The Paris Architect: A Novel

At first, Pierre thought it was Jean-Claude knocking something off the kitchen table again. He was always running around like a little madman, never paying attention to anything. But there came another loud crash, then another, followed by the children’s screaming. He could hear men shouting, and Madame Charpointier shouting back at them.

Below him, men like rampaging elephants came tearing up the main staircase of the townhouse, first crashing through the second floor then the third and the fourth, going into one room after another. They were yelling at each other, upending furniture, opening closet doors. Pierre fastened his eyes on the attic door in the floor expecting it to burst open at any second, but the men went back downstairs. He could clearly hear the wailing of Jean-Claude, Isabelle, and Philippe. Pierre’s first instinct was to run down the attic stairs and help them. But he remembered what Madame Charpointier had told him and stopped dead in his tracks. His heart pounding, he dropped to his knees and put his ear to the attic door. He could just hear what the grown-ups were saying.

Madame kept telling them that these children were Catholics, baptized in the church in Orléans, and that they knew their prayers. She ordered his brothers and sisters to recite their prayers. In unison, all three started saying a Hail Mary, but a German screamed at them to stop. Philippe, the youngest, was now wailing away, and this angered the German, who yelled at him to shut the hell up. But Philippe cried even louder, and then there was a sudden silence. Madame started screaming at the German for slapping a four-year-old. There was the sound of another slap, which Pierre imagined was directed toward Madame, but that didn’t stop her rage. The shouting continued until Pierre heard the front door open and the commotion shifted to the sidewalk. He got up and went to the attic window that overlooked the rue Dupleix. Two French policemen were dragging his brothers and sister into the rear seat of a French police car parked at the curb.

Two German soldiers took hold of Madame Charpointier, who was still screaming at the top of her lungs. A German officer in a black and green uniform came up to her, and the soldiers let her go. His hand rose to the level of Madame’s forehead, and there was a loud bang. She dropped to the sidewalk in a heap. The children, who had witnessed everything from the car, screamed out, “Aunt Clare! Aunt Clare!” The officer holstered his pistol and, along with the soldiers, got into another car, which sped off. Madame was lying on her back with her eyes wide open, as if she was quietly watching the clouds roll by.

Pierre backed away from the window in horror, stumbled, and fell onto his backside. He pulled his legs up to his chest and grasped them with all his might, rolling back and forth on the attic floor in anguish, but not uttering a single sound. His eyes shut tight. There was such an intense ache inside his chest, he couldn’t stand it. Pierre kept rolling around until he collided with a large steamer trunk piled high with old dusty magazines that fell on top of him. He lay there on his back gasping for breath and finally opened his eyes.