The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Impossible,” answered a baritone voice. “Keep looking, they must still be around. Messier’s never been wrong yet. Check the backs of the closets for a false wall; that’s where we’ve found some before.” There had been a pause in the commotion when the colonel spoke, but now it resumed at an even more furious pace.

Suddenly, someone ran back into the master bedroom and stomped up the flight of steps over Miriam and Geiber. The stairs sagged under the impact of the man’s weight, almost touching Geiber’s nose. A wave of panic swept over them. With superhuman effort, Miriam stifled a scream, squeezing the life out of her husband’s hand. She felt her husband’s body tremble uncontrollably as if he were having an epileptic fit. The soldier stayed in the small study, pulling all the books off the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, sending some of them crashing down on the stairs. The Geibers flinched every time a book came down upon them. When the soldier finished with the books, he started ripping out the wooden shelving. He ran back down the stairs, where he was met by another soldier.

“Did you check behind the bookcase? They hide in spaces behind those shelves, you know.”

“What the hell did you think I was just doing?” yelled the soldier.

“Where the fuck are those kikes? I thought this would be an easy detail. Marianne is waiting for me in town.”

“Which one’s Marianne? You never said anything about her.”

“The one with the great jugs who stole that case of wine for me that time. You remember, don’t you?”

“What wine? You had wine and didn’t tell me?”

One of the soldiers sat down heavily on the steps. Geiber and Miriam could feel the stairs creak and sag directly above them. With a German’s body just ten centimeters away, their fright was unbearable. Miriam had almost passed out from fear and wished she would faint dead away to escape this torment. Both clenched their mouths shut with all their might. The tiniest sound would give them away.

“Christ, I’m beat running up all these goddamn steps. These houses are like fuckin’ museums. Hold up for a moment.”

“Better not let Schlegal see you sitting on your ass.”

“Fuck him and all Gestapo bastards.”

“You better get the hell up, or your ass will be in Russia.”

“Just let me catch my breath. Schlegal’s downstairs, anyway.”

“Hurry up. I’m going down the hall here to look again.”

The soldier didn’t move from his spot on the stairs. The Geibers could hear the strike of a match, then smelled the faint aroma of a cigarette. As they waited and waited for the man to leave, the stress was too much to bear. To his horror, Geiber realized that he’d soiled himself. After about a minute, a strong smell filled the space. Then mercifully came the sound of a boot stamping out a cigarette butt on the floor. The steps creaked as the soldier rose from his seat.

“Jesus Christ, are you still here? Schlegal’s coming down the hall,” said a soldier.

“Do you smell something? Like shit?”

“You’re going to be shit if Schlegal sees you.”

“No, wait…I—”

“Stauffen, you goddamn moron,” a voice yelled out. “Get moving and look for those kikes! Did you check the attic?”

“No, Colonel, I was just—”

“Asshole. You should’ve done that first. Get the hell up there now.”

“Yes, Colonel.”