The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Here, let me help you see,” said the old man, flicking on his lighter and shining it above the photos. “Is that better?”


They were photos of dead bodies in what looked like the desert and alongside a road in the countryside.

“Let me explain. These are dead soldiers in North Africa. Notice the uniforms—Free French. They were strafed by fighter planes with Heinkel engines, which just happen to be made in that beautiful factory of yours in Chaville. And this is a picture of some French civilians who were strafed near the Swiss border, trying to get across. Guess where the engines on those planes came from?”

Lucien sat there in silence, looking out the window.

“Let me stop the car, and I’ll kill him,” the passenger said. “I know a great place to dump the body out here.”

“I told you to shut up, Remy.”

The snapshots slipped out of Lucien’s hand and onto the floorboard. He continued to look out the window. They were in the countryside somewhere just outside of Paris. As he watched the dark fields and woods whiz by, he began to think about Celeste’s parting words— an architectural Mephistopheles. Someone who sold his soul to the Germans in order to design. To design things that killed his countrymen. Celeste was right; he had crossed the line over to collaboration for the sake of his art. And he knew the old man was right. His Tremblay design could win a hundred prizes, but in the end it was his enemy’s building, not his.

Lucien rehashed in his mind the same old rationale that he had used after his first meeting with the Resistance. He was so desperate for architectural success, he didn’t care who he designed for. The war had come and his career was put on hold; it seemed he might not ever get another commission. To his bitter disappointment, the 1930s hadn’t brought the recognition he craved. He couldn’t get that breakthrough commission that would set him on the path to professional fame. So when Manet offered him the Chaville job, it was the opportunity of a lifetime he had to take.

The devil to whom he’d sold his soul was Herzog, who wasn’t your conventional Nazi devil with horns, a red suit, and a pointed tail. He was a skilled engineer who loved architecture and honestly wanted Lucien to produce great buildings. He wasn’t a barbarian like the rest of them. Herzog had shared his passion for architecture and urged Lucien to design something good because he saw that he had the ability to do it. Designing the two factories proved that he did have talent. But the rationale no longer convinced him as it had before. He realized that he knew what he was doing was wrong.

He wasn’t the least bit scared at this moment—his sense of shame erased all the fear inside him. He reached down and picked up the snapshots and flipped through them again. No soul searching was necessary.

“What do you want me to do?” Lucien asked.

“We have a very limited supply of plastique that British Special Operations have given us, so we have to place it where it will do the most damage,” the old man said. “That’s what you will tell us. But first we’ll need a set of blueprints to understand the layout of the place before we go in. We’ll turn back to Paris and go to your office. Remy will escort you upstairs to get them.”

“And if you run, you get one in the back of the head,” said Remy with a big smile.

“And when are you going to do this?”

“Tonight,” said the old man. “For a couple of hours, there’re only two guards on duty watching the whole place. And you’re coming with us to make sure it’s done right. We have only one shot.”

Lucien didn’t have the energy to protest. He was resigned to his fate.

“All right, monsieur, I’m with you.”

“That’s good. Monsieur Devereaux said you were a true patriot.”

“Devereaux, the architect?”

“A mutual friend of ours. He was the one who suggested your building and said you would know the best way to bring it down. ‘Bernard,’ he said, ‘would gladly sacrifice his building for the good of France.’”

“I bet he did,” said Lucien.





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