“Second, slow conversion.” Another stubby finger pointed at Paul. “Can you modify the gazogène installation to make it difficult to convert to petrol?”
Paul mentally flipped through designs. “Yes, I can. I will.”
“Third, cause parts to wear out more quickly.”
“Yes.” The idea lit up in Paul’s mind. “Our machine tools come from America, so we can’t import parts or replacements. German parts don’t fit. They need retooling.”
“Each replacement part drains materials from the Reich,” Silvestre said around the nub of his cigarette.
Dimont shrugged. “Many parts will wear down. Sad, but unavoidable.”
“Parts in our trucks too,” Moreau said. “So the Germans have to repair them more often.”
“Hold on.” Paul held up one hand. “We need to be careful. We need to coordinate these incidents, spread them out, implement them randomly, create good explanations for Colonel Schiller.”
Moreau nodded his heavy head. “Every act must be approved by you and by me. Silvestre will coordinate efforts in his division, Dimont in his. Only a few of our most trusted men will be involved.”
A long breath poured out, twisting white in the air before him. Everything about this plan ran counter to his values. Yet it aligned perfectly with those values.
Paul extended his hand to the man he’d once pointed a gun at. “Let’s do it.”
13
THURSDAY, MAY8, 1941
When would spring weather arrive? A chilly breeze penetrated Lucie’s burgundy suit as she sipped ersatz coffee outside Café de Flore with Marie-Claude and Véronique.
Two German officers passed along boulevard Saint-Germain. Lucie ignored them, but Marie-Claude lifted a wiggling little wave. “Bonjour, Klaus.”
His handsome face split in a rakish grin. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Desjardins.”
Marie-Claude faced Lucie, turning her back on Klaus. “This weather—is it not horrible?”
“Yes.” After the soldiers passed, Lucie gaped at her friend. “You know him?”
With a sly smile, Marie-Claude adjusted her Breton hat adorned with a spray of red flowers. “The more the soldiers like us, the more they come to the ballet. Lifar believes we can be ambassadors of dance to the Germans.”
“Don’t look at her like that, Lucie,” Véronique said with a laugh. “It isn’t collaboration. It’sle système D.”
Le système de débrouillage—getting by, coping. It meant drinking coffee made of chicory, doing without eggs and milk, and buying wooden-soled shoes since leather was unavailable.
Lucie relaxed her features. She might not be friendly with German soldiers, but she sold them books.
Véronique fingered a blonde curl. “Did we tell you? Serge Lifar is preparing two new ballets to premiere in July—La Princesse au JardinandLe Chevalier et la Damoiselle.”
“With my last name, I should be the princess,” Marie-Claude said. “It’s time I became a star.”
“I hope so. You’re so talented.” Lucie patted her arm. But with ballerinas like Yvette Chauviré and Solange Schwarz and Lycette Darsonval, Lifar didn’t have to look far to cast starring roles.
“Tell us how your own star is coming.” Véronique lifted her coffee cup to Lucie.
Her newest puppet was indeed a star, Josie Aubrey’s Feenee brought to papier-mâché life. Lucie scooted her chair on the sidewalk to allow a couple to pass. “I finished the wig. I cut colorful strips from our fabric scrap bag and soaked them in starch to make little curls.”
“It is kind of you to help this little girl who has no mother, no friends.” Véronique waved to a group of artists passing by with their portfolios.
Marie-Claude narrowed one hazel eye. “Wasn’t thecollabowho took you to dinner a widower with a little girl?”
Lucie stiffened. “This is his daughter.”
