The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien continued to stare at the boy sitting in a chair at the table in his office. A large green rucksack with a cat’s head sticking out of the top was set next to him on the floor.

“He seems a well-mannered kid. How old is he again?”

“Twelve. Pierre is a good child. From a very scholarly family. His father was a chemistry professor at the University of Paris before the Germans banned Jews from holding teaching positions. His mother was also a scholar. They were rounded up and taken to Drancy and never heard from again. Probably sent east to work in the labor camps. It’s the same with all the Jews—deported, and the poor devils vanish from the face of the earth.”

“It’s just him?”

“His sister and brothers were betrayed last month and taken away by the Gestapo. And his benefactor, a seventy-year-old woman, was executed.”

Lucien turned and looked at the old priest. Father Jacques bit his lip as if he realized that he should have left out that last detail.

“And what makes you think I’d hide a Jew?” Lucien said.

“Monsieur Manet vouched for you.”

“He did, eh?”

“I know it’s a big decision. But you’d be surprised, Monsieur Lucien, how many gentiles have taken in children. Most Frenchmen don’t give a damn about deporting adult Jews, but the idea of the Germans rounding up children disgusts them.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It would just be a temporary situation until I can arrange passage across the Pyrenees and into Spain.”

“Just how temporary do you mean, Father?”

“A month at the most.”

“Christ, I thought you meant a couple of weeks. And I bet the cat comes with him.”

“It does indeed, monsieur. He loves that cat.”

“Who knows you brought him here?”

“Just Monsieur Manet.”

“So is Pierre Gau his fake name or his real name?” asked Lucien with considerable irritation.

“It is his new identity. He has all the papers to prove it—false identity papers and a false baptismal certificate.”

“And why can’t you keep him at your youth center in Montparnasse?”

“The French police are getting suspicious. Two weeks ago, they staged a sudden raid but found nothing. Out of respect, they didn’t ransack the house. But if the Gestapo comes, it’ll be a much different story. They’ll rip the place to pieces.”

“How the hell will I explain him being here? I have an employee, and from time to time, Germans visit the office.”

“Other families make up a story. He could be the son of a friend killed during the war, or a relative from the south who lost his family.”

“Who’s going to believe a load of bullshit like that?” replied Lucien, not caring that he cursed in front of a priest.

“You can say he’s a war orphan temporarily placed in your care by the Church. In a way, that is the truth. I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t have come to you unless you were my last hope. I’m desperate, monsieur.”