The Paris Architect: A Novel

“And you’ve saved a life.”


The parade cleared the intersection, and the gendarme waved the traffic through. As Lucien switched on the ignition and placed his hand on the gear shift, Manet placed his hand on his.

“The people you’ve saved are eternally grateful, but there are many more in danger.”

“I’m ready to help, monsieur,” said Lucien as he drove off.





42





“Goddamn it, I’m telling you there’s someone in there.”

“But, Colonel, we’ve searched the house from top to bottom, every corner, under every piece of furniture,” said Captain Bruckner.

“Idiot. The Jews are somewhere in the structure of the house, behind a wall or under the floorboards,” screamed Schlegal, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “Use your imagination, man.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find them,” said Bruckner, saying what Schlegal wanted to hear.

The captain ran back into the cottage screaming at the top of his lungs. Schlegal always enjoyed watching Bruckner and his men jump at his orders. Fear can make a man do incredible things. They weren’t just scared of him, though—they all thought he was unhinged, which was better. Bruckner would be especially compliant for fear of losing the two-week leave in Munich for which he’d waited so long. Schlegal decided to torture him a bit with a threat to cancel the trip. Bruckner came back out of the house to reassure the colonel that he was kicking the men in the ass to search again. Schlegal abruptly stopped his pacing and faced Bruckner nose to nose.

“Captain, send for sledgehammers and some pry bars. Have your men go around to the shed in the rear of the house and bring any tools they find. Then have them go inside and tap on the walls. Anything that sounds hollow, they are to open up the walls. And tear apart any stairs. Get to it, mister, or you won’t be seeing the Marienplatz anytime soon. That is in Munich, isn’t it?”

As Bruckner sprinted away screaming orders, Schlegal went back to his staff car. Leaning against the hood, he lit a cigarette and stared at the house. He scanned its exterior to seek out any possible hiding places. Whoever did the stairs in Adele’s house must be quite clever. The secret spaces would be almost impossible to find. The designer probably took great pride in being able to outfox the Gestapo. The ingenuity of the stairs told him that he was up against a formidable foe, one who would not make any careless mistakes. The thought of other Jews safe in this fellow’s secret hiding places sent Schlegal’s blood pressure skyrocketing. Ever since the discovery of the stairs, that possibility had tormented him. It got so bad that he couldn’t screw Adele in that bedroom anymore.

With his hands clasped behind his back, Schlegal strolled into the house. The soldiers started tapping on the walls. With twenty men tapping away, it sounded like a flock of crazed woodpeckers. Some began pounding at the plaster, breaking through wood lath to find empty wall cavities. Dust and plaster flew in all directions. Two soldiers tore away a wall behind the stairs on the first floor. Another soldier found a ladder and was tearing away a ceiling in the parlor. A sergeant pulled the mahogany wainscoting from the reception hall walls. A lieutenant had taken a hammer to a wall in the dining room and exposed some brick and pounded away at it until Bruckner screamed at him, telling him no one was behind there. Schlegal walked through the first floor, inspecting the demolition effort. He strode from room to room.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, my little Jews. I know you’re in here,” yelled Schlegal in a singsong tone.