The Paris Architect: A Novel (38 page)

As he neared the third floor, Schlegal came out to greet him. Lucien could hear an enormous racket going on inside the apartment, which he knew was the search for Janusky. He smiled and waved to the Gestapo officer, who, to his surprise, returned the greeting with equal friendliness.

“Monsieur Bernard, I’m sorry to have interrupted your work, but I need your architectural expertise again.”

Maybe this wasn’t his day to die after all. But Lucien had to keep his wits about him or it would be.

“Not at all, Colonel. I’m glad to serve the Reich. How can I help you?”

Schlegal put his hand on his shoulder and guided him into the apartment. Soldiers using axes were busting through every inch of wall. Another group was prying up sections of parquet flooring. Dust was flying everywhere, and it became hard to see through the haze.

“As you can see, I’m making a very thorough search of the premises for a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion. I believe he’s in this apartment as we speak.”

Lucien managed to assume an inscrutable expression, knowing that Schlegal was keeping a close watch on his face, looking for any sign that would give the hiding place away.

“And how do you know this?”

“I actually saw him myself.”

“Then he’s here.”

“Any suggestions as to where to look?” asked Schlegal.

Lucien turned about and stopped. “Look up that fireplace flue, then pull up all the stone hearths in each room. They would make excellent hiding places.”

Schlegal immediately screamed at a soldier to do what Lucien suggested. Lucien walked through the apartment with the Gestapo officer following close behind. They went into the bathroom.

“Did you look inside that platform the tub is sitting on? It’s just high enough for a man to slip under.”

A soldier quickly broke apart the wood platform but the cavity revealed no Jew.

“You know, he could be hiding anywhere under the floor between the floor beams. They’re deep enough to conceal a man. Maybe using some sort of trap door. You must uncover every square centimeter,” said Lucien in a very authoritative voice.

Schlegal nodded, assuring the architect he was doing just that.

“Don’t bother with the bookcases. That’s too obvious,” added Lucien, knowing that Schlegal would rip them off the walls anyway. “And check the floors of all closets for secret compartments.”

Thoughts of death temporarily disappeared from Lucien’s mind. He was enjoying walking through the vast apartment watching the demolition. After a while, he sat down on the sofa and watched, yelling out suggestions of where to look next. He got a big kick out of the fact that the soldiers did exactly what he ordered. As he smoked cigarette after cigarette, he was very careful not to look at the hiding place. About an hour later, Lucien’s navy blue suit was covered with dust. His hair was gray, giving him a bizarre preview in one of the apartment’s ornate mirrors as to what he’d look like as an old man.

He could tell from Schlegal’s pacing and constant cursing that he was getting nervous. The Gestapo officer picked up a pry bar and was yanking paneling off the walls. He smashed every one of the incredibly ornate mirrors on the walls, hoping to find a hiding place behind them. There was so much debris piling up in the apartment, it became difficult to move around. Schlegal ordered it thrown down the stairwell where it piled up on the dead concierge. The plaster dust in the air was so thick and swirling that the soldiers became ghostly phantomlike images moving in slow motion. Overcome by the dense fog of dust, soon everyone was coughing and hacking their brains out. But their fear of Schlegal kept them working away, tearing every square centimeter of surface apart.

***

From his hiding place, Janusky could hear everything around him. The roar of the demolition was deafening, but the worst thing was that it never let up. It was incredible how humans could work nonstop like that, as if they were machines powered by electricity. Because of the narrowness of the space he was in, Janusky had to lie on his right side with his arm tucked under his body, so he could feel the vibration caused by the smashing axes and pry bars in the walls, floors, and ceilings. He grimaced and flinched at every jolt. Having survived months of warfare on the Somme in the Great War, he thought that nothing would ever scare him again—the terrible scream of artillery shells before they landed in the trenches, the sight of men’s bodies blown to pieces. But he was wrong; he found himself shaking as though he was delirious with a tropical fever. With his history of heart problems, he was worried that his heart would give out on him, and the Gestapo would find a corpse. They’d laugh like crazy because they’d literally scared him to death. Janusky didn’t want to give them that satisfaction.

After hearing the concierge get thrown to her death, he decided he couldn’t take it any longer and was going to reveal himself. If he hadn’t gone over to the window, none of this would’ve happened. What a goddamn stupid thing to do, he thought, just to get a peek out the window. But it wasn’t just the old woman. Too many people had died protecting him. He wasn’t worth it, and he wouldn’t have any more innocent blood on his hands. Then in amazement, Janusky listened to the conversation between the German and Bernard, whose name he recognized as that of Manet’s architect. Why of all people was he here? Did they finally find out what he’d been doing for Manet? At first, Janusky thought the architect would show the Germans where he was hiding, but Bernard was leading them away from him. This gave Janusky a new resolve; he steeled himself and stayed put. He wanted to live. The soldiers continued to rip apart the apartment in a mad frenzy just centimeters away from him.

Suddenly, above the cacophony all around him, he heard a piercing shout.

“Schlegal, you stupid bastard! I warned you not to bother my architect again.”

64

Herzog smiled as he walked through the apartment. When he finally returned to where Schlegal was standing by the entry door, he removed his cap and began brushing off the dust.

“Let me guess. No Jew,” he said without looking at the Gestapo officer.

Herzog knew that Schlegal was already mad as hell at not finding his man, and his taunts were going to make him madder, which was the whole point.

“We’re still looking,” came a terse reply.

Herzog burst out laughing. “Christ, man, you’ve uncovered every millimeter of space in this flat; you know he’s not here. And who is it you’re looking for?”

“Mendel Janusky.”

Herzog stopped walking through the apartment and faced Schlegal.

“The art collector? How the hell do you know he’s here?”

“Because I saw him from across the street.”

Voss came to the doors where they were standing and saluted both officers.

“Colonel, what should I do with the residents down in the lobby?”

Lucien already knew the answer to that question. In the span of an hour, Schlegal had gone from ecstasy to despair and now, worst of all, embarrassment. Those people were doomed.

“Is there a rear entry? He could’ve slipped out that way,” said Herzog.

“We had it covered. He couldn’t have gotten out the back,” replied Schlegal, annoyed that Herzog would ask such a question.

Schlegal turned his attention to Voss. “Ask them just one more time where Janusky’s hiding.” Voss nodded and ran down the stairs.

Herzog slowly walked in a circle in the salon, viewing the destruction. Every square centimeter had been ripped apart.

Herzog shook his head. “You’ve lost him.”

All of a sudden, the sound of several bursts of machine gun fire rose up from the stairwell.

“I guess they didn’t know where Janusky was,” said Schlegal, shrugging his shoulders.

A sergeant, a slightly overweight man of about thirty-five, hesitantly came up to Schlegal. He saw what was going on and wisely didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

“Sir, we’ve ripped everything apart. Except those paintings up there.”

Herzog saw Lucien look up at the paintings then quickly avert his gaze.

Schlegal backed away from Herzog and looked up above the cornice to see some very large paintings that covered one of the walls.

“In all the commotion, I forgot about them,” said Schlegal with a laugh.

Herzog slowly walked over to the paintings and gazed up at them, examining them closely. They were a series of lush pastoral scenes of shepherds and voluptuous nymphs with lutes and pitchers of water done in a rich array of greens and earth tones. “Wait,” Herzog shouted. He suddenly stepped between Schlegal and the sergeant.

“You ignorant bastard, can’t you see those paintings are valuable? They’re by Giorgione da Castelfranco, the sixteenth-century Venetian painter. He was taught by Bellini, and Giorgione was Titian’s master.”

“So, who the hell cares?”

“They’re incredibly expensive, you ignorant fool. As negotiable as gold for the Reich. You can’t rip them down. The Reich wants treasures like that.”

Schlegal stared up at the paintings. “I don’t see what’s so great about them.”

“Schlegal, they’re as valuable as diamonds!” Herzog said excitedly. “Don’t touch them. If you do, I’ll have Reich Minister Speer on the line to talk to you in two minutes. He knows who Giorgione is, and you’ll be explaining why you destroyed millions of Reich marks of property.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re coming down anyway. And we won’t have to get up on ladders.”

“What the hell do you mean?” asked Herzog with a puzzled look on his face.

“Look out the window.”

Herzog walked to the open window that overlooked the rue des Saussaies. Across the street on the sidewalk was a field artillery piece directly aimed at number 12, manned by two soldiers, one of whom was loading a shell into its breech.

“You have two minutes to get them down if you still want them,” added Schlegal with a big smile. “Sergeant, get all the men out of the building at once.”

The sergeant and his detail were glad to oblige.

“And just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Herzog said. “You’re going to destroy the entire building just because you didn’t find your Jew?”

Lucien went over to the window to see what was going on and his heart sank.

“You’re absolutely right. I’m not going to waste any more time ripping up flats. The whole building is coming down,” replied Schlegal in a quiet voice. “He’s in this building, and he’s going to die.”

“Have you gone completely mad? You’ll set the whole place on fire and it’ll spread through the entire block. It’ll be a goddamn inferno!”

“You’ve now got one minute to get your valuable paintings down.”

“Schlegal, you idiot. I’m telling you not to do it. The percussion of the blasts will break every window in Gestapo headquarters across the street.” Herzog went to a gray marble-topped console table where there was a phone and dialed a number.

“Colonel, may I have your permission to leave?” asked Lucien.

“I’m through with you for now, but you and I are going to have a little talk very soon, Monsieur Bernard.”

Lucien understood what “a little talk” meant. Schlegal was worse than mad; he’d been humiliated in front of his men, and he was going to take it out on anyone he could.

“Hold on, sir. I’ll get him,” Herzog spoke into the receiver. “Schlegal, there’s someone who wants to speak to you.”

“Tell Reich Minister Speer I’m busy.”

“I strongly advise you to talk to your boss, Herr Lischka, or you better start packing some warm underwear for a trip to Russia that you’ll be taking tomorrow,” said Herzog with a broad smile on his face. Schlegal frowned at Herzog as he walked over to take the receiver from him. He had to hold it away from his ear, Lischka was screaming so loud.

“Schlegal, you crazy bastard. What the hell are you doing?” bellowed Lischka. “I’m standing at the window, and I see a gun aimed at the building directly across the street from my headquarters. You’ll break every damn window here if you fire that thing.”

Schlegal looked across the street to see an extremely agitated Lischka pounding on a window with the flat of his hand.

“But Janusky’s in this building, sir. I’m positive.”

“Then why don’t you ask the Luftwaffe to drop bombs on the whole block. That way, you’ll be sure to get him.”

“That seems excessive, sir.”

“And what you’re going to do isn’t? Anyway, we wanted the Jew alive. Forget it, Schlegal. I’m ordering you to withdraw immediately.”

“If that’s a direct order, then I will obey it. Thank you.” Lischka slammed down the receiver at the other end, and without a word, Schlegal put on his cap and walked out, leaving Herzog and Lucien alone in the apartment.

“He’ll be freezing his balls off in Stalingrad in the very near future,” said Herzog with an ear-to-ear grin.

Herzog looked up at the paintings. “What an amazing find. Giorgione da Castelfranco. Did you know there are scholars who think that some of his paintings could have been the work of his student Titian? So these could actually have been painted by Titian himself. Imagine that.” Herzog lit a cigarette and walked around the salon.

“It’s such a shame to see these beautiful paintings among all this mess. I may have to come back this week to rescue them,” said Herzog with a smile and a wink.

As Lucien looked up at the paintings, Herzog placed his hand on Lucien’s shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“Better wait until the middle of the night to get him out of there. And you, my friend, must be gone by tomorrow night.”

65

“Mendel, it’s safe to come out now.”

Manet, who had been standing in the middle of the apartment, walked over to a sofa covered with plaster dust and sat down.

“Did you hear me, Mendel? You can come down.”

Manet heard a faint movement. There was the sound of a sliding latch bolt, then the bottom of one of the paintings on the upper wall started to lift up, until Mendel Janusky could be seen lying behind it, pushing it forward with his hand. The top of the painting within the gilt molding was hinged along its entire length. The whole thing came up like a flap on a bread box. Janusky had been lying on his side in a narrow cavity, barely forty centimeters deep, which had been hollowed out of the brick wall behind the painting.