The Paris Architect: A Novel

One evening, they saw a light in a farmhouse set about half a kilometer from the road. Tired and hungry, the couple rode up and knocked on the door. A farmer with a stubbly gray beard and short cropped hair came to the door. He listened to their plea dispassionately. A girl of around sixteen with a beautiful mane of blond hair joined him.

“We know you’re Jews. We won’t hurt you. Please come in,” said the girl. The Geibers, who were amazed by what they heard, actually thought they had found an angel from heaven. But before the Geibers could move, the farmer barred the doorway with his thick muscular arm then slammed the door on them. Behind the plank door, shouting broke out with the girl pleading with the farmer to help them. He screamed back at her, telling her she was a fool. The argument went back and forth. Dejected, the Geibers had walked away, but the door was thrown open, and both the girl and farmer came out.

“I’ll hide you if you pay me,” demanded the farmer, glaring at the girl, who was about to protest.

“That’s no problem, monsieur. I’d be glad to pay for your kindness,” replied Geiber. Once the Occupation began, he had taken measures to ensure his vast fortune was safe, but he also knew that cash would come in handy, so he kept a great deal of it in his home to take with them if they had to run. Geiber also had Miriam sew gold coins and her jewels into her dresses.

In exchange for five thousand francs, they lived in a pit in the barn with a bucket for a chamber pot. The smell and the dampness worked its way into their skin and joints, and at night they could hear the rats scampering above them looking for food. But worst of all was the Stygian darkness in which they lived. During the day, the Geibers could barely see each other by the light that filtered in between the cracks of the floor boards, which had a light layer of hay on them to camouflage the hiding place. At night, they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces. Several times, they had lit a Sabbath candle on Friday nights until Maurier caught them.

They passed the time by reminiscing about every single detail of their lives—about their sons and grandchildren, their favorite books, musicals, art, and all the films they’d seen. In an odd way, this ordeal proved what a good marriage they had had for forty years; they could converse about anything and entertain each other for hours, the way friends did over coffee in a café.

Maurier never allowed them out of the pit, but they didn’t care. It was better to be alive underground than be a corpse aboveground. Marie, Maurier’s niece, brought them food every day and pulled up and cleaned out the chamber pot. She washed their clothes. Marie did turn out to be an angel. Geiber swore that if he survived this, he’d pay back her kindness a hundredfold. Now, the Geibers would be back on the road, begging for help. He laughed to himself. The son of a wealthy businessman who owned an enormous aluminum works, Geiber had never once in his life worried about money or food or where he would live. Now, he wondered if God was teaching him a lesson—this Nazi hell in exchange for the years of privilege and happiness. Thank God his sons had immigrated to England in the ’30s. What he’d thought was a curse then had turned out to be a blessing.

Geiber jerked his head up as he heard someone approaching. Every hour of the day, he expected the boards to be yanked away and to see Germans soldiers in their gray-green uniforms, smiling down at him as if they’d unearthed a buried treasure.

“Monsieur Geiber,” said Marie.

“Yes?”

“I once worked as a maid in the house of a very rich man. He may be able to help you.”





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