“Ah yes. Those plans of yours. I’ll see you next week.”
Lucie managed a smile, and she ducked through the gate to the quai d’Orsay. She hurried along under the chestnut trees, her hand pressed to her stomach.
If she hadn’t already digested the meal Paul Aubrey had bought her—with German Army money!—she would have heaved it into the Seine. She’d let a plate of beef and a charming smile entice her. How was she different from those fur-draped women consorting with German officers in the restaurant?
Anyone who saw her there—with a knowncollaborateur—would have thought she was just like those women.
“Oh, Lord.” She raised her face to the overcast sky. “Please forgive me, but I liked him.”
A heartless, moneygrubbing, collaborating business tycoon, and she’d liked him.
6
MONDAY, APRIL7, 1941
Outside his office, Paul stood at the balcony overlooking the bustle of activity on the factory floor. Not as bustling as the Germans wanted.
To Paul’s right, Col. Gerhard Schiller clasped his hands together, one finger tapping away. “We’re disappointed that you only partially fulfilled our order this month.”
“I apologize,” Paul said, “but it required a significant increase in production. We tried, but the order will be delayed.”
To his left, Jacques Moreau rested heavy fists on the railing.
Ordinarily Paul would have asked Moreau to explain the fall in production—because it was indeed a fall. Paul suspected the workers had deliberately slowed their pace, but he’d never tell Schiller that.
The main assembly line ran left to right below them, lit by daylight streaming through sawtooth skylights. On the far side of the factory, a craneway ran the length of the building, bringing materials from the railroad. From the craneway, a dozen tributary lines assembled parts and fed them to the main line, from axles to engines to seat cushions.
Schiller frowned. “Your production figures are far lower than for factories in Germany.”
Paul adjusted the sleeves of his dark gray suit, which didn’t fit as well as it used to. “Tell me, Colonel. How many calories a day do German workers receive?”
“Calories?”
“In their diet. How many calories?”
“I—don’t know.” Schiller narrowed pale blue eyes in thought. “We have little rationing.”
Of course not. Plunder from occupied countries fattened Germany. “That isn’t the case here. The average adult receives thirteen hundred calories a day. For a man like me, it’s enough to live, although with constant hunger. Laborers receive a higher ration but not enough. The men are slow because they’re hungry.”
Surprise flickered over Schiller’s face. Regret, even. “I see.”
“Also, this past winter was one of the coldest in memory, and no one received coal for heating. Cold steals the strength of the heartiest of men. Even a German worker wouldn’t be productive in such conditions.”
Schiller extended his hand. “I shall see if I can help.”
Paul accepted the handshake. “Thank you. We’ll do our best to meet your order.”
After the colonel left, Moreau turned to Paul, his face no longer as jowly but as indifferent as ever. No, not indifferent. His eyebrows drew together, his mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown.
“Yes, Moreau?”
“Do you want me to speak to the men about the fall in productivity?”
“Not necessary. Tell them I know they’re trying.”
“Yes, sir.” He gave Paul a strange look and thumped down the stairs.
Paul glanced at his watch. Just enough time to drop hisreport at the US Embassy and get to Green Leaf Books before it closed.
