Since then, Lucie hadn’t noticed any more suspicious behavior.
Thank goodness, because important information flowed through her store. She’d seen transcriptions of BBC broadcasts to be printed in the underground press and news of executions and resistance activities to be transmitted to de Gaulle’s Free French in London. Messages also went to Paul to aid his work, whatever it was.
She hadn’t seen any notes concerning violence, from what she could discern in the codes and symbols. After October’s horrific executions, the resistance had conducted no further assassinations.
When she reached Boul’ Mich’, her shoes squished in leaves soggy from the previous night’s rain. Bicycles pedaled past, wheels spraying up a fine mist. Across the boulevard in the place de la Sorbonne, the Sorbonne Chapel rose black. To her right, faint light glowed from the bakery’s open door, illuminating a long line. To her left stood the Librarie Rive Gauche, its windows as dark as the fascist publications the store sold.
Men ran across the place de la Sorbonne, steps whishing through damp leaves, voices low but strident.
Lucie stood still, frowning. What was going on?
The men stopped in front of the collabo bookstore. Arms swung overhead.
Glass shattered, tinkled down on the pavement.
Lucie gasped, stepped back into the lane, and flicked off her flashlight.
A boom. An eruption of sound and light and fire. Flames flickered orange inside the store. Men cheered.
A bomb. Lucie took one step back. Another. Turned. Ran.
Police whistles screeched.
No! Her feet slipped on wet leaves. She stumbled, braced herself on a wall, and ran.
She couldn’t get caught in a roundup. She couldn’t. Not with all the reprisal killings. Innocent or guilty, anyone held in prison could be shot as a hostage.
The whistles and shouts and crackling fire and thumping feet faded behind her.
Lucie ducked down a side street and slowed to a walk so she’d look innocent.
Her breath heaved. Her face tingled with ice.
She pressed her gloved hand to her cheek, and it slipped away.
She was ... crying.
Her beloved Paris seemed determined to evict her.
34
TUESDAY, DECEMBER2, 1941
Fog hung low in the dark courtyard of the Hôtel Beauharnais, the German Embassy in Paris.
Paul climbed the steps of the Egyptian-styled portico and entered the embassy. Warm air and golden light enveloped him, along with laughing voices and piano music.
Col. Gerhard Schiller greeted him with a handshake. “I’m glad you came, Paul.”
“Thank you, Gerhard. How could I pass up an opportunity to meet Hermann Göring?” Paul checked in his coat, hat, and scarf, and he tucked his invitation into the pocket of his tuxedo.
Wearing his best uniform pinned with medals, Schiller led Paul out of the foyer. “Abetz’s guest list is quite impressive—all the notables in French society and the German Military Command. I made sure my favorite industrialists were invited, especially you. It’s vital to put a friendly face on America. Göring has much sway with the Führer.”
Paul stifled his smile as they climbed a grand marble staircase with wrought iron balustrades. As if one minor automaker could avert war.
America’s entry into the war seemed not only inevitable, butalso Europe’s last chance for liberation. Britain had defended her island and her empire, but with the United States in alliance, perhaps an offensive war could begin.
Schiller led Paul into the Salon of the Four Seasons.
