The Paris Architect: A Novel

Schlegal nodded, assuring the architect he was doing just that.

“Don’t bother with the bookcases. That’s too obvious,” added Lucien, knowing that Schlegal would rip them off the walls anyway. “And check the floors of all closets for secret compartments.”

Thoughts of death temporarily disappeared from Lucien’s mind. He was enjoying walking through the vast apartment watching the demolition. After a while, he sat down on the sofa and watched, yelling out suggestions of where to look next. He got a big kick out of the fact that the soldiers did exactly what he ordered. As he smoked cigarette after cigarette, he was very careful not to look at the hiding place. About an hour later, Lucien’s navy blue suit was covered with dust. His hair was gray, giving him a bizarre preview in one of the apartment’s ornate mirrors as to what he’d look like as an old man.

He could tell from Schlegal’s pacing and constant cursing that he was getting nervous. The Gestapo officer picked up a pry bar and was yanking paneling off the walls. He smashed every one of the incredibly ornate mirrors on the walls, hoping to find a hiding place behind them. There was so much debris piling up in the apartment, it became difficult to move around. Schlegal ordered it thrown down the stairwell where it piled up on the dead concierge. The plaster dust in the air was so thick and swirling that the soldiers became ghostly phantomlike images moving in slow motion. Overcome by the dense fog of dust, soon everyone was coughing and hacking their brains out. But their fear of Schlegal kept them working away, tearing every square centimeter of surface apart.

***

From his hiding place, Janusky could hear everything around him. The roar of the demolition was deafening, but the worst thing was that it never let up. It was incredible how humans could work nonstop like that, as if they were machines powered by electricity. Because of the narrowness of the space he was in, Janusky had to lie on his right side with his arm tucked under his body, so he could feel the vibration caused by the smashing axes and pry bars in the walls, floors, and ceilings. He grimaced and flinched at every jolt. Having survived months of warfare on the Somme in the Great War, he thought that nothing would ever scare him again—the terrible scream of artillery shells before they landed in the trenches, the sight of men’s bodies blown to pieces. But he was wrong; he found himself shaking as though he was delirious with a tropical fever. With his history of heart problems, he was worried that his heart would give out on him, and the Gestapo would find a corpse. They’d laugh like crazy because they’d literally scared him to death. Janusky didn’t want to give them that satisfaction.

After hearing the concierge get thrown to her death, he decided he couldn’t take it any longer and was going to reveal himself. If he hadn’t gone over to the window, none of this would’ve happened. What a goddamn stupid thing to do, he thought, just to get a peek out the window. But it wasn’t just the old woman. Too many people had died protecting him. He wasn’t worth it, and he wouldn’t have any more innocent blood on his hands. Then in amazement, Janusky listened to the conversation between the German and Bernard, whose name he recognized as that of Manet’s architect. Why of all people was he here? Did they finally find out what he’d been doing for Manet? At first, Janusky thought the architect would show the Germans where he was hiding, but Bernard was leading them away from him. This gave Janusky a new resolve; he steeled himself and stayed put. He wanted to live. The soldiers continued to rip apart the apartment in a mad frenzy just centimeters away from him.

Suddenly, above the cacophony all around him, he heard a piercing shout.

“Schlegal, you stupid bastard! I warned you not to bother my architect again.”





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