The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Yes, monsieur, that is the organization we represent. And we have some questions about your loyalty to your country.”


“Hold on, you old bastard. I’ll be damned if you think I’m a traitor. I’m loyal to France. I was there fighting to the end when the surrender came. You can easily check that,” Lucien shouted.

“We know of your heroic war record sitting behind a desk.” The room erupted in laughter. “It’s now that we’re talking about.”

“And you’re heroes?” replied Lucien. “What a joke.”

The real reason Lucien hated the Resistance was because it was 99 percent Communist, and he despised Communists and their idiotic dreams of overthrowing capitalism. Their supposed acts of heroism brought nothing but a never-ending cycle of reprisals. Since 1941, when the Resistance started murdering German soldiers, the Reich had fought back by killing hostages. Just last week, after the Resistance threw grenades at some airmen at Jean-Boudin Stadium in Paris, killing eight of them, the Germans murdered eighty-five people. Most of them were Communists, which was all right with Lucien, but some were just helpless bystanders.

“You kill one goddamn German and a dozen innocent Frenchmen are murdered. You do some meaningless act of sabotage like cutting some telephone lines or diverting freight cars in the wrong direction and get more of our people killed in reprisals. What about those poor bastards you got killed the other day? What you do, monsieur, doesn’t add up to much. Certainly not worth the life of one Frenchman.”

“Let me take care of him,” shouted a short bearded man sitting in the corner of the room. “One bullet for one collaborator, and we can go home.”

“Emile, please don’t interrupt. Let me handle this,” said the old man. “Monsieur Bernard, the Resistance does its best under extremely difficult conditions. But we must fight back. To live defeated is to die every day.”

“Says who? I heard de Gaulle on the BBC say that killing Germans makes it too easy for them to massacre unarmed citizens. He said you do more harm than good. Anyway, it’ll be the British and the Americans who save our asses and you know it, not fools like you.”

“Yes, but until then we must fight in our own way.”

“Christ, you’re nothing but a lot of goddamn Communists. Your boy Stalin isn’t any angel either. It got out that he starved a few million to death in the Ukraine. And don’t forget he signed a nonaggression pact with Hitler. Remember that?”

The old man didn’t reply. Lucien knew this was a sore point with all Communists.

“Let’s get back to you. We feel that you’re a bit too helpful to the German war effort. We’re asking you to be a little less cooperative. Don’t be so energetic.”

“Goddamn you, I’m not a collaborator. Those factories will be used after the war is won.”

The old man lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He smiled at Lucien. “That’s a very imaginative way of justifying your actions, monsieur.” The other men in the room murmured in agreement.

Lucien didn’t like being mocked, especially by working-class types like these. “France will need factories to rebuild the country.”

“There won’t be a country, if shits like you help the Boche,” shouted the bearded man. “And those factories you design are ugly as sin.”

“You’ve been warned, Monsieur Bernard,” said the old man. “Remember where your loyalties lie. When victory does come, collaborators will pay a terrible price, I assure you.”

“Maybe before victory,” said the bearded man, pulling a revolver out of his coat pocket.

“And I wouldn’t be so friendly with Colonel Herzog either. Doesn’t look good,” added the old man.

Still holding his chicken, Lucien stood up and looked around at the men in the room.

“Listen, you bastards. I love France, and I’m no collaborator. You all can go to hell if you think I am. Now let me go home.”

The old man gestured to the man in the trench coat.