The Paris Architect: A Novel

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.”





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