The Paris Architect: A Novel

Normally, Lucien would do anything to get a job, no matter how despicable. Like the time he slept with the very overweight wife of the wine merchant, Gattier, so that she would persuade her husband to select Lucien to design his new store on the rue Vaneau. It had turned out beautifully—not one change had been made to his design.

This, however, was a different matter altogether. Sure, he was broke, but were twelve thousand francs and a guaranteed commission worth the risk of dying? The money wouldn’t help him if he was dead. Actually, it wasn’t the dying part that troubled him. It was the torture by the Gestapo that would precede the dying. Lucien had heard on good authority what the Germans did to those who wouldn’t cooperate—days of barbaric treatment before death, or if the Gestapo was feeling merciful, which was a rarity, internment in a camp.

Parisians had quickly learned that not all German soldiers were the same. There were three very different types. The largest branch, the Wehrmacht, was the regular army that did most of the fighting and had some sense of decency toward the French. Next was the Waffen-SS, the special elite army unit of the Nazi Party, which fought in combat but was also used in rounding up Jews. The last and the absolute worst was the Gestapo, the secret police, who tortured, murdered, mutilated, and maimed Jews—or anyone, including fellow Germans, for crimes against the Reich. The Gestapo’s cruelty was said to be beyond imagination.

People were even scared to use the word Gestapo. Parisians would usually say, “They’ve arrested him.” The Gestapo headquarters at 11 rue des Saussaies was just around the corner from the Palais de l’élysée, the former residence of the French president. Everyone in Paris knew and feared this address.

No, no matter how much he needed money and craved a new project, the risk was unfathomable. Lucien had never fooled himself into believing he was the heroic type. He’d learned that in 1939, when, as an officer called up from the reserves, he’d been stationed for eight months on the Maginot Line, the string of concrete fortresses that the French government guaranteed would protect France from a German onslaught. Since no fighting had occurred in France after the fall of Poland, he’d sat on his ass reading architectural magazines his wife had sent him, designing imaginary projects. One fellow officer who was a university professor had used the time to write a history of the ancient Etruscans.

Then on May 10, 1940, the Germans had invaded, but instead of attacking the “invincible” Maginot Line, they’d swept around it, entering northern France through the Ardennes Forest. Meanwhile, Lucien had been stationed inside a bunker on the Maginot Line, never getting the chance to engage the enemy. Secretly, he’d been glad because he was terrified of fighting the Germans, who seemed like super-beings. They had crushed everyone they had invaded with incredible ease—the Poles, the Belgians, and the Dutch, plus forcing the British off the continent at Dunkirk.