The Paris Architect: A Novel

Serrault knew it was best to reveal himself.

“Please do not be alarmed, monsieur,” replied Serrault, who walked very slowly out of the shadows.

Serrault was amused to see the expression of relief on the architect’s face when he saw he stood face-to-face with a smiling, well-dressed old man with a neatly trimmed white beard, not a Gestapo agent pointing a Luger at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, old man?”

Serrault started walking toward the architect, who raised his hand, silently ordering him to come no farther.

“It’s all right; I know what you’re doing here, monsieur.”

“You know nothing, goddamn it. Now get the hell out of here.”

Serrault was unfazed by the architect’s reaction. He was still wearing the gentle smile on his grandfatherly face.

“I know what you’re doing for us.”

“Us?”

Serrault pulled his charcoal gray raincoat away from his chest to reveal a yellow Star of David made of felt on his black suit jacket. He saw the architect’s knees almost collapse under him; he had to steady himself by holding on to the mantle. He understood the architect’s reaction; this was probably the first time he’d ever met one of the people he hid. Now facing him was a real and dangerous connection. Serrault was threatening his very survival by just being in the same room with him.

“You’re a righteous man,” said Serrault.

“Me? Righteous? That’s a joke.”

“No, monsieur, it is not.”

“Old fool, why the hell didn’t you get out when you could?”

The question surprised Serrault, but it was a fair one that deserved an answer.

“You’re quite right. I’d be having dinner in Switzerland right now if I’d exercised better judgment.”

“You’re all idiots. The chosen people, what a joke.”

The old man was amused by this comment. He started pacing slowly back and forth across the far end of the room.

“You ask me why I stayed, and I’ll tell you. I feel I should offer an explanation considering what you’re risking. My family’s been here since the Revolution. All my ancestors have fought for France—the war against the Prussians and myself in the Great War. True, I’m a Jew. But I’m a Jew of French ancestry and very proud to be French. I believed in the glory of France and always will. After the Armistice in ’40, I stayed in Paris out of loyalty to my country because it needed me to stand by her.”

“You were quite mistaken.”

“Yes, I was. No Jew had any idea what life would be like under the German Occupation. But when they made us wear this badge of honor last May, I knew no French Jews would be spared, even those with a French surname. I believed Vichy would protect my family and me, but as you said, I was mistaken. We could never imagine that the French government would be a party to such a crime.”

“A French kike or a Polish kike, it’s all the same to the Gestapo, old man.”

“I’m sorry that I intruded on your work. I’ll go,” said Serrault.

“Please do.”

The old man started to leave but stopped.

“Have you ever heard of an Englishman named Nicholas Owen?”

“No.”

“When Elizabeth I was persecuting Catholics in sixteenth-century England, she outlawed all priests and the celebration of the Catholic mass. Catholics had to practice their religion in secret. If discovered, priests were tortured and executed, so they had to hide. Owen designed and built hiding places for Jesuit priests in manor houses all over England. They were called priest holes, and they were so well hidden that the queen’s soldiers would tear apart a house for a week and never find them. He saved many lives.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He was caught and racked to death in the Tower of London.”

“That’s a great story,” replied the architect. “I knew it would have a happy ending.”

“But he was a righteous man—just like you, monsieur,” said Serrault as he opened the door to leave.





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