm glow within his chest was growing warmer by the minute. “Thank you…Dieter.”

“Those wonderful arches just soar through the space, and they can support all those cranes and hoists. Excellent work.”

There was nothing that Lucien—or any architect—liked better than flattery laid on with a trowel. Whether it came from a Frenchman or a Nazi, it was just as satisfying.

“I think you’ll be pleased with the next building,” Lucien slurred.

“I like that your architecture reflects its function with pure form.”

“Ah, I hope Colonel Lieber sees it that way.”

“Don’t concern yourself with Lieber. All he cares about is that the plants get built on schedule. And I’ll see to that.”

From the far end of the living room, a pair of paneled sliding doors parted, and a young German corporal appeared and stood at attention.

“Major, your supper is ready.”

“Thank you, Hausen. You can go back to the barracks. Come, Lucien, a rack of lamb is awaiting us.”

With a bit of difficulty due to all the cognac he’d already consumed, Lucien lifted himself from the Barcelona chair and joined his new soul mate for supper.





19





“Sol, I think I saw a light at the gate.”

Geiber knew his wife wasn’t the hysterical type. In fact, he admired her for always being so calm and levelheaded. So the minute she said this, Geiber dropped his book and went into action. When Miriam saw him leap out of the leather armchair, she immediately did what she was supposed to do in an emergency. They had only minutes to act. If they hesitated, it would mean certain death for both of them.

Geiber first ran to the kitchen, located on the first floor at the back of the great hunting lodge. He flung open the rear door and tossed an old felt hat on the stone path to the garden. Leaving the door wide open, he then sprinted up the kitchen service stair as fast as a sixty-eight-year-old could. Outside the second-floor master bedroom, he met Miriam, who was holding the small leather bag, packed weeks before with their forged papers, cash, and a change of clothing for both of them. He looked straight into her dark brown eyes and stroked her rouged cheek.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

“God, I hope this works,” said Miriam. Her hands were trembling terribly, and her knees threatened to give out at any second.