The Paris Architect: A Novel

“You’ve done your job, you can go,” said Bruckner.

Aubier, clutching the bag of food to his chest, quickly made his way past Bruckner and out the door. Bruckner was always amazed at how easily the French would betray each other. Like Aubier, most did it in exchange for food or a favor, but many did it out of hatred or pure spite. His office would get dozens of letters a day, all of them beginning with some form of the sentence “I have the honor to draw your attention to a person living at…” The letter (usually unsigned) would finger a Jew with wealth: “He has an apartment full of fine objects.” Many would ask the Germans to protect Christian families “from the actions of scheming Jews” or to help return a French husband “from the temptations of a Jewess.”

And it wasn’t always a Jew that was turned in. The French, who were always hungry because of the rationing, despised their fellow countrymen who ate well, so they too would be accused of plotting against the Reich. Was it a flaw in their national character or what? Of course, it served the Gestapo’s purpose perfectly, and they encouraged it, but these people had absolutely no pride. The French even had a stock phrase for denunciation: “I’ll go and tell the Germans about it.” He hadn’t expected them to act like this. It filled Bruckner with disgust because he had enormous respect for French culture and history. He wondered whether his own people would be as shameless as the French if they were under Occupation. They didn’t understand that these denunciations deepened the contempt the Germans had for them and made it much easier to use brute force on the French.

“Duisberg, bring up the French police and have them round up the neighbors on this floor,” said Bruckner. “If they aren’t in, get some from the floor below. Bring them downstairs to me. We won’t need the children. Becker here can handle Bloem.”

Duisberg shouted down into the stairwell, and four police officers came running up the steps. They pounded on each of the wooden doors on the floor, screaming, “Police, everyone downstairs except children! Now!”

Like frightened mice inching out of their hiding places, the neighbors came out from behind their doors. Middle-aged men and women, a sixteen-year-old boy, an ancient man of about eighty-five, a woman around sixty, all silently gathered on the landing next to the lift.

“Move your asses!”

The group ran down the stairs, even the old man. Duisberg was behind them, cursing and shoving them down the four flights. No one uttered a word of protest or tried to make a run for it. As they passed each floor, Bruckner knew that all the residents were behind their doors listening and praying with all their might that there wouldn’t be a knock on their door. Duisberg herded them through the beautiful wood-paneled entry foyer and out into the street. Bruckner followed behind and walked to his car parked at the curb and lit a cigarette. When everyone was lined up in front of him, he threw out his unfinished cigarette and paced up and down in front of them.

“I’m thinking of a number from one to twenty. Each of you guess what it is,” Bruckner said in a jovial voice. He went to the end of the line and faced the sixty-year-old woman.

“What number?”

The woman was tongue-tied, and this annoyed the captain.

“Give me a number, old woman.”

“Eleven.”

“No, that’s not it.” He moved to the next in line, the sixteen-year-old boy.

“One.”

“No. How about you, beautiful?” he asked an attractive middle-aged woman.

“Seven.”