The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien was surprised to hear such words coming from a priest. But he then smiled. He liked that Father Jacques had balls. Lucien’s father had told him that priests were spineless eunuchs.

Lucien looked back at the boy and then down at the floor. The devil sitting on his shoulder—his father—would not win this one. To hell with him.

“A month, right?

Father Jacques’s fatherly smile returned, and he shook Lucien’s hand.

“I have a storage room in the back of the office, nothing fancy. I’ll say I’ve brought him on to be an apprentice. Maybe he’ll learn something if he’s such a smart Jew.”

“Remember, just say he’s a war orphan and that you knew his family,” advised Father Jacques.

“What about feeding him? That’s going to be a problem.”

“Don’t worry. His ration card is still valid,” said Father Jacques. “It’s a sin how the little ones go without food. Last week at the school, the children were asked to write an essay on what one wish they’d want a fairy to grant. A seven-year-old girl named Danielle just wrote, ‘Never ever be hungry.’”

“I don’t know a damn thing about kids, but I guess I’ll learn on the job. You know, we’ll both be tortured to death for this,” said Lucien with a smile. “We’ll ask ourselves why we did such a foolish thing.”

“I remember when Monsignor Theas, the archbishop of Montauban, issued a pastoral letter after the deportation of Jews began in ’42. It said that what Vichy and the Germans were doing was an affront to human dignity and a violation of the most sacred rights of the individual and the family. It’s not a foolish thing, monsieur.”

“So will doing this make up for all the Sunday masses I’ve missed since 1930?”

“Don’t push it, my son.”





35





“Lieutenant Voss, could you jog Monsieur Triolet’s memory?”

Voss was more than happy to oblige Colonel Schlegal, who was growing very irritated with Triolet. After an hour of pummeling his face and body, the frog bastard still wouldn’t cooperate. Voss had been ordered all the way out to a hunting lodge in Le Chesnay and wanted to get this over with and get back to Paris.

Schlegal motioned toward the secret stair, and Voss immediately knew what he meant. He yanked Triolet from the chair by his collar and dragged him to the foot of the stair. Captain Wolf, an officer who was standing nearby, also knew what was to be done. He lifted the very heavy hinged stair, Voss placed Triolet’s arm under the edge, then Wolf dropped the stair.

The cracking sound it made when it landed on the Frenchman’s arm reminded Schlegal of snapping chicken drumsticks during Sunday dinner when he was a kid. It always made his brothers laugh like crazy but caused his father to scream at him at the top of his lungs.

After the echo of Triolet’s scream faded, Schlegal walked over to him and gently kicked him in the ribs.

“Come, Monsieur Triolet, I’ve got a luncheon date with an extremely beautiful woman in an hour, can’t we wrap this matter up? You don’t want me to a keep a lady waiting. That wouldn’t be gentlemanly at all, would it?”

Triolet just groaned. For a second the Gestapo officers thought he was dying. But they were experts in this field and knew from vast experience how far to go before killing a guest of the Reich. They all looked at each other with exasperated expressions. Voss grabbed Triolet’s legs and turned him around so Wolf could drop the stair on his legs. This time, an incredibly ear-piercing scream came out of the little Frenchman with the elegant waxed mustache. Voss smiled from ear to ear; maybe they were finally making some progress with this stubborn fellow.

Schlegal kicked him again, but this time not so gently.

“Please don’t make me late for my engagement,” he said. “This young lady is especially dear to me. She’d be so disappointed in me. Come on, you French are experts in romance. You know that wouldn’t do.”

With a surprising burst of energy, Triolet tried to raise himself on his elbows but quickly collapsed, the side of his face smashing to the floor.