What lay to the east? Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, and the Soviet Union—all allied with Germany. Hitler had violated many a nation’s neutrality, but to strike an ally would be the height of treachery.
Paul left his quiet office.
Down on the factory floor, the mechanics had finishedrepairing the overhead conveyor belt, and the assembly line would start up again in the morning.
A full week behind schedule. That would keep a lot of trucks out of German hands. The thought lightened his step as he descended the stairs in his factory.
At church yesterday, Mr. Pendleton had discussed stewardship, not just giving to the church but about the concept of ownership.
Every resource, every gift, and even the power to gain wealth came from above. Hadn’t God placed Paul in his father’s household and given him a mind that grasped both engineering and business?
Paul passed machines made with metal God had created, lubricated with oils God created, run by hands God created, housed by stone from God’s hills and glass from God’s sand.
“My factory. My company.” Paul let out a wry chuckle. He didn’t own it. He was a steward, placed in charge by the true owner.
He’d have to puzzle out how that might change his business practices.
Paul passed the sales and administrative offices and said good night to the last workers filing out.
Going to church again felt right. In all honesty, spiting the gossips gave him a pleasurable rush of defiance.
Yesterday he’d been rewarded. After church, Josie had rushed to Lucie while she chatted with the Youngs. Lucie had greeted Josie warmly and Paul stiffly.
The Youngs had looked uncomfortable and remained close as if to protect Lucie from Paul’s evil influence.
Paul couldn’t care less about the opinion of the Youngs and their like. He wanted for Josie what he couldn’t have for himself—friendship.
Outside, the sun hung low as Paul headed to the Métro.
If only Lucie would let him help the failing store. He’d donethe single most effective thing to secretly shore up the bookstore, but far better if it didn’t need shoring up.
“Monsieur Aubrey?” Jacques Moreau called from behind.
“Yes, Moreau?”
The general foreman caught up to Paul and gestured to the driveway beside the main building. “Come with me.”
“What’s this about?” Paul followed the man in his thick overcoat and misshapen hat.
“When we get there.”
Paul pressed his lips tight. For years, he’d put up with surliness because Moreau had a way with the men, like a father with a passel of boys. His affection for the workers was obvious, his instructions clear, his guidance firm, and his discipline terrifying.
Moreau passed the employee parking lot, empty since the occupation. Then he passed the parking lot for finished Au-ful trucks and zigzagged between outbuildings. He rounded a corner and stopped.
In the shadows Henri Silvestre and Jean-Pierre Dimont leaned against a shed, arms crossed.
Paul stopped short, and a tendril of fear wound into his gut. These three men had instigated the strike in ’37. The occupation of the factory.
And almost two years ago, Paul had given away his pistol.
“Good evening.” He retained an ounce of suspicion in his voice to let them know he was on guard.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Aubrey,” Silvestre said, and Dimont echoed. They didn’t sound hostile.
Paul turned to Moreau and raised his eyebrows.
Moreau jammed his hands into his coat pockets. “Boucheron said nothing was wrong with the motor for the conveyor belt.”
