The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien was quite proud he’d procured a roasted chicken for tonight’s supper. It had cost him a pretty penny—twenty times more than what it would have cost in peacetime. But it was worth it. He knew Pierre would smell the delicious aroma the minute he came through the apartment door and come running. That sight alone was worth the money. The twenty thousand francs Manet insisted again that he take wasn’t going as far as he’d thought. By 1942, inflation was eating away one’s money at an incredible rate. Things had always been expensive, but now they were exorbitant. Butter, which was officially fifty-nine francs and impossible to get, was over two hundred francs on the black market. Bartering had become the rage in Paris. A kid in his building had bought an hour of violin lessons for half a kilo of butter.

As Lucien walked home through the dark streets, he thought of what to have with the chicken. Potatoes and cabbage? Or just bread and wine? He wrestled with the choices and gave no thought to the footsteps behind him. About six blocks from his building, two men came up on either side of him, and Lucien’s knees nearly buckled. Were they the Gestapo, who favored snatching people off the sidewalk and throwing them into a waiting car? Or could they be the gangs who pretended to be the police and confiscated black-market goods? His friend, Daniel Joffre, had had a whole leg of mutton he was carrying in a suitcase taken from him last month. He had to decide whether to bolt down the street coming up on his right. He glanced to his right and left to size up the two men. Both looked quite fit and probably could chase him down with ease. Though he was in lousy shape, he knew he had to run. But they kept walking alongside him for two blocks, which struck Lucien as odd. The Gestapo wouldn’t take this much time to make an arrest. Realizing they could be the faux police after his chicken, he instinctively clutched the package tight to his chest and walked faster. Maybe they were just ordinary starving men driven mad by the smell of the chicken. One of the men ran ahead and stood directly in Lucien’s path. The other stood directly behind him. Lucien decided not to give up the chicken without a fight.

“Please let me pass, monsieur,” said Lucien in his politest tone of voice, but he was ready to kick the man in the groin and run. He was about to say he didn’t want any trouble when the man facing him spoke.

“Monsieur Bernard, we wish to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. I promise you it won’t take long.” The man was wearing a stylish hat and a Gestapo-like trench coat. He gestured to a car that pulled up alongside them. Lucien began to tremble and saw the amused expressions on the men’s faces. The man behind Lucien put his hand on his shoulder and gently guided him into the waiting car. All three sat in the back, Lucien and his chicken in the middle. Lucien knew they must be the French police working with the Gestapo. They definitely weren’t after his food. Nothing was said while the car covered about a kilometer before turning into a garage. Lucien twisted around to see someone shutting the garage doors behind them. This was it. They were going to kill him here. The only thought that came into Lucien’s mind as he slumped down in the seat was that Pierre would be alone all night, not knowing what had happened to him. Lucien would join the ranks of Parisians who disappeared without a trace. And Pierre wouldn’t get his special chicken dinner.

The man on his right opened the door, and they got out of the car. Lucien followed them to a stair at the rear of the garage, which led to a small office where two other men were waiting. An older man in his sixties, wearing a dark gray overcoat, pointed to a wooden chair at a round table, and Lucien sat down.

“Monsieur Bernard, that’s quite a building you designed for the Germans in Chaville. The one that’s going up in Tremblay’s pretty impressive too,” said the old man, who sat down in the chair across the table.

“Thank you.”

“It’s interesting how you’re so willing to design a building better than what the Germans could do for themselves.”

“I don’t see it that way at all, monsieur. I just try to do my best.”

“Your best for the Germans, you mean.”

“For myself. I design to my own high standard.”

“A higher standard than what the Germans could do?”

Lucien knew immediately where this line of questioning was heading and who was asking the questions.

“You’re from the Resistance, aren’t you?”