The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien turned around to see the actress Suzy Solidor sitting at a table with a half-dozen people. She raised her glass to Adele and smiled. He’d seen other famous actors and entertainers, those who hadn’t fled in 1940, at this restaurant before. Established stars like Maurice Chevalier, Sacha Guitry, and rising stars like Edith Piaf and Yves Montand had stayed in Paris and continued their careers. They enjoyed the nightlife as if there wasn’t a war on at all, to the disapproval of some Frenchmen. Adele loved her connections to the movie world and crowed about them all the time. She was glad the stars had stayed. Lucien knew the only celebrity she wished had left was Coco Chanel, whom she loathed, because Parisians thought Chanel was more talented and chic than Adele, and it drove her mad.

“Suzy’s coming in to look at some sketches, and she may bring Simone Signoret. Isn’t that wonderful?” Adele said excitedly. “And they both said they’d definitely come to my show.”

Slowly sipping her wine, she ignored Lucien while she took in a 180-degree view of the entire restaurant, admiring the glamorous clientele and surroundings as one would take in a view of the Alps.

“As I said, there’s a reward waiting for you to collect at my flat, so let’s get going,” said Adele, finishing off the last drop of wine.

On their way out, they passed a table where six German officers were seated, wolfing down omelets, roast chicken, and lamb chops with gusto and washing it all down with champagne. Lucien was relieved that he didn’t recognize any of them from his meeting at Manet’s factory. They’d be suspicious about how an architect who got paid a pittance by the Reich could afford such a fancy place.

Lucien and Adele took their time as they walked along the rue Monsigny. It was a beautiful July night. Before the war, one of the pleasures of Paris had been strolling its streets and looking at the window displays in all the shops, but now there was no reason to stop and look because they were empty due to the shortages. The wine shops still had displays of bottles, but the bottles were empty. As usual, the streets were practically deserted, with a few people hurrying by to make it to the Metro before the midnight curfew. The Germans were quite clever, thought Lucien. The curfew wasn’t just a security measure but a form of psychological control over Parisians, far more powerful than brute force. People were scared to death to be caught outside after midnight. He could see the anxiety in the faces of the people who passed them. There were no cars on the roads. Only a velo-taxi, a kind of bicycle rickshaw driven by a young man that carried two women passengers, passed by. It was a very popular means of transport just now in Paris because it didn’t need petrol or a horse.

“My friend Jeanne just got an incredible fur coat that once belonged to a Jew,” Adele said, touching the necklace. “Pure mink, knee length.”

“The Jews have lost everything. I hear many have gone into hiding.”

“Ah. They can hide under the smallest rock or in the tiniest crack,” she replied, “but the Boche will find them. That’s for sure.”

“Not many of them made it out of the country before the surrender, so there must be tons of them still around,” Lucien said. “I hear thousands were deported last month.”

“Now real Frenchmen can control their own economy. I know how the kikes took over the clothing and fashion industries. Dirty swine.”

Lucien was surprised at the venom spewing from Adele’s mouth. He had never seen this side of her—but the subject of Jews had never come up before. The Occupation, Lucien realized, hadn’t just bred hatred of Jews, it had brought out the very worst in human beings. Hardship had bred pure self-interest, setting group against group, neighbor against neighbor, and even friend against friend. People would screw over each other for a lump of butter.

“Just last week, Isabelle, a model from work, found out that her father had been arrested for hiding a Jew in his attic at his home in the country near Troyes,” Adele said. “Can you imagine risking your hide like that?”

Lucien looked down at his feet as they walked. “So what happened to Isabelle’s father?” he asked.

“Poor Isabelle doesn’t know where he is or even if he’s still alive. You know damn well he’s been tortured to death. She was lucky as hell she wasn’t brought in by the Gestapo. A good-looking girl like that could be sent to a brothel in Poland or someplace.”

“That’s a shame about her father.”

Adele stopped suddenly and looked Lucien square in the eyes.

“A shame? Fools who take risks like that deserve to die.”