The Paris Architect: A Novel (16 page)

Serrault had met Auguste Manet when they were guests for a weekend at a country estate in the early ’30s. A member of a rich aristocratic family, Manet, unlike many of his class, had no problem associating with Jews. Serrault liked the fact that Manet had broken a cardinal rule of the aristocracy and gone into business, an endeavor that most aristocrats thought was beneath them. And he became incredibly successful because of his innate business sense, which Serrault admired. Over the years, he’d lunched with Manet occasionally and once had been a guest at his home in the city. Serrault’s social circle consisted mainly of Jews, and Manet was one of the handful of gentiles with whom he had ever socialized. He had not seen Manet in several years, so he’d been shocked when Manet had contacted him about a hideout.

After living in the rear of the closet, Serrault and his wife had moved into an attic in the Saint-Germain district. But the husband of the family who had taken them in had been arrested by the Gestapo and held in prison for weeks. His wife had been convinced the Germans would come to search the house, and if they found the Serraults, she and her children would be arrested. They would have to leave. The husband had taken them in without asking for a sou, showing them incredible kindness, even sharing their family’s hot meals with them. Serrault hadn’t wanted to place them in any more danger. Then out of the blue, Manet had appeared at the attic and said he could hide them and arrange an escape into Switzerland. The Gestapo, he’d told them, were after them for their fortune and would never give up the search. The Serraults had no idea how he’d learned of their plight.

Serrault continued to watch the architect take measurements. A construction man like himself admired the architect’s cleverness in devising such a hiding place. The Germans would look for hours and never find them. He was also thankful that he and Sophie would have a whole furnished apartment to themselves, regaining a measure of the comfort they’d been used to before all this misery had begun. Their ordeal had given them a whole new appreciation of their former life, which he realized they’d taken for granted. Hopefully, he and his wife wouldn’t have to stay here that long.

It was quite dark in the apartment now, but the architect wasn’t finished. He stepped back about three meters from the fireplace, probably to envision what the false wall would look like. Serrault smiled when he saw this; he liked his thoroughness. After the war, he’d give this architect plenty of work. Now, all he could give the man was his new Citroën. Manet hadn’t told him his name, and he didn’t want to know it; at seventy-eight, he knew he couldn’t stand up to beatings by the Gestapo and would give up his name. The architect put his notepad in his suit jacket pocket and turned toward the door when Serrault, his legs stiff from standing so long, shifted to the right, causing the wood floor to creak beneath him. It was so quiet in the apartment that the tiny squeak caught the architect’s attention. First, he seemed too terrified to turn around, but slowly he faced the darkness that enveloped the back of the apartment.

“Who’s there?” the architect shouted, sounding fearful.

Serrault knew it was best to reveal himself.

“Please do not be alarmed, monsieur,” replied Serrault, who walked very slowly out of the shadows.

Serrault was amused to see the expression of relief on the architect’s face when he saw he stood face-to-face with a smiling, well-dressed old man with a neatly trimmed white beard, not a Gestapo agent pointing a Luger at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, old man?”

Serrault started walking toward the architect, who raised his hand, silently ordering him to come no farther.

“It’s all right; I know what you’re doing here, monsieur.”

“You know
nothing
, goddamn it. Now get the hell out of here.”

Serrault was unfazed by the architect’s reaction. He was still wearing the gentle smile on his grandfatherly face.

“I know what you’re doing for us.”

“
Us?
”

Serrault pulled his charcoal gray raincoat away from his chest to reveal a yellow Star of David made of felt on his black suit jacket. He saw the architect’s knees almost collapse under him; he had to steady himself by holding on to the mantle. He understood the architect’s reaction; this was probably the first time he’d ever met one of the people he hid. Now facing him was a real and dangerous connection. Serrault was threatening his very survival by just being in the same room with him.

“You’re a righteous man,” said Serrault.

“Me? Righteous? That’s a joke.”

“No, monsieur, it is not.”

“Old fool, why the hell didn’t you get out when you could?”

The question surprised Serrault, but it was a fair one that deserved an answer.

“You’re quite right. I’d be having dinner in Switzerland right now if I’d exercised better judgment.”

“You’re all idiots. The chosen people, what a joke.”

The old man was amused by this comment. He started pacing slowly back and forth across the far end of the room.

“You ask me why I stayed, and I’ll tell you. I feel I should offer an explanation considering what you’re risking. My family’s been here since the Revolution. All my ancestors have fought for France—the war against the Prussians and myself in the Great War. True, I’m a Jew. But I’m a Jew of French ancestry and very proud to be French. I believed in the glory of France and always will. After the Armistice in ’40, I stayed in Paris out of loyalty to my country because it needed me to stand by her.”

“You were quite mistaken.”

“Yes, I was. No Jew had any idea what life would be like under the German Occupation. But when they made us wear this badge of honor last May, I knew no French Jews would be spared, even those with a French surname. I believed Vichy would protect my family and me, but as you said, I was mistaken. We could never imagine that the French government would be a party to such a crime.”

“A French kike or a Polish kike, it’s all the same to the Gestapo, old man.”

“I’m sorry that I intruded on your work. I’ll go,” said Serrault.

“Please do.”

The old man started to leave but stopped.

“Have you ever heard of an Englishman named Nicholas Owen?”

“No.”

“When Elizabeth I was persecuting Catholics in sixteenth-century England, she outlawed all priests and the celebration of the Catholic mass. Catholics had to practice their religion in secret. If discovered, priests were tortured and executed, so they had to hide. Owen designed and built hiding places for Jesuit priests in manor houses all over England. They were called priest holes, and they were so well hidden that the queen’s soldiers would tear apart a house for a week and never find them. He saved many lives.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He was caught and racked to death in the Tower of London.”

“That’s a great story,” replied the architect. “I knew it would have a happy ending.”

“But he was a righteous man—just like you, monsieur,” said Serrault as he opened the door to leave.

24

“This roof will have to be a lot higher now. Berlin has decided to install a permanent crane inside the building. It’ll be much easier to have one on-site all the time,” said Herzog, puffing away on his cigarette. He’d already gone through a pack in the two hours since he arrived at Lucien’s office to review the plans for the armaments factory in Tremblay.

Alain walked over from his drafting table. “The roof could angle up here so it looks like it’s blending into the main roof, then it won’t look awkward,” he said, pointing at the front elevation of the factory. “In fact, there should be an opening in the roof for another crane to lift the interior one out in one piece so it wouldn’t have to be disassembled.”

“That’s an excellent idea, young man,” said Herzog, who offered Alain a cigarette. “You’ve hired yourself one smart kid, Lucien.”

Lucien glared at Alain. He was about to make a similar comment about the roofline. He hated it when anyone—especially a know-it-all kid out of school—made any suggestions about how he should design. But he saw that the German was impressed with Alain, and it made Lucien look good for hiring him, so he didn’t make a big deal out of it. This wasn’t the first time that Alain had stuck his pointy nose into design matters. He’d thought the entry to the plant in Chaville should be stepped down to reduce the scale of the main facade and that the windows should have been vertical in orientation, instead of horizontal. Lucien had felt like telling him to go straight to hell, but he’d held his tongue.

Lucien knew he shouldn’t be complaining. After all, Alain was the best employee he’d ever had. His draftsmanship was impeccable, he was extremely intelligent, and best of all, he knew construction inside and out. But it was his know-it-all attitude that Lucien disliked. All kids out of architecture school were full of themselves, believing that they were great designers from day one. Alain would be a model worker, but never someone to take under one’s wing to mentor and advise. He didn’t think he needed any advice.

“The front doors look a little puny. They have to accommodate a mass of workers on three shift changes a day,” remarked Alain.

Lucien could feel the rage creeping up his throat.

“They could be widened, say half a meter for each door,” said Herzog, tapping his long, well-manicured fingers on the doors on the plan. “What do you say, Lucien?”

Lucien gave Alain the evil eye. Alain smiled back at him.

“I don’t see a problem with that. There’s plenty of room to widen them,” said Lucien.

“Fantastic. Alain, can you make these changes right away?”

“Of course, Major; they’ll be finished by tomorrow.”

What a goddamn bootlicker, thought Lucien, who gave a phony smile of approval.

“Would you like the rear door widened as well, Major?” asked Alain.

“That would be good,” replied Herzog.

The pencil in Lucien’s hand snapped in two. “Alain, could I see you in the storage room for a second?”

Lucien closed the door once Alain was inside, then grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “Listen, you little shit; if you ever open your mouth with one of your suggestions, I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them up your nostrils.”

Alain stared straight into Lucien’s eyes but didn’t say a word. After a few seconds, Lucien took his hands off him. He immediately regretted what he’d done but offered no apology. They both returned to the studio.

“We make a terrific team, all three of us, eh?” said Herzog. “It’s time for lunch. What about the Café Hiver? My treat, gentlemen.” Lucien knew the Café Hiver was reserved for Germans only, and no Frenchmen would see him there so he could accept.

“That’s most kind, Dieter, but before we go, I’d like to show you a few more sketches for the plant. It’ll only take a minute. Alain will get them; they’re on my desk.”

Lucien was well aware that Alain hated to be treated as a gofer, and sure enough, the boy scowled at him before going over to the desk. He made no effort to find the correct sketches but grabbed a handful of pieces of white tracing paper and stomped back.

One by one, Lucien reviewed the sketches with Herzog, working through the pile until only a single pencil sketch remained. Before Lucien could stop him, Herzog picked up the sketch and examined it.

“Mm, I don’t recognize this, Lucien. What is it, something for the mechanical room?”

An ice-cold sensation ran down the middle of Lucien’s back, and his eyes widened ever so slightly in fear. He gently took the paper out of Herzog’s hand. Alain, who had been looking at Lucien, noticed his reaction.

“It looks like a metal frame around some brick. You didn’t tell me about that detail. Is this something I have to add to the drawings?” asked Alain.

“It’s for another job, not anything we’re doing for Major Herzog,” Lucien said. “It must have gotten mixed up with the other sketches on my desk.”

“What other job?” said Alain.

“It’s…nothing,” Lucien said. “We’re finished here; let’s go to lunch.”

Lucien brought the pile of sketches back to his desk, but he slowly folded one of them and put it in the center drawer of his desk and locked it.

25

As Alain was wriggling the blade of his penknife in Lucien’s locked desk drawer in the middle of the night, his mind replayed the odd events of the day. He could see that Lucien was quite shaken, barely touching his food during lunch and hardly speaking at all. It was as if Lucien had seen a ghost when that sketch appeared in the pile of papers. Alain definitely knew something was amiss when Lucien told him that he wasn’t going back to the office, and he could have the rest of the day off. Alain protested that he had to make the major’s revisions, but Lucien yelled at him, telling him he had to enjoy life and not work all the time.

Alain was still furious over the incident in the storage room. How dare that no-talent shit put his hands on him and threaten him? For a fraction of a second, Alain had wanted to punch Lucien in the gut, but he’d thought better of it. It would’ve queered things with the Germans, and he’d be out on the street without a job, and his Uncle Hermann might not be able to help him. His dislike of his boss had been growing every day with each slight piling one on top of another. Alain might as well have been a nigger servant. Lucien knew
everything
about architecture; you couldn’t tell him a damn thing. Every one of Alain’s design suggestions was welcomed by Herzog; couldn’t his boss see that? Yesterday had been the final straw. But he’d bide his time in getting even.

When he went home after work, he’d tried to figure out what had spooked Lucien so. How could a sketch of some bricks upset him? He couldn’t get to sleep thinking about it. He had to see that sketch again. He read until 2:00 a.m., then got up, got dressed, and went to the office. Lucien had given him his own key after his first week, so he could work into the evening if he wanted. He was taking a huge risk being out on the streets after the curfew; the Germans could pick him up. But it didn’t scare him. If that happened, it was just a simple matter of calling his uncle to clear up a misunderstanding.