The Paris Architect: A Novel

Pierre waited until it was dark, then he went downstairs to his room and gathered some belongings in a large rucksack. There were so many things he couldn’t take, and that made him even sadder. He had to leave his football and model airplane, his books on the Roman Empire. Before he went back up the attic ladder, he went to each of his sibling’s rooms and took one small belonging—Jean-Claude’s favorite toy truck, Isabelle’s stuffed cat, and Philippe’s little beach shovel. Just touching these things reminded him of his last image of his brothers and sister, and the pain inside his chest intensified. Maybe this was what grown-ups meant by a broken heart. He’d always thought it was a silly expression.

As he left Philippe’s room, he ran into Misha, Madame’s calico cat. Although Madame had been incredibly kind to them, it had been Misha who had given him and his siblings the most comfort in those first weeks after losing their parents. He purred and rubbed his head on Pierre’s leg. Pierre bent down to rub him under his chin. He looked at the rucksack and decided he could stuff Misha into it. The cat went in without protest and curled up in a ball on top of his sweater, and Pierre gently closed the flap over him.

Pierre went into Madame’s room, where her handbag was sitting on the bed. He removed the money from it, then went to her dresser where she kept her savings in a little plaid bag in her stocking drawer. His father had also told him that money could save your life in times like these and the more you had the better. He still had the large roll of franc notes his father had shoved in his pants pocket when they’d parted. Pierre had never expected to see his father and mother again, but even though they’d received no word from them after six months, he and Madame had kept up a charade for the younger children by always saying, “When Papa comes back from his trip…”

He took one more look around and went up to the attic and out through a dormer window. As Pierre crossed the roofs of the adjoining houses, he wondered how long it would be until he was picked up by the Boche.





23





Serrault knew that this was Manet’s architect.

The light was fading and the rear of the apartment was in shadow so Serrault could watch him without being seen. Serrault had been walking through the apartment when he’d heard someone come in, and he’d quickly hidden. He was surprised the man was tall and distinguished-looking; the architects he had worked with were all mousy and poorly dressed. The architect was on his knees measuring the firebox inside the enormous fireplace, taking great care in noting the dimensions on a pad of paper. This reassured Serrault; the man was making sure everything was accurate. It wouldn’t be like the other half-assed hiding places he and his wife Sophie had been stuck in over the last year. An enclosed loft above a stinking pigsty on a small farm south of Paris. A hastily built recess in the rear of a closet that the Gestapo had easily found a week after they had left for a new hideout.

Serrault and his wife hadn’t waited for a deportation summons as most Jews did. Well ahead of time, they had known it was time to disappear. But before the Serraults could leave, their three children and four grandchildren had to be saved. They had gone into hiding, moving from household to household, making their way to the south of France, eventually arriving at Marseilles, where he’d arranged passage for them on two Spanish freighters bound for Palestine. It had taken seven months and had cost a small fortune, but now they were safe. Serrault, an immensely rich man, would’ve gladly spent every sou to help them, even sacrificing his life if he’d had to. His family was his life; without them, nothing mattered.