The Paris Architect: A Novel

She always wondered if she would’ve raised children as well-behaved and polite as the Kaminskys had. Bette had never paid any attention to the children who had lived on the second floor of her building. She had been on cordial terms with Mr. and Mrs. Kaminsky but had never said more than “how do you do” or “good morning” to them. That all changed over a year ago when Mrs. Kaminsky and another woman knocked on her door late one night. She told Bette that she’d just received a call informing her that the French police were on the way to arrest her family. She was desperate to find someone to hide her children. Bette had nothing against Jews but knew full well that helping them meant certain death. Bette tried brushing them off, saying she knew nothing about raising children, but Mrs. Kaminsky began to cry and plead with her. Normally a refined and well-dressed woman whom Bette admired, she was now reduced to a terrified, miserable supplicant. She wailed loudly and went down on her knees, offering a huge wad of cash to Bette. Just to stop the woman’s hysterics, Bette told her to bring them up, along with their clothes.

Minutes later, there were two frightened children in their pajamas holding each other tightly in the middle of Bette’s living room. She went over to the window that overlooked the street and saw a police car pull up. Three French policemen got out and ran into her building. She expected to hear shouting and crying from the stairwell, but it was eerily quiet. Ten minutes later, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Kaminsky get in the police car, which drove off. She would never see them again. Bette had turned to face the children, who were still huddled together. She smiled at them and extended her hand. “Come, let’s have some chocolate.” At that moment, Bette, with her hard-as-nails attitude about the world, had thought this was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

Very quickly she realized that it had been the best thing.





39





“But didn’t the Jews kill Christ, Father?”

“That’s debatable, my son. But even if they did, I’d still help them.”

Schlegal liked Father Jacques’s nerve. He’d always hated the clergy, Protestant or Catholic. All self-righteous fools. His men had discovered that the old priest had been running a safe house for Jewish children in Montparnasse before they were whisked across the Pyrenees and into Spain. Another priest from Carcassonne who escorted the children had also been caught. Schlegal was slowly circling the chair where Father Jacques had been sitting since 2:00 a.m. The priest didn’t show the slightest sign of fatigue. In fact, he seemed quite cheerful as the morning light streamed through the window of the interrogation room.

“I thought the Jewish elders forced Pilate to condemn Christ to death,” Schlegal said. “They wanted him out of the way.”

“Mm…some theologians make that case. It could be true.”

“So why risk your life for a bunch of Christ killers?”

“You don’t understand, Colonel, that we’re all brothers on this earth.”

“Brothers.” Schlegal let out a great laugh. “What a load of bullshit.”

He had nothing but contempt for the old priest or any gentile who tried to hide Jews. Yet there were many who risked their lives to help them. It puzzled him to no end. Why die because of this human vermin? Frenchmen who had no connection to Jews before the war all of a sudden hid them in their attics or barns, knowing full well what would happen if they were caught. To risk one’s life for these thieving scum, who had brought nothing but misery to the world, was incomprehensible. Just last week, during a raid on Rue Saint-Honoré, a gendarme had lent a Jew his cape and hat so he could escape. Both were caught and shot on the spot. And the crazy thing was that the French cop didn’t even know the man. No, the planet would be a far better place if all the Jews just disappeared. And in Paris, he and the Gestapo were trying their hardest to make that happen.

“How many children have you helped to escape into Spain, Father?”

“I’m proud to say that it numbers in the hundreds by now.” Father Jacques gave him an ear-to-ear smile.

The priest’s smug expression angered Lieutenant Voss, who’d been standing in the shadows, and he punched Father Jacques in the side of the face so hard that the old man landed hard on the floor.

“Please, Voss,” said Schlegal. “That was quite unnecessary. Father Jacques has outwitted the Reich and is naturally quite proud of it. Let him have his moment of glory.”

Voss snorted, yanked the priest by his collar, and threw him back into the chair, then walked behind Schlegal and folded his arms.

“You must forgive Lieutenant Voss, Father. He’s grouchy because he hasn’t had his breakfast. So, if you could just confess your sins, he could go and eat.”