The Paris Architect: A Novel

Herzog grinned and scratched his head. He tried to evade the question but couldn’t.

“I remember how impressed I was with his Nuremburg parade grounds back in ’34. The buildings were all knockoffs of Greek architecture, but he used antiaircraft searchlights to create a kind of cathedral of light. There were 150 of them, all pointing straight up into the night sky. It was so breathtaking. Something like two hundred thousand people were there, surrounded by these towers of light.”

“You were there?”

“I saw it at the cinema. Triumph of the Will, by that woman director, Leni Riefenstahl, showed the whole thing.”

“Didn’t he design the stadium in Berlin where they held the 1936 Olympics?”

“No, Werner March did that. Speer did Hitler’s Reich Chancellery. It’s got a hall that’s twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. I’ve been there.”

“Did you take a taxi to get from one end to the other?”

“I should have. It felt like I was walking across Russia. Of course, there was his new capital, Welthauptstadt Germania, with a domed building that was going to be seventeen times larger than St. Peter’s.”

Lucien roared with laughter.

“And there was supposed to be an arch so goddamned big that the Arc de Triomphe could’ve fit inside its opening. Good thing the war came, and it didn’t get built. Speer and the Fuehrer had a little problem with scale.”

“Christ, that’s for sure,” said Lucien.

“But the Fuehrer loves his classical architecture. In fact, he wanted all his buildings built of granite so a thousand years from now there would be these impressive ruins, like the Acropolis in Athens. So people would remember the Reich as they did ancient Rome.”

“You’ve got to hand it to Speer, though, he’s got the ultimate client.”

“He was in the right place at the right time. Goebbels had hired him to renovate his Propaganda Ministry, so he recommended Speer to the Fuehrer. The two hit it off immediately—became soul mates. He basically had carte blanche as a designer. You do know the Fuehrer once wanted to be an architect?”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Maybe he felt that he didn’t have the talent to be a painter, so he settled for being an architect, which didn’t require as much talent,” replied Herzog, grinning.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when a painter can do all the things an architect can do!” Lucien said. “Those lucky bastards can hide away in a garret and paint whatever they please.”

Herzog couldn’t suppress his smile.

“When you meet Reich Minister Speer, you can tell him yourself what jerks painters are. I’m sure he’ll agree with you.”

“I’m going up with you?” Lucien was startled.

“Why of course. I didn’t tell you that our minister of armaments has heard of your talent and the buildings you’ve designed? He wants to meet you.”

Hausen sped down the empty streets. He turned onto a narrow street where up ahead on the left a black Mercedes was parked. Two men, obviously plainclothes Gestapo officers in their fedoras and long top coats, were coming out of a building, escorting a man and a woman wearing yellow felt stars. The woman was trying to comfort the crying toddler she was holding.

“Slow down, Hausen.”

Herzog rolled down his window and craned his neck to look as they passed by then twisted his body around to look out the back window. He stayed there until the car was out of sight.

Herzog looked down at his lap and absentmindedly fiddled with his gray kid gloves.

“Can you believe the army of Bismarck is reduced to doing that?” he muttered. “Makes me feel ashamed to be in uniform.”

The German’s jovial mood had vanished, and the rest of the ride continued in silence.