In his office he checked his attaché case. Deep in a pocket in the lid, a sealed envelope held his typed report. At the embassy he’d address it to Jim Duffy and have them send it in a diplomatic pouch. Duff now served at the US Embassy in Vichy, across the demarcation line in the unoccupied zone of France.
Paul snapped the case shut, donned his coat and hat, said goodbye to his secretary, and trotted downstairs.
Duff would find much of interest in Paul’s report for March. The Germans had placed increased orders for February, March, and April. Last night on the radio, Paul had learned why.
The Germans had invaded Yugoslavia and Greece. It sickened him.
Hitler kept saying he didn’t want more territory. He’d said it after he annexed Austria. Then after he took over Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland. Then the rest of Czechoslovakia. Then Poland. Then his rash of conquests in 1940. Now he’d struck south.
Paul passed the sales and administrative offices, tipping his fedora to accountants and secretaries.
Under contract, the Germans were forbidden from converting Paul’s trucks for military use. But the Nazis had proven faithless in honoring treaties. Why would they honor a contract?
His stomach twisted, but he wouldn’t change his decision. Duff said Paul’s information was helpful, not just from Aubrey Automobiles but from Paul’s conversations with others in industry.
Besides, his factory was running. If this madness ever ended, he could build cars again.
At the Odéon Métro station, Paul stepped out of the second of five cars in the train. He avoided first-class seating in the middle car, favored by German soldiers, who rode for free.
He weaved through the crowd on the platform, his step light in anticipation of seeing Lucie and relieved of the burden of his report.
Despite what Duff said, it was espionage. Paul passed on industrial and military information, and for the twelve hours each month between when he typed his report at home and when he delivered it, the weight pressed hard.
Paul had given Madame Coudray instructions that in case of his arrest or disappearance, she would take Josie immediately to the embassy. A plan he’d rather not activate.
He climbed the stairs with men and women returning home from work. With all taxis and buses requisitioned by the Germans, Parisians relied on bicycles and the Métro.
The Germans had also requisitioned all late-model cars, including Paul’s 1939 Aubrey Aurora, but had left his 1935 Authority, although it was useless without a gasoline permit.
Outside in the chilly air, Paul headed south. Narrow cobblestone streets bent and divided. Gray stone buildings rose on each side with businesses on the ground floor and apartments above, many with wrought iron balconies and window boxes.
An elderly man in a purple cape pedaled past. Only on the Left Bank.
Was Lucie as flighty as the rest of these characters? He hadn’t seen her at church, and she’d promised to attend.
Paul took a road jogging to the left, and he groaned. He could have used an ally at church. If people wanted to reject him, fine. But to break the heart of a little girl? Josie just wanted to play.
She’d cried all the way home.
Edmund Pendleton had encouraged Paul to return to church,to please return, to not let people come between him and the Lord.
True, singing hymns and hearing the message had brought peace and joy. But could he endure weekly public humiliation from those he’d once called friends?
“I don’t know, Lord,” he whispered. “I love you, but I’m not so sure about your people.”
There—rue Casimir-Delavigne. Paul’s pace picked up.
On the surface, Simone and Lucie were nothing alike, but they shared a directness of speech and a core of strength. Lucie had given up her ballet career and stayed in Paris when panzers approached and everyone assumed bombers would raze the city—for her friends.
A smile rose. For courage and compassion like that, Paul would gladly endure some artistic flightiness.
The dark green façade neared. After Paul coached his expression down a few notches from infatuated schoolboy, he opened the door.
Lucie stood with her back to him, shelving books in the nonfiction section. She wore a muted green sweater over a skirt of the same color, sprinkled with pink and yellow flowers, like spring itself.
A young couple sat nearby, so he addressed her formally. “Good evening, Miss Girard.”
Her head popped up, and she turned to him. Not spring. The coldest of winters.
