“I can only take one suitcase to the internment camp, and who knows what Madame Villeneuve will do with the contents of the store.”
“Or the Germans.” Bernadette scowled and surveyed the store.
Lucie smiled. Bernadette’s little apartment would soon be full of books. “Tell you what. You live close, and the store is bound to be quiet today. Why don’t you spend the day taking what you want?”
Bernadette pressed her hand to her chest, her eyes wide. “Are you—do you—?”
“Yes. If Hal and Erma return, you’ll have something to give them.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll take good care of it.”
“I know you will.” If time allowed, she’d reveal the hideaway behind the mural in the storage room so Bernadette could choose from the banned books as well.
Lucie’s last tiny act of resistance.
37
THURSDAY, DECEMBER11, 1941
Suitcase in hand, Paul headed from the Métro station under a leaden sky, returning from his appointment with Dr. Bentley Young for a “check on Paul’s ulcer.”
Paul finally had the rendezvous information. He and Lucie and Josie could leave at any time. Tonight after work, he’d visit Green Leaf Books to relay the information in case they weren’t able to meet in Orléans. In case anything happened to him.
America had declared war on Japan—but not on Germany. But war with Germany was inevitable. On Monday, Paul had shut down the safe house, and the last RAF flyboys had left on Tuesday. Paul and his men had scrubbed the storage room of any sign of the British and filled it with crates.
The factory rose before him—the assembly building’s stone façade and the tall steel lettering declaring Aubrey Automobiles—modern and sleek and only seven years old. It might not be his, but he’d done his best with it. For that alone, pride flowed in his chest.
Paul opened the glass door and entered the reception area, bright and welcoming, with a streamlined front desk.
The receptionist stood, her young face ashen. “MonsieurAubrey, you are wanted in the craneway. There has been an accident. A man is ... dead.” Her face warped.
A punch in Paul’s gut. “Dead? Oh no.” Accidents were common with heavy machinery, but no one had died at Aubrey Automobiles for almost two years. He raised a hand to the young lady to thank her, to tell her to sit, to stay calm.
Paul strode past the sales and administrative offices, jogged across the factory floor, and entered the craneway that ran along the back of the building.
In the craneway, motorized cranes on rails delivered parts and equipment to the tributary assembly lines.
Now the crane stood silent, and a couple dozen men huddled nearby, muttering.
“He was always careless.”
“Silvestre told him to watch out. I heard him.”
Paul stepped close. “Excuse me, men.”
“Monsieur Aubrey.” The men turned and parted.
Two feet stuck out from under the crane. A puddle of blood.
Paul’s stomach coiled up, and he tore his gaze away. What a horrible way to die.
In front of the crane, Henri Silvestre sat on the rails, head in hands. “Non, non, non.”
Jacques Moreau squatted beside him. “You did all you could.”
“Moreau?” Paul called. “What happened?”
Moreau patted Silvestre’s shoulder, stood, and motioned Paul away from the crowd. “A man tripped on the rails in front of the moving crane. I haven’t called the police yet. I wanted to wait until you returned from lunch.”
