The Paris Architect: A Novel

“That is quite clever. And how does it work again?”


“It’s just a flight of four steps leading to a small study. It’s hinged at the top and can be lifted up, enabling someone to slip beneath it and hide.”

“And how did you discover it if it was so well concealed?”

Schlegal paused, searching for the right words. “I…I came upon it completely by accident. I would never have found it.”

“Well, there are a few Parisians who could build such a thing, but two are dead, another I know has left Paris for the south. Those are the only ones I know who could devise what you described.”

“Would they be capable of designing or rather coming up with an idea like that as well as building it? Who’d think up such a thing is what I’m asking?”

Lucien wanted to blurt out that a carpenter could never design such a clever hiding place, that only an architect had the talent and brains to do it, but he kept his ego in check.

“A carpenter could come up with a stair like that.”

“And you’re sure you can’t think of anyone else who could do it?”

“No, Colonel, I’m sorry I can’t.”

“Well, if you ever—”

Schlegal was interrupted by an aide who walked in without knocking. “There’s a Colonel Herzog outside to see you immediately. He’s from the armaments—”

“Goddamn it, man, I know who he is. Tell him to wait a few minutes.”

Herzog pushed through the doorway, shoving aside the aide, who retreated back to his desk.

“What’s the meaning of this, Schlegal? Why is my architect here?”

“Calm down, Colonel. Your man is just advising me on architectural business. I’m not taking him away from you. We all know about the fine work he’s doing for you. He hasn’t been arrested, if that’s what you’re implying,” said Schlegal.

Herzog stared down at Schlegal, who hadn’t bothered to get up when Herzog barged into the room. Lucien, who knew Herzog’s mannerisms by now, saw that he didn’t respect Schlegal at all.

“What architectural business?” said Herzog.

Schlegal hesitated. “There are people who are hiding Jews in secret places throughout the city, Colonel.”

Herzog shot a puzzled look at Lucien, then turned on the Gestapo officer.

“Jews hiding in the woodwork, you say? Where did you get that harebrained idea?”

Schlegal rose now and stood nose to nose with Herzog. Lucien was sure fists would start swinging any minute. He couldn’t decide who’d win the fight; both were quite fit and the same size.

“I’m sure you’re aware that the Reich considers international Jewry a serious and dangerous threat, Colonel. And that they must be swiftly and harshly dealt with. The Fuehrer has made this his number-one priority.”

“I thought his number-one priority was winning the war against the Communists and the Allies,” Herzog said. “Not scouring Paris for a lot of frightened Jews. The Wehrmacht, which is made up of real military men, doesn’t lower itself for such nonsense. So you’re wasting this man’s time. And that means you’re wasting my valuable time.”

“I’d be careful about what you’re saying, old boy. You’re going to make a lot of people angry with that kind of talk.”

“Next you’ll be calling me a Jew lover, huh?”

Schlegal laughed in Herzog’s face. “Not at all. Just someone interfering with Reich business—and that’s a very serious charge, Colonel.”

“You, sir, can go shit in your hat. Now I hope you’ll excuse me, I have a war to win. But in case you want to report me, here’s Reich Minister Speer’s personal home number.” Herzog scribbled a number on Schlegal’s desk blotter with a pencil. “Give him a call. Maybe he has some Jews hiding under his bed that you can arrest. Come on, Monsieur Bernard, we’re leaving.”





57