The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien sat bolt upright in bed as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice-cold water in the middle of the night.

He rubbed his face with both hands to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, then prodded Celeste, who was sleeping soundly on her stomach.

“Did you hear that?”

Celeste groaned.

“It sounded like a—”

A loud rapping on their apartment door interrupted Lucien. He began breathing heavily. When the rapping started again, he began to tremble uncontrollably. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, and started rocking back and forth. He shook Celeste’s shoulder violently, and she rolled over on her side.

“There’s someone at the door,” whispered Lucien.

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost three in the morning.”

“Who’d be at our door at this hour?” mumbled Celeste, burying her head in her pillow.

Lucien knew the answer to that question. There could be only one visitor who’d come calling at 3:00 a.m.: the French police—or worse, the Gestapo. He had heard that they always raided a house in the middle of the night when their prey was asleep. People woke up confused and disoriented, making it easier for the police to cart them away. He couldn’t decide what to do. Face the music or run like a rabbit out the servants’ entry in the rear of the apartment? He felt like an idiot for not having an escape plan, but then what about Celeste? He couldn’t leave her. Lucien looked down at Celeste, who’d fallen back asleep. If the Germans came through the front door with Panzer tanks, she would sleep right through it.

The rapping began again, this time harder and more impatient. He took a deep breath and finally mustered the courage to jump out of bed. An invisible hand in the middle of his back pushed him toward the door. In the six meters it took to get there, the same gruesome image flashed over and over through his mind: a lead pipe splitting his head open like a melon.

By the time he reached the door, Lucien was shaking with fright. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then calmly opened the door and stood face to face with a man in his forties wearing a dark gray suit and a black fedora. Lucien was surprised to see an actual Gestapo agent instead of a French policeman who usually made these kinds of arrests. He must be in a shitload of trouble, he realized, if the Gestapo was making a personal call. He wasn’t able to see any of the other men out in the corridor with him.

“You must come with me at once,” said the man in a very loud voice.

“May I get dressed?”

“Yes.”

Leaving the door open, Lucien turned and started to walk back to the bedroom. He didn’t really want to wake Celeste and tell her, but he had to. This would probably be the last time he would ever see her, so he had to say good-bye. He began to sob.

“And please bring your bag,” shouted the man through the doorway.

Lucien stopped and looked back at the man.

“I need my bag?” So they’d be taking him straight to Drancy, not to rue des Saussaies.

“Yes, bring your instruments. My wife’s condition has worsened. You must come right away.”

“My instruments?”

“You’re Doctor Auteuil, right? I was told you live in apartment 4C. Please, we must hurry.”

Lucien felt he was about to faint and steadied himself against a bookcase. His chest started heaving. His first instinct was to curse the man out, but he stopped himself. When his breathing returned to normal, he walked back to the doorway.

“Doctor Auteuil lives in 3C.”