The Paris Architect: A Novel

Herzog laughed. “To the Hotel Majestic, and I promise you a very large cup of café au lait as soon as we get there.”


Lucien stiffened with fear. The Hotel Majestic was the headquarters of the German High Command in Paris. He had heard of people entering the palatial hotel and never being seen again. Looking down at the door handle of the German staff car, Lucien had a sudden urge to grab it, open the door, and leap out of the speeding Mercedes, but he stayed put. Herzog, who was next to him smoking a cigarette, was in a jolly mood, enjoying the ride through the sun-drenched streets of the city, pointing out buildings he especially liked. Lucien knew that the German loved Paris and would wander through the city for hours, admiring even the most commonplace sight. A street sweeper, an old woman selling lace in a market stall—they all fascinated him.

“Are all Germans this cheerful at 7:00 a.m.?”

“Hausen, are you cheerful so early in the morning?” Herzog asked his driver with great glee.

“Hell, no, Major,” growled Hausen, who stepped on the accelerator and raced down the avenue.

“Hausen is hung over. He was out late last night entertaining one of his many hussies, weren’t you, Corporal?”

“I’m going to get me a hussy, and I ain’t going to be fussy,” sang Hausen in a cracked voice. “That’s my motto, Major.”

“I bet you still haven’t made it to Notre Dame, Hausen.”

“Not yet, but I’ll get there, I promise.”

“I’m trying with little success to educate the corporal here. But he has been to every whorehouse in the city,” said Herzog, nudging Lucien with his elbow.

“So why are you so damn cheerful this morning? Have you acquired another Dürer etching?”

“Maybe you’d be in a cheerful mood if you were going to be promoted for meritorious achievement to the Reich.”

“Really? Well, congratulations.”

Lucien was genuinely happy for Herzog. A few months earlier, he would’ve felt ashamed and embarrassed for feeling this way about a German, but as his friendship and admiration for the engineer grew, he no longer minded. It was just his gray-green Wehrmacht uniform that was different, and Herzog only wore that when he was on duty. At other times, when Lucien visited him in his apartment, he dressed like a million other Frenchmen relaxing on their day off.

He and the German could slip effortlessly into a discussion about art, architecture, women, the news of Paris, or any topic except the events of the war. Lucien suspected Herzog never talked about it because he didn’t want to offend him, and Lucien never raised the subject either. Over the years, Lucien had let his friends drift away until he had only a handful of professional acquaintances left, and since the defeat, even they had scattered. But he had never really had a close friend in his life. He looked forward to his meetings with Herzog, who often invited Lucien to his place. Lucien assumed Herzog understood that Lucien couldn’t invite him to his apartment because Celeste didn’t want the enemy in her home. When she left him, he didn’t tell Herzog. Partly because he was ashamed, but mainly because Pierre was living there now.

“Still awfully early in the morning to be getting a promotion. You Teutons are all so efficient; is it to make sure you get the maximum use of every hour of the day?”

“I’m not, but Herr Albert Speer is, and when the Fuehrer’s personal architect calls, I come at any hour.”

“Speer himself is going to be there?”

“The Reich’s minister of armaments and war production himself, in all his glory.”

“I forgot that he’s the minister of armaments.”

“When the first minister, Fritz Todt, died in that plane crash in February, the Fuehrer chose him to run the show, and he made a very, very wise choice. One of his very few wise choices. Speer’s a brilliant man.”

“But as a designer, you think he’s quite retrograde,” said Lucien, with a sly smile.