House of Thieves (34 page)

Lucien checked his watch as he opened the massive wood door of 28 rue Galilée. It gave him a great sense of satisfaction that he was one minute early for his appointment. What other man could walk all the way across town, almost get shot by a German, clean a dead man's blood off his jacket, and make it in time? The experience reinforced his belief that one should always budget an extra fifteen minutes to get to a client appointment. His prized Cartier watch, which his parents had given him upon his graduation from college, said two p.m., which was actually the time in Germany. The Germans' first official act had been to impose the Reich's time zone on occupied France. It was really one p.m. French time. After two years of occupation, the forced time change still annoyed Lucien, even more than the swastikas and ugly Gothic-lettered signs the Germans had plastered on all the city's landmarks.

He stepped inside and was relieved to be in the dark, cool shade of the foyer. He loved these apartment blocks, created by Baron Haussmann when he tore down medieval Paris in the 1850s to re-create the city. Lucien admired the stonework and the strong horizontal lines created by the rows of windows and their metal balconies. He lived in a building on the rue du Caire that was similar to this one.

Since 1931, Lucien had abandoned all historical and classical references in his work to become a pure modernist architect, embracing the aesthetic of the Bauhaus, the style created by the German architect Walter Gropius that pioneered modern architecture and design (the one instance in which Teutonic taste definitely triumphed over the Gallic). Still, he admired these great apartment blocks that Napoleon III had championed. His admiration had grown when he'd visited his brother in New York before the war. The apartment buildings there were junk compared to those in Paris.

He walked to the concierge's apartment, directly to the left of the entry. The glass door yawned open, and an old woman smoking a cigarette was sitting at a table covered with a garish yellow-flowered cloth. Lucien cleared his throat, and she said, without moving a muscle and still gazing into space, “He's in 3B…and the lift's out.”

As Lucien climbed the ornate curving stair to the third floor, his heart began to race—not only because he was out of shape, but also because he was so anxious. Would Manet have a real project for him, or would this meeting lead to nothing? And if it was a project, would it be a chance to show his talent?

Lucien knew he had talent. He'd been told by a couple of well-known architects, whom he had worked for in Paris after graduating from school. With a few years' experience and belief in his ability, he then went out on his own. It was hard to build up a practice, doubly hard because he was a modernist, and modern architecture was just beginning to be accepted. Most clients still wanted something traditional. Nevertheless, he was able to earn a steady living. But just as an actor needed a breakout role to become a star, an architect needed a career-making project. And Lucien, now thirty-five, hadn't managed to land that one all-important project. He'd come close only once, when he'd been a finalist for a new public library but had been beaten out by Henri Devereaux, whose uncle's brother-in-law was the deputy minister of culture. Ability wasn't enough; one needed the right connections like Devereaux always seemed to have—that and luck.

He looked down at his shoes as they scraped the marble treads of the great stair. They were his client shoes, the one good pair he wore to meetings. A little worn, but they still looked shiny and fashionable, and the soles were in good shape. With leather in short supply, once a Frenchman's shoes wore out he turned to wooden soles or ones of compressed paper, which didn't fare so well in winter. Lucien was glad he still had a pair of leather-soled shoes. He hated the sound of wooden soles clattering on the streets of Paris, which reminded him of the clogs worn by peasants.

Lucien was startled when he looked up and found a pair of very expensive dark brown shoes on the third floor landing right in front of his face. Lucien's gaze traveled up the sharply creased trouser legs to a suit jacket, then to the face of Auguste Manet.

“Monsieur Bernard, what a pleasure it is to meet you.”

Before Lucien reached the top step, Manet extended his hand.

Lucien pulled himself up the railing until he stood next to a lean, white-haired man in his seventies, with cheekbones that seemed to be chiseled from stone. And tall. Manet towered above Lucien. He seemed even taller than de Gaulle.

“The pleasure is my mine, monsieur.”

“Monsieur Gaston was always raving about the office building you did for him, so I had to see it for myself. A beautiful job.” The old man's handshake was strong and confident, something you'd expect from a man who'd made millions.

They were off to an excellent start, Lucien thought as he took an instant liking to this elderly, aristocratic businessman. Back in 1937, he'd done a building on the rue Servan for Charles Gaston, the owner of an insurance company. Four stories of limestone with a curving glass-stair tower. Lucien thought it was the best thing he'd ever designed.

“Monsieur Gaston was very kind to refer you to me. How can I help you?” Most of the time, Lucien was open to the usual small talk before getting down to business. But he was nervous and wanted to see whether a real job would come out of this.

Manet turned toward the open doors of 3B and Lucien followed. Even the back of Monsieur Manet was impressive. His posture was ramrod straight, and his suit was expensive and fit him impeccably—the German major would've wanted the name of his tailor.

“Well, Monsieur Bernard, let me tell you what I've got in mind. A guest of mine will be staying here for a while, and I wish to make some special alterations to the apartment to accommodate him,” Manet said as they walked slowly through the place.

Lucien couldn't imagine what the old man would want. The vacant apartment was gorgeous, with high ceilings and tall windows, ornate wood paneling, huge columns that framed the wide entries into the main rooms, beautiful fireplaces with marble surrounds, and parquet floors. And all the bathrooms and the kitchen looked up to date with porcelain-on-steel sinks and tubs with chrome fixtures. The unit was large by Parisian standards, at least twice as large in floor area as a normal apartment.

Manet stopped and faced Lucien.

“I've been told that an architect looks at a space differently from the rest of us. The average person sees a room as it is, but instinctively the architect envisions how it could be changed for the better. Is that true?”

“Absolutely,” replied Lucien with pride. “A man would view a run-down, out-of-date flat as very unappealing, but an architect, in his imagination, would renovate that space into something quite fashionable.” Lucien was getting excited. Maybe the old man wanted him to redo the place from top to bottom.

“I see. Tell me, monsieur, do you like a challenge? To solve a unique problem?”

“Yes, indeed, I love to come up with a solution for any architectural problem,” said Lucien, “and the more challenging, the better.” He hoped he was telling Manet what he wanted to hear. If Manet asked him to fit the Arc de Triomphe in here, he'd say it was no problem. You didn't turn down work in wartime. Any fool knew that.

“That's good.” Manet walked across the salon and put his hand on Lucien's shoulder in a fatherly way. “I think it's time to give you a little more background on this project, but first let us talk about your fee. I have a figure in mind—twelve thousand francs.”

“Twelve hundred francs is most generous, monsieur.”

“No, I said twelve thousand.”

There was silence. Digits formed in Lucien's mind as if a teacher were writing them methodically on a blackboard—first a one, then a two, a comma, and three zeros. After he mentally verified the number, he said, “Monsieur, that…that is more than generous; it's ludicrous!”

“Not if your life depended on it.”

Lucien thought this was such an amusing comment that he was obliged to let out his great belly laugh, the kind that annoyed his wife but always delighted his mistress. But Manet didn't laugh. His face showed no emotion at all.

“Before I give you a little more information about the project, let me ask you a personal question,” Manet said.

“You have my full attention, Monsieur Manet.”

“How do you feel about Jews?”

Lucien was taken aback. What the hell kind of question was that? But before giving Manet his gut response—that they were moneygrubbing thieves—he took a deep breath. He didn't want to say anything that would offend Manet—and lose the job.

“They're human beings like anyone else, I suppose,” he replied feebly.

Lucien had grown up in a very anti-Semitic household. The word
Jew
had always been followed by the word
bastard
. His grandfather and father had been convinced that Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer on the staff of the French Army headquarters back in the 1890s, was a traitor, despite evidence that a fellow officer named Esterhazy had been the one who'd sold secrets to the Germans. Lucien's grandfather had also sworn that Jews were responsible for France's humiliating defeat by the Germans in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, although he could never provide any real proof to back up this charge.
Whether
one
hated
them
for
betraying
the
country, for killing Christ, or screwing you over in a business deal, all other Frenchmen were anti-Semites in one way or another, weren't they?
Lucien thought. That's the way it had always been.

Lucien looked into Manet's eyes and was glad he'd kept his true feelings to himself.

He saw an earnestness that alarmed him.

“You've probably noticed that since May all Jews over the age of six are now required to wear a yellow Star of David,” said Manet.

“Yes, monsieur.”

Lucien was well aware that Jews had to wear a felt star. He didn't think it was such a big deal, though many Parisians were outraged. Gentiles had begun to wear the yellow stars or yellow flowers or handkerchiefs in protest. He'd even heard of a woman who'd pinned a yellow star on her dog.

“On July 16,” said Manet, “almost thirteen thousand Jews were rounded up in Paris and sent to Drancy, and nine thousand were women and children.”

Lucien knew about Drancy. It was an unfinished block of apartment buildings near Le Bourget Airport that an architect friend, Maurice Pappon, had worked on. A year earlier, it became the main detention camp for the Paris region, though it had no water, electric, or sanitary service. Pappon had told him that Drancy prisoners were forced onto trains to be relocated somewhere in the east.

“One hundred people killed themselves instead of being taken. Mothers with babies in their arms jumped from windows. Did you know that, monsieur?”

Lucien saw Manet's growing agitation. He needed to redirect the man's conversation to the project and the twelve thousand francs.

“It is a tragedy, monsieur. Now what kind of changes did you have in mind?”

But Manet continued as though he hadn't heard a word.

“It was bad enough that Jewish businesses were seized and bank accounts frozen, but now they're banned from restaurants, cafés, theaters, cinemas, and parks. It's not just immigrant Jews but Jews of French lineage, whose ancestors fought for France, who are being treated in this way.

“And the worst part,” he continued, “is that Vichy and the French police are making most of the arrests, not the Germans.”

Lucien was aware of this. The Germans used the French against the French. When a knock came at a Frenchman's door in the middle of the night, it was usually a gendarme sent by the Gestapo.

“All Parisians have suffered under the Germans, monsieur,” Lucien began. “Even gentiles are arrested every day. Why, on the way here to meet you, a…” He stopped midsentence when he remembered that the dead man was a Jew. Lucien saw that Manet was staring at him, which made him uncomfortable. He looked down at the beautiful parquet floor and his client's shoes.

“Monsieur Bernard, Gaston has known you a long time. He says you are a man of great integrity and honor. A man who loves his country—and keeps his word,” said Manet.

Lucien was now completely confused. What in the hell was this man talking about? Gaston really didn't know him at all, only on a professional level. They weren't friends. Gaston had no idea what kind of man Lucien truly was. He could've been a murderer or a male prostitute, and Gaston would never have known.

Manet walked over to one of the huge windows that overlooked the rue Galilée and stared out into the street for a few moments. He finally turned and faced Lucien, who was surprised by the now-grave expression on the old man's face.

“Monsieur Bernard, this
alteration
is to create a hiding place for a Jewish man who is being hunted by the Gestapo. If, by chance, they come here looking for him, I'd like him to be able to hide in a space that is undetectable, one that the Gestapo will never find. For your own safety, I won't tell you his name. But the Reich wants to arrest him to find out the whereabouts of his fortune, which is considerable.”

Lucien was dumbfounded. “Are you insane? You're hiding a Jew?”

Normally, Lucien would never speak so rudely to a client, especially an enormously rich one, but Manet had crossed into forbidden territory here. Aiding Jews: the Germans called it
Judenbegunstigung
. No matter how wealthy he was, Manet could be arrested and executed for hiding Jews. It was the one crime a Frenchman couldn't buy his way out of. Wearing some dumb yellow star out of sympathy was one thing, but actually helping a Jew wanted by the Gestapo was sheer madness. What the hell had Lucien gotten himself into—or rather, what had that bastard Gaston got
him
into? Manet had some set of balls to ask him to do this for twelve thousand or even twelve million francs.