The Paris Architect: A Novel

“If you come out now, things will be much easier on you.” Schlegal knew this was untrue, but he often promised leniency to his victims for their cooperation. He was never lenient, but it always surprised him to find out how many believed him.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he continued to yell above the din. He actually found himself enjoying this whole operation. There was a growing sense of excitement about finding the Jews, just like he had as a child playing hide-and-seek. Schlegal expected any moment to open up a wall and find them. He imagined they would giggle and shriek with delight as his cousins in Mannheim had always done when discovered. Those memories put a smile on his lips. He loved visiting his cousins in the summer and during the Christmas holiday. It was endless fun and good food.

“Keep at it, men. The one who finds them gets a case—not a bottle, but a whole case—of champagne,” Schlegal shouted out in delight. The pace of the tapping and demolition increased twofold, and Schlegal doubled over with laughter.

“Bruckner, if you find them, you get three weeks’ leave.” At that promise, the captain took hammer in hand and proceeded to tear apart the wall at the rear of a closet, getting white plaster dust all over his uniform. A truck pulled up in front of the house, and a dozen soldiers with sledgehammers and pry bars poured out of the back and into the house. Bruckner told them what to do, and the noise in the house became deafening.

“We’re going to find you, my little Jewish mice. Or should I say rats?” shouted Schlegal.

Three hours later, not a Jew had been found, and Schlegal’s good cheer had turned to pure rage. Every square centimeter of wall had been examined and sounded. Walls in every room were torn open. Almost all the ceilings had come down. The stairs had been torn apart, step by step. Floorboards were pulled up, exposing dusty bug-ridden spaces between the main timber beams. Kitchen cabinets had been ripped apart. The inside of the great oven had been thoroughly searched. Even the chimneys atop the house were knocked down in case the Jews were hiding in the flues. Bruckner had postponed facing Schlegal for the last hour, but he finally mustered up the courage to do it. It was quite apparent that the colonel, who was standing in the kitchen, was in a foul mood.

“It’s going to be a long time before you see Munich again, mister.”

“Colonel, they’re not here. Unless they magically shrunk down to the size of insects and crawled away, they escaped before we came.”

“Bullshit,” said Schlegal. He hurled a piece of wood paneling across the room. He kicked a chunk of plaster with his black boot, covering it in a fine white powder. He walked over to the window and gazed out onto the lush green garden.

“I’m telling you, they’re still here.”

“I’m sorry; I can’t find them, Colonel.”

Schlegal turned to face Bruckner. He patted his shoulder in a fatherly way and smiled.

“Then burn the house down. The Jews will be forced out because of the smoke—or burn to death in their hiding space. When we pick through the debris, we’ll find them. Burnt to a crisp.”

The captain wasn’t about to protest. It was a quick and easy way to end this mess and get back to Paris where a warm bed and a French prostitute named Jane awaited him. They should have done that in the first place. Soldiers raced to the trucks to get the cans of petrol. In minutes the interior of the entire house was drenched. With Schlegal watching, Bruckner nodded to a soldier standing at the front door, who struck a wooden match and tossed it in the reception hall. An inferno raged through the house in just seconds. Dusk was approaching, and the flames shooting through the roof made an impressive sight against the darkening sky. The soldiers, worn out from the useless demolition, were tired to the bone, and Bruckner allowed them to lounge on the grass or inside the trucks and just watch the blaze. The flames cast an eerie orange light on their faces. Schlegal was expecting at any minute to hear screams of agony, but there was just the crackling of the flames. The blaze wouldn’t die out until morning, so Schlegal ordered the men back to Paris.