The Paris Architect: A Novel

Everything he had done was for them; from the time fifty-three years ago when he’d arrived in Paris from Nimes with one thousand francs in his pocket to start a business. But the most valuable possession he’d brought with him was his father’s construction knowledge, which he had passed on to his only son. Believing he had a gift for constructing buildings, Serrault had quickly set up his own company, and nothing but success had come his way. Especially after he’d specialized in reinforced concrete construction, the new structural method that had transformed building.

He was proud to say that he had helped make France a leader in the field, constructing some of the very first concrete buildings in the world. But every yard of that poured concrete was for his wife and children. He’d reveled in every piece of clothing and morsel of food he’d provided for them, every holiday and gift. That was the essence of life, he sincerely believed, to give his family the best life possible. And it had been the best—a great city mansion, a country estate, a home on the Mediterranean coast, and the finest education for his children. But all that had vanished. Now, he and his wife were like frightened mice running from one crack in the wall to another.

Serrault had met Auguste Manet when they were guests for a weekend at a country estate in the early ’30s. A member of a rich aristocratic family, Manet, unlike many of his class, had no problem associating with Jews. Serrault liked the fact that Manet had broken a cardinal rule of the aristocracy and gone into business, an endeavor that most aristocrats thought was beneath them. And he became incredibly successful because of his innate business sense, which Serrault admired. Over the years, he’d lunched with Manet occasionally and once had been a guest at his home in the city. Serrault’s social circle consisted mainly of Jews, and Manet was one of the handful of gentiles with whom he had ever socialized. He had not seen Manet in several years, so he’d been shocked when Manet had contacted him about a hideout.

After living in the rear of the closet, Serrault and his wife had moved into an attic in the Saint-Germain district. But the husband of the family who had taken them in had been arrested by the Gestapo and held in prison for weeks. His wife had been convinced the Germans would come to search the house, and if they found the Serraults, she and her children would be arrested. They would have to leave. The husband had taken them in without asking for a sou, showing them incredible kindness, even sharing their family’s hot meals with them. Serrault hadn’t wanted to place them in any more danger. Then out of the blue, Manet had appeared at the attic and said he could hide them and arrange an escape into Switzerland. The Gestapo, he’d told them, were after them for their fortune and would never give up the search. The Serraults had no idea how he’d learned of their plight.

Serrault continued to watch the architect take measurements. A construction man like himself admired the architect’s cleverness in devising such a hiding place. The Germans would look for hours and never find them. He was also thankful that he and Sophie would have a whole furnished apartment to themselves, regaining a measure of the comfort they’d been used to before all this misery had begun. Their ordeal had given them a whole new appreciation of their former life, which he realized they’d taken for granted. Hopefully, he and his wife wouldn’t have to stay here that long.

It was quite dark in the apartment now, but the architect wasn’t finished. He stepped back about three meters from the fireplace, probably to envision what the false wall would look like. Serrault smiled when he saw this; he liked his thoroughness. After the war, he’d give this architect plenty of work. Now, all he could give the man was his new Citro?n. Manet hadn’t told him his name, and he didn’t want to know it; at seventy-eight, he knew he couldn’t stand up to beatings by the Gestapo and would give up his name. The architect put his notepad in his suit jacket pocket and turned toward the door when Serrault, his legs stiff from standing so long, shifted to the right, causing the wood floor to creak beneath him. It was so quiet in the apartment that the tiny squeak caught the architect’s attention. First, he seemed too terrified to turn around, but slowly he faced the darkness that enveloped the back of the apartment.

“Who’s there?” the architect shouted, sounding fearful.