The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien never got the chance to fight the Germans. Though he hated their guts, he knew he would’ve been a terrible soldier in battle—he was scared of guns. Honor and service to country were ideals cherished by the French, although he’d always thought of them as a load of patriotic horse manure. But since his return to Paris, he’d had a gnawing feeling inside him that he was a coward. This was reinforced by the fact that there were so many women in Paris and so few men—most had been killed or captured during the invasion. But not Lucien. His neighbor, Madame Dehor, had a lost a son, blown to bits attempting to stop a Panzer tank. Six months after the boy’s death, he could still hear her wailing uncontrollably through the thick walls of the apartment building. Secretly, Lucien was ashamed that he was so useless to his country. Sometimes, he felt guilty that he was alive.


And Lucien knew he didn’t have the guts to join the Resistance. Besides, he didn’t believe in their cause. It was made up of a bunch of fanatical Communists who’d commit some stupid, meaningless act of sabotage that would trigger the Germans to kill scores of hostages in retaliation.

Lucien looked at the sketch of the factory. On the whole, Manet was offering him a pretty good deal—if you removed the possibility of torture and death by the Gestapo. One secret hiding place he designed in less than an hour, in exchange for twelve thousand francs, which could buy plenty of black market goods. Plus the factory commission. He flipped the paper over to the sketch of the column, which immediately brought a smile to his face. The sense of mastery and excitement he had felt in the apartment returned. He’d experienced such intense pleasure when he’d realized that the column would work. Maybe this was something he could do to get back at the Germans. Sure, he couldn’t risk his neck by shooting them, but he could risk it in his own way. And besides, given the solution he’d invented, was there really that much risk? The Gestapo would search and search the apartment and never find the hiding place. That image pleased the hell out of him.

This was suicidal. But something within Lucien compelled him to do it.

***

“You’re what the Jews call a mensch, Monsieur Bernard,” said Manet, who took a sip of wine. Lucien had made sure they had a table off by themselves.

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Lucien. It sounded kind of insulting, similar to the Jewish word schmuck.

“I believe it means a human being, a person who stands up and does the right thing.”

“Before I do the right thing, there’re a few conditions.”

“Go on,” said Manet.

“I’m not to know anything…I mean anything…about your goddamn Jew,” said Lucien, looking around him to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.

“I understand perfectly.”

“What about the workmen who’ll be doing the construction? How do I know they won’t talk?”

“They are men who have worked for me for over twenty years. I can trust them and so can you.”

“The tenants will wonder what’s going on when they hear all the noise. Every one of them would be deported if a Jew was found in the building. If they suspected anything, they’d inform the Germans to save themselves.”

“There’s a risk, I agree, but the concierge has been well paid to lie if need be. All the tenants are at work during the day. Besides, your solution is ingenious because it’s so simple—there won’t be that much noise.”

“What about the owner of the building? What if he gets wind of the work?”

“I am the owner, Monsieur Bernard.”

Lucien finally relaxed and sat back in his chair. With those concerns out of the way, it was now time to get down to business.

“You mentioned a fee of twelve thousand francs, Monsieur Manet.”

Manet produced a thick hardback book out of the satchel he held on his lap. He placed it on the table and pushed it toward Lucien.

“Do you like to read? This novel by the American writer Hemingway is most entertaining,” he said with a great smile.

Lucien never read anything except architectural magazines. But he did go to the cinema and had seen all the American films based on great works of literature, so he could pretend he’d read the books.

“Of course, Hemingway.” Gary Cooper starred in A Farewell to Arms in 1932. It was a damn good film.

Lucien slowly picked up the book and examined the cover, then began to fan the pages. He abruptly stopped when he saw the first franc note nestled in the hollowed-out book.

“It looks most interesting. I’ll start it tonight before I go to bed.”

“I know you’ll enjoy it,” replied Manet.