Set in 1943, APRIL IN PARIS is the dramatic story of an impossible love between a German soldier and a French Resistance fighter in occupied Paris.
Roth, a twenty-one-year-old German soldier, has spent most of his time in occupied Paris working in the army's back offices. But when his superiors learn of his ability to speak accent-free French, he is abruptly transferred to Gestapo headquarters to work as an interpreter during the interrogation of Resistance fighters. Rather than question his role in the Nazi regime, Roth translates with impeccable accuracy as the torture proceeds.
But when his duty ends, Roth slips away from his fellow officers, changes into civilian clothes, and wanders aimlessly through Paris disguised as his alter ego "Antoine." One day he is drawn into an antiquarian bookshop and becomes enchanted with the bookseller's beautiful daughter, Chantal. The two begin to meet and fall in love before Roth has the courage to reveal his true identity, nor to discover Chantal's.
When a bomb placed in a popular nightclub by the Resistance kills several high-ranking German officers, Roth finds himself not in his role as translator but as the suspect of the SS's interrogation.
April in Paris is one of those rare books in which the emotional force of the love story is matched by page-turning suspense. Written in an elegant and arresting style, it is a thrilling novel by a promising new writer, who has brought the reality of a war-torn past very much to the present.
Excerpts
Chapter One...
I learned about the transfer before noon. The small stripes of light had reached the windowsill. My major came in and kept one hand on the doorknob while gesturing to me with the other to keep my seat. He wanted to know if the hogwash from Marseille was ready yet. I pointed to the half--written sheet still in the typewriter. I could go when I reached the end of the page, he said.
"And the dispatch from Lagny--sur--Marne?" I asked, surprised.
"Someone else will have to do it. You're needed elsewhere."
I pressed my knees together under the table. In those days, many people were being sent to the front.
"I'm being reassigned?"
"Rue des Saussaies has lost a translator." The major ran his hand down the left side of his uniform coat. German Horseman's Badge, War Merit Cross. He said he'd do all he could to get me back. I shouldn't worry, he said; my transfer would be only temporary.
"What happened to the translator from rue des Saussaies?"
"He was run over and killed last night."
I flinched. "Partisans?"
"Of course not. The guy was drunk, and he went staggering over a bridge. Because of the blackout, the patrol car saw him too late. Unfortunately, he didn't die right away. Horrible. Anyway, the request for an interpreter wound up on my desk. You seem to have a reputation in rue des Saussaies," the major said with a rare smile. "They specifically asked for you."
My back stiffened. I glanced across the room toward the wall map, scale 1:500,000. Arrows, hatching, the plaster rosette over the door, the remains of cloth wallpaper from the time when people still lived here. My desk, the French dictionary, badly chewed pencils. I was going to miss the lovely view out over the line of roofs to the west.
The major looked at me gloomily. "Finish the Marseille thing. Then take the rest of the day off. You start over there tomorrow morning. You'll be back in a few days. Those folks aren't particularly fond of strange faces."
I stood up and saluted; the major absentmindedly raised his arm. I remained standing even after he left the room. The sunlight came through the window and cast a shadow like a cross on the wall. All at once, I was cold. I buttoned my top button and grabbed my cap, as though I was about to leave. Then I put it down again, lowered myself onto the chair, read the French original, and began typing the translation with two fingers.
You could have gone another way, I said to myself. How careless, to walk down rue des Saussaies, of all streets. The black--and--silver uniform appeared quite suddenly, right in front of SS headquarters. A brief exchange of words. Did he ask for a light? You'd better be careful. Only translate expressions from the dictionary. Stare at the table. Never look anyone in the face. Forget whatever they let you see. In the evening, you'll go to your hotel; in the morning, you'll report for duty on time. Until they don't need you anymore. Then you'll go back to your major, who doesn't want to do anything but enjoy the city and relish the role of the conqueror and leaves it to you to push arrows and numbers around and adorns your reports with his name. As long as you remain indispensable, he'll keep them from sending you into the real war.
The Pont Royal was standing in water up to its shoulders, only half a meter shy of the high--water mark set in 1700 and something. Fishermen leaned over the parapet wall. The stones were already warm, and people were sitting around with half--closed eyes, facing the sun. When they heard the hobnailed boots approaching, some turned away. I plunged into the hubbub of the Latin Quarter. The more...
Reviews
Monika Melcher, Lesart...
"April in Paris is a thrilling read . . . Michael Wallner writes with great delicacy . . . deftly creating an atmosphere full of suspense."
Harald Loch, Nürnberger Nachrichten...
"A remarkable story that could only play out in an occupied Paris torn between poetry and drama, and love and death... an enthralling blend of gravity and suspense."
Frankfurter Neue Presse...
"April in Paris is a majestic novel . . . [Wallner] has perfectly captured the language of the era, and explored the moral dilemma of an apolitical soldier torn between obedience and sentiment."
Brigitte Magazine...
"A cross between Ken Follet and The Reader by Bernard Schlink . . . April in Paris is a book to share with friends: a love story for men who don't usually cry."
About the Author
Michael Wallner is an actor and screenwriter. He divides his time between Berlin and the Black Forest.
