He gave her a befuddled look.
She crossed her hands over her chest in a classic pose. “A ballerina is trained never to show her emotions. We dance with blistered and bleeding feet, with pulled muscles and broken hearts. Once I danced with a broken toe. And all the audience sees is the character’s emotion. Never, ever my own.”
He raked back his black curls. “I fail to see how that would help.”
“Haven’t you noticed? This whole conversation I’ve kept my expression light and pleased as if enjoying a stroll with a friend.”
“Yes, but—”
“But you don’t know if I can be trusted? I could have taken your notes to the police. I could have let that German officer find them. I didn’t. I came to you with an offer to help, to protect you and your friends.”
The résistant faced her, his expression fierce. “That is all. I must ask you never to speak to me again. Au revoir.”
Lucie’s performance face didn’t crack, but her heart did. “Au revoir.”
She went down a separate path, and her sigh rose to the leafy branches overhead. What had gone wrong? Her idea had seemed as smart as the codes.
Who was she fooling? Her friends used many sweet words to describe her, butsmartwas never one of them.
10
MONDAY, APRIL28, 1941
The factory grumbled awake from its Sunday slumber, and Paul strode down the factory floor past the tributary lines feeding parts to the main assembly line. This week more trucks would drive off his assembly line and straight to Germany.
His breakfast porridge felt slimy in his stomach. On Saturday, he’d taken Josie to see the children’s movieLe Roman de Renard. Newsreels had shown smiling German soldiers in truck convoys. They’d rolled through Yugoslavia and Greece in less than a month, and they were rolling through Libya toward Egypt. If they took the Suez Canal, they’d cut off oil to Britain. Churchill would have to sue for peace. The war would be over.
America would remain neutral, but Germany showed no respect for neutrality.
Paul frowned at the belt conveying wood-burning gazogène generators from the craneway to the main assembly line. The modified engines relegated his trucks to civilian use, but Paul’s production of trucks freed German factories to produce military equipment.
Sickening.
With a slap to the conveyor belt, Paul resumed his march. He ought to pull up stakes and go home. Nothing left for him in Paris. No wife. No friends. He couldn’t build cars. And everyone thought he was a collaborator.
Maybe he was.
He’d taken some comfort at church the day before. He’d decided not to let Lucie Girard and the Youngs and Hartmans and other gossipers keep him away.
Paul and Josie had arrived early, left late, and sat in the front row. Up front, he couldn’t see the scowls and glares, and he could focus on the music and preaching.
On his way out, he’d seen Lucie from a distance, but she never glanced his way. Fine. He didn’t attend church to see her.
Paul passed men checking the radiators on their rack. If he returned to Massachusetts, he’d have friends again. And if Josie made friends, it would help her through this Feenee phase. He could attend church. He could date. And he could build the Autonomy instead of the Au-ful.
To his left, two workers shared a laugh as they prepared their tools.
When Renault or Citroën bought his factory, the Germans would control it completely.
Lately Paul had let sluggish work and reports of sabotage pass without comment. The Germans wouldn’t ignore such things. Production would kick into high gear.
Paul groaned. If he remained, he could at least allow his workers to decrease production. If only he could reduce it even more, maybe reduce quality.
His insides churned, turning over and over, thumping and thumping.
Duffy forbade sabotage. Paul’s conscience forbade it. The Gold Standard forbade it, and the Gold Standard was the highest standard.
Or was it?
