The Paris Architect: A Novel

“You win!” he shouted with glee, like an announcer on a game show on the radio. With lightning-fast reflexes, he whipped his Luger from his holster and shot the woman in the middle of her forehead. She dropped like a rock to the gray sidewalk. Bruckner holstered his weapon, walked to the middle of the street, and looked up at the apartment blocks that surrounded him.

“This woman lived on the floor where a Jew was hiding,” he shouted at the windows of the buildings on both sides of the street. “I bet she didn’t even know he was there. But that really doesn’t matter, my friends. If a Jew is found in your building, every last one of you will be shot. If a Jew is found on the fifth floor and you live on the second floor—you die. It’s as simple as that.”

Bruckner walked a few meters down the street with his arms folded. His eyes scanned the facades of the elegantly designed apartment blocks. Not a single person was standing at a window, but they were there all right, standing a meter or two away from the sash listening. He understood how the neighbors behind those windows felt. They all were going to look the other way; they didn’t want to see what was going to happen to the people waiting in the street. That’s the way the French acted during the Occupation—they didn’t want to see. All that mattered was that they weren’t rounded up.

Becker and Bloem came out of the building, and Duisberg helped them get Bloem into a black Citro?n by the curb. Bruckner watched impassively and then walked over to the remaining apartment dwellers. They hadn’t even looked down at the dead woman but kept their eyes straight ahead. The Gestapo captain resumed pacing directly in front of them, looking each person straight in the eyes as he passed. One of the most fascinating things he’d experienced in his three years of service in the Gestapo was how people acted when they were about to be shot. To his surprise, very few broke down and started sobbing or begged for their lives; most remained resigned to the fact and were quite stoic. The residents of rue Blomet were in the latter group. Like all Parisians, they seemed to accept that death was inevitable and that it could come at any hour of the day. It was odd that the French were so dignified in death but in life acted like shits squealing on each other.

He wondered what they were thinking about. If Bruckner were in their place and were about to die, he’d try to think of the most enjoyable experience he’d ever had. That wonderful summer in Bavaria when he lost his virginity to Claus Hankel’s aunt. Seeing Trudy Breker’s tits for the first time. Or the time he was awarded his university’s highest award for athletic achievement in the long jump.

He stopped in front of a middle-aged man in a rumpled gray suit who stared straight ahead. Maybe he was off in his own world, remembering something fun he had once done. Or was he betting that Bruckner only intended to execute one resident to make his point?

The Gestapo captain kept pacing for another minute, then returned to his car, leaned against the hood, and lit another cigarette.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s getting late and I don’t want to keep you any longer. Thank you for your time. Good night to you all.”





18





“Ah, Monsieur Bernard, good to see you. Please, please come in.”