The Paris Architect: A Novel

The Serraults’ death had made Lucien see things in a different light. The sight of the frail elderly couple dead with handkerchiefs in their mouths had jolted him. They’d died saving him, when he was supposed to save them. Like most Frenchmen, he hadn’t given a damn about what was happening to the Jews; all that mattered was saving his own skin. But he realized that the sheer hatred and brutality heaped upon the Jews was something he now couldn’t ignore. The punishment for being a Jew in the Reich crossed the line into barbarism. They were being hunted down like wild animals. What made it so sickening was that it wasn’t perpetrated by a bunch of ignorant half-naked savages, but the citizens of a nation renowned for its culture and intelligence that had produced men like Goethe and Beethoven.

Lucien, the atheist, didn’t want to use any religious horseshit, like it was a Christian’s duty to protect “God’s chosen people,” to justify his change of heart. Or have an epiphany and decide to become a Jew. And he didn’t believe there was some moral structure to the universe, a set of rules governing good and bad (not like the nonsense of the Ten Commandments). No, he made this decision because he’d seen almost every Frenchman turn his back on these people, and that cowardice now filled him with disgust.

Lucien knew he couldn’t be that way and just stand by; he had to continue what he’d been doing. When he asked himself why he was risking his life, the answer wasn’t the cash, the factories, or the sheer thrill of the challenge. He was risking his life because it was the right thing to do. He had to go beyond himself and help these people. His father was probably looking up at him from Hell (certainly not Heaven), laughing and cursing at him, but he didn’t care.

Finally Lucien swallowed hard and spoke. “What is the business at hand, monsieur?”

“An emergency refuge is needed,” Manet said. “My guest won’t be here long.”

“Let me take a look around,” said Lucien. “I’ll figure out something for you.”

“The guest you’ll be helping has offered twenty thousand francs for your services,” said Manet as he walked through the first floor with Lucien.

“No.”

“How much more do you want then?”

“Nothing. No more money.”

Manet stopped and looked Lucien straight in his eyes. “Have you become a patriot, monsieur?”

Lucien laughed. “Not quite, but I can’t take the money.”

Manet put his hand on Lucien’s shoulder in his signature grandfatherly gesture. “A most noble sentiment, Lucien, but an incredibly stupid one. Twenty thousand francs is nothing for saving a life. And remember the risk you’re taking. Please, my friend, take the money.”

Lucien was surprised that Manet had such a cold, practical side to him. He wasn’t the Christian with the heart of gold he’d thought he was.

“No, monsieur, I can’t.”

“I’ll hold on to the money for you, how about that?”

“Shall we take our usual stroll?”

They went up to the second floor and then to the attic and returned to the first floor via a service stair.

“Does this stair go down to the basement?” asked Lucien.

“Yes, I believe it does. That’s where the kitchen is located.”

Lucien led the way down, and they found themselves in a very spacious kitchen with an enormous oven against the wall and a huge butcher block table in the center of the space. Pots and pans hung from a rack attached to the ceiling. A door at the rear of the kitchen led out to a garden. Lucien walked slowly around the room, peering into storage closets and cabinets. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers and paced back and forth along the stone floor.

“That space under the platform where the bathtub sits could work. We could fashion a removable panel, and he could easily squeeze in under there,” said Lucien, though he wasn’t convinced this was the best solution. He continued to pace, staring at the floor and trying to think of a better hiding place. For each possible place, he forced himself to think of a dozen ways it could be discovered, because he was scared he’d screw up again and get someone killed.

His pacing brought him to a large floor drain about sixty centimeters square set in the stone floor of the kitchen. He knelt down to examine it. He pulled the grating up and discovered a hole that was a meter and a half deep and lined with lead sheet. A pipe was connected at the bottom to carry off the water.

“Here,” said Lucien, pointing to the drain.