The Paris Architect: A Novel

by Charles Belfoure

  Just as Juliette was stretching out on the mattress to read a newspaper Dauphin had brought her earlier that evening, all the lights in the animal house came on. It startled Juliette, and she called out loudly, “Monsieur Dauphin,” then stopped because she remembered he had never turned on the lights. He had always used a lantern at night. She heard the drunken mutterings of a man in front of the cage. Then to her horror, the side of the canvas sheet was pulled back and moments later, a Wehrmacht soldier dragging a bottle of schnapps along the concrete floor crawled on his hands and knees through the opening.

  Roaring like a lion, the soldier leered at Juliette. “What a pretty lioness—or are you a tigress? Roar!” Juliette slid off the mattress and backed into the corner of the den, but the soldier lunged forward and grabbed her right ankle, pulling her toward him. He fumbled open the fly buttons of his trousers and yanked Juliette beneath him and pushed her dress up. She could smell his stinking breath when, all of a sudden, he rolled off her. Above her she saw Dauphin with a shovel in his hands.

  “He broke in by the side door.”

  Juliette raised herself up on her elbows. “Are there any more?”

  “No, it was just him, thank God. I’ll dump him into the gutter on the far side of the zoo, and his people will find him in the morning with a very bad headache.”

  “But will he…?”

  “No, madame, he won’t remember a thing.”

  Juliette was shaking with fear, and Dauphin knelt down to hug her. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “It’s not this one we have to worry about, madame,” said Dauphin, caressing her brown hair and patting her back. “Yesterday, I got official word that the Germans are transferring some animals from Berlin so they’ll need these cages. It won’t be safe for you here anymore.”

  Juliette now felt more frightened than she’d been when the soldier had attacked her. She had absolutely nowhere to go.

  “My God, what will I do?” she said, panic-stricken.

  “My cousin says he knows a man who knows a man who can help you,” said Dauphin.

  33

  “I knew you’d show up.”

  Lucien settled on the chaise lounge and reached out to accept the glass of cognac from Manet, then drained it in one gulp. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning when Lucien arrived at the little stone cottage—two floors with a dormered attic set off from a country road just on the outskirts of Paris, near Epinay-sur-Seine. He knew it wasn’t Manet’s country house, as it was way too modest and plain for a man of his stature.

  “Ah, now that’s a nutritious breakfast,” said Lucien. “Now tell me, how did you know I’d be here today?”

  “I just had a feeling,” said Manet, “that’s all.”

  “Because I felt guilty about killing Monsieur and Madame Serrault?”

  Manet frowned. “Lucien, be reasonable. It wasn’t your fault that they died. Who would’ve thought the Boche would wind up there that evening? And the bird’s nest? It was pure rotten luck. Lieber murdered them, not you.”

  “I was responsible for planning every possible contingency, no matter how absurd. I placed them in danger when I chose to use the fireplace.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I could have found another place for them to hide, but that would’ve been too easy. I had to be clever.”

  “I asked you here to see if you would help me again, Lucien. Will you?”

  Lucien looked down at the glass in his hands. The last few weeks had been a living hell for him. After the discovery of Adele’s stair three weeks ago, the guilt over the Serraults hadn’t gone away, as he’d hoped. Then Celeste abandoned him. It was literally tearing his insides out; the last few nights he’d pissed blood. If he wasn’t thinking about the Serraults, the stair problem consumed him, leaving him a nervous wreck.

  “We have a problem,” said Lucien. “The stair in the hunting lodge in Le Chesnay has been discovered. A friend of mine who now has use of the place told me.”

  “Adele Bonneau,” replied Manet.

  At first Lucien was startled that Manet knew her name, then slowly nodded his head.

  “The Germans must have given her the house.”

  “The Gestapo,” said Manet.

  Lucien was visibly shaken at Manet’s reply, then became revolted at the thought of her even touching such an animal. To be with a German was bad enough, but to lower oneself like that was unthinkable. How could any French woman do such a thing?

  “She could link you to the stair.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s in our best interest that you avoid Mademoiselle Bonneau.”

  Lucien had agreed to meet Manet expressly for the purpose of telling him that this was the end of it. He just couldn’t take it any longer. Now was the time to get out. Besides, he’d made out okay in this deal—a great deal of money, a car, plus two commissions. While he was driving, he’d rehearsed what he had to say to Manet, revising it and imagining what Manet’s response would be. Being a good Christian, the old man would probably make it easy for him and say that it was all right to call it quits, that Lucien already had done more than any man need do. But when Lucien looked up into Manet’s eyes and was about to begin his speech, the words stuck in his throat. He lost his nerve. There were a million reasons for walking away from this mess. But not one would come out of his mouth. It was like a dream in which he was on a speeding train that he couldn’t jump off. He knew the train was heading for a brick wall at the end of the track, so he had to get off, but he couldn’t.

  The Serraults’ death had made Lucien see things in a different light. The sight of the frail elderly couple dead with handkerchiefs in their mouths had jolted him. They’d died saving him, when he was supposed to save them. Like most Frenchmen, he hadn’t given a damn about what was happening to the Jews; all that mattered was saving his own skin. But he realized that the sheer hatred and brutality heaped upon the Jews was something he now couldn’t ignore. The punishment for being a Jew in the Reich crossed the line into barbarism. They were being hunted down like wild animals. What made it so sickening was that it wasn’t perpetrated by a bunch of ignorant half-naked savages, but the citizens of a nation renowned for its culture and intelligence that had produced men like Goethe and Beethoven.

  Lucien, the atheist, didn’t want to use any religious horseshit, like it was a Christian’s duty to protect “God’s chosen people,” to justify his change of heart. Or have an epiphany and decide to become a Jew. And he didn’t believe there was some moral structure to the universe, a set of rules governing good and bad (not like the nonsense of the Ten Commandments). No, he made this decision because he’d seen almost every Frenchman turn his back on these people, and that cowardice now filled him with disgust.

  Lucien knew he couldn’t be that way and just stand by; he had to continue what he’d been doing. When he asked himself why he was risking his life, the answer wasn’t the cash, the factories, or the sheer thrill of the challenge. He was risking his life because it was the right thing to do. He had to go beyond himself and help these people. His father was probably looking up at him from Hell (certainly not Heaven), laughing and cursing at him, but he didn’t care.

  Finally Lucien swallowed hard and spoke. “What is the business at hand, monsieur?”

  “An emergency refuge is needed,” Manet said. “My guest won’t be here long.”

  “Let me take a look around,” said Lucien. “I’ll figure out something for you.”

  “The guest you’ll be helping has offered twenty thousand francs for your services,” said Manet as he walked through the first floor with Lucien.

  “No.”

  “How much more do you want then?”

  “Nothing. No more money.”

  Manet stopped and looked Lucien straight in his eyes. “Have you become a patriot, monsieur?”

  Lucien laughed. “Not quite, but I can’t take the money.”

  Manet put his hand on Lucien’s shoulder in his s
ignature grandfatherly gesture. “A most noble sentiment, Lucien, but an incredibly stupid one. Twenty thousand francs is nothing for saving a life. And remember the risk you’re taking. Please, my friend, take the money.”

  Lucien was surprised that Manet had such a cold, practical side to him. He wasn’t the Christian with the heart of gold he’d thought he was.

  “No, monsieur, I can’t.”

  “I’ll hold on to the money for you, how about that?”

  “Shall we take our usual stroll?”

  They went up to the second floor and then to the attic and returned to the first floor via a service stair.

  “Does this stair go down to the basement?” asked Lucien.

  “Yes, I believe it does. That’s where the kitchen is located.”

  Lucien led the way down, and they found themselves in a very spacious kitchen with an enormous oven against the wall and a huge butcher block table in the center of the space. Pots and pans hung from a rack attached to the ceiling. A door at the rear of the kitchen led out to a garden. Lucien walked slowly around the room, peering into storage closets and cabinets. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers and paced back and forth along the stone floor.

  “That space under the platform where the bathtub sits could work. We could fashion a removable panel, and he could easily squeeze in under there,” said Lucien, though he wasn’t convinced this was the best solution. He continued to pace, staring at the floor and trying to think of a better hiding place. For each possible place, he forced himself to think of a dozen ways it could be discovered, because he was scared he’d screw up again and get someone killed.

  His pacing brought him to a large floor drain about sixty centimeters square set in the stone floor of the kitchen. He knelt down to examine it. He pulled the grating up and discovered a hole that was a meter and a half deep and lined with lead sheet. A pipe was connected at the bottom to carry off the water.

  “Here,” said Lucien, pointing to the drain.

  Manet stooped down to take a closer look.

  “We’ll hide him in here. It’s big enough for him to fit in. He can pull up the entire grating, get in, then put it back in place. A shallow metal pan will be connected to the underside of the grating, and we’ll fill it with water so it’ll look completely natural.”

  The old feeling of excitement returned, which surprised Lucien. He thought it had been driven out of him by the Serraults’ death. The ingenuity of this idea started him on another high. He felt good about himself again and was smiling from ear to ear.

  “That’s brilliant, but what about the pipe down there?”

  “We’ll have to disconnect it. The drain is only used if the kitchen floor floods, so we don’t need it.” Lucien now began to think of the inhabitants of the spaces as real, breathing human beings and considered their comfort. Before they were just cargo. Instead of putting the imaginary person in to try out the space, he inserted himself to gauge its comfort. The drain was wide enough to fit an adult, but because of its depth, he would have to stoop or sit at the bottom.

  “Have your men dig down deep to give him a little more room under the pan. Put some wood planks on the floor and a cushion.”

  “What about a tunnel out into the garden? As a backup,” asked Manet.

  “That’s a lot of work, and the sides and top of it have to be supported to prevent a cave-in. It has to extend way out in the garden so he can get out undetected.” Lucien knew Manet wanted a contingency plan after the fireplace mishap. It was a good idea.

  “I can get it done in time.”

  Lucien stood up and stared at the drain, thinking of every possible way it could fail. After a few minutes, he grinned at Manet. “Let’s do it.”

  Manet patted him on the back “I’m glad you’re still on our side. With men like you in the fight, we’re sure to win.”

  “Win? I don’t know if I believe that anymore.”

  “The Germans seemed invincible, but their luck has turned,” said Manet with a smile. “The British stopped them at El Alamein in July, and the Allies will probably invade North Africa soon. Rommel and his troops will be driven out because they have no petrol for their tanks. They can be the best soldiers in the world, but it won’t matter if they don’t have fuel.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears. Isn’t that what the Jews say?”

  ***

  As the two men went out the front door, Alain crouched lower behind the hedge inside the stone wall that formed the perimeter of the yard. He had been able to creep up to the first-floor windows but hadn’t been able to overhear anything. He’d seen them go into the basement and stay there for a long time. It had been too risky to peek into the windows, so he stayed where he was and waited until they came out. After shaking hands, both men got into their cars and left. Alain came out from behind the hedge and went to the rear of the house, where the basement level led to the yard. He peered through the windows and surveyed the kitchen very carefully, but nothing unusual caught his eye. But considering the time they’d spent there, he guessed the kitchen had been the focus of their attention.

  It was all still a puzzle to Alain—the mysterious fireplace detail, now the trip to this out-of-the-way cottage. He was angry with himself for not being able to piece things together. He needed something more to make sense of it all. When he got back to his car, a dark green Peugeot that his cousin had lent him, Alain sat on the hood and smoked a cigarette, mulling over every detail he’d seen.

  34

  “At least he doesn’t look Jewish,” muttered Lucien.

  Father Jacques chuckled and got up from his chair. “No, he doesn’t, and that makes our task a bit easier, but still, we always have to be careful. Every day children are betrayed to the Gestapo.”

  Lucien continued to stare at the boy sitting in a chair at the table in his office. A large green rucksack with a cat’s head sticking out of the top was set next to him on the floor.

  “He seems a well-mannered kid. How old is he again?”

  “Twelve. Pierre is a good child. From a very scholarly family. His father was a chemistry professor at the University of Paris before the Germans banned Jews from holding teaching positions. His mother was also a scholar. They were rounded up and taken to Drancy and never heard from again. Probably sent east to work in the labor camps. It’s the same with all the Jews—deported, and the poor devils vanish from the face of the earth.”

  “It’s just him?”

  “His sister and brothers were betrayed last month and taken away by the Gestapo. And his benefactor, a seventy-year-old woman, was executed.”

  Lucien turned and looked at the old priest. Father Jacques bit his lip as if he realized that he should have left out that last detail.

  “And what makes you think I’d hide a Jew?” Lucien said.

  “Monsieur Manet vouched for you.”

  “He did, eh?”

  “I know it’s a big decision. But you’d be surprised, Monsieur Lucien, how many gentiles have taken in children. Most Frenchmen don’t give a damn about deporting adult Jews, but the idea of the Germans rounding up children disgusts them.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It would just be a temporary situation until I can arrange passage across the Pyrenees and into Spain.”

  “Just how temporary do you mean, Father?”

  “A month at the most.”

  “Christ, I thought you meant a couple of weeks. And I bet the cat comes with him.”

  “It does indeed, monsieur. He loves that cat.”

  “Who knows you brought him here?”

  “Just Monsieur Manet.”

  “So is Pierre Gau his fake name or his real name?” asked Lucien with considerable irritation.

  “It is his new identity. He has all the papers to prove it—false identity papers and a false baptismal certificate.”

  “And why can’t you keep him at your youth center in Montparnasse?”

  “The French police are getting suspic
ious. Two weeks ago, they staged a sudden raid but found nothing. Out of respect, they didn’t ransack the house. But if the Gestapo comes, it’ll be a much different story. They’ll rip the place to pieces.”

  “How the hell will I explain him being here? I have an employee, and from time to time, Germans visit the office.”

  “Other families make up a story. He could be the son of a friend killed during the war, or a relative from the south who lost his family.”

  “Who’s going to believe a load of bullshit like that?” replied Lucien, not caring that he cursed in front of a priest.

  “You can say he’s a war orphan temporarily placed in your care by the Church. In a way, that is the truth. I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t have come to you unless you were my last hope. I’m desperate, monsieur.”

  Lucien was annoyed that Manet was taking advantage of him. Maybe when he’d refused the money the last time, Manet felt that Lucien now qualified as a true Christian and would take such a risk. And it was a big risk. Working anonymously to hide Jews was one thing. There was a buffer that protected him. And it wouldn’t just be him in danger. If a Jew was found in an apartment house, every single soul who lived there would be arrested and deported, no questions asked. Last month, a woman in a building discovered a Jew was hiding in an apartment next door to hers, and she started screaming her head off up and down the corridors, warning the other tenants. They’d beaten down the door and turned the Jew in to the Gestapo. They didn’t want to die.

  Lucien walked over to the boy to get a closer look. He was a good-looking kid with thick, dark brown hair and eyebrows and as scrawny as all the other famished children in Paris. For parents, that was the most heartbreaking thing about the Occupation—to see their kids go hungry. Mothers spent hours queuing and scrounging food for their kids. Pierre was now looking intently at Lucien’s old architectural magazines, stopping at certain photos to get a closer look. Lucien watched him for another minute or two as the boy paused to gaze at a picture of a department store.