Paul’s eyelids succumbed to the molten lead, and he gripped the handrail.
“Given Aubrey Automobile’s reputation for excellence,” Schiller said, “I’m surprised to see assembly lines.”
Fighting the heaviness, Paul lifted his gaze to his unwanted guest, one of the commissioners sent to each automaker. “My father used to handcraft each car, but it limits production. That’s one reason I opened a subsidiary of his company here in Paris—so I’d be free to employ modern techniques. My successconvinced my father to follow suit at the main plant in Massachusetts.”
The fine lines around Schiller’s light blue eyes deepened. “For a son to change his father’s mind is no small feat.”
Paul tried to smile, but he didn’t have it in him.
The colonel’s mouth drew up apologetically. “Of course, you’ll have to convert the factory to another use. Germany can’t allocate resources for civilian autos.”
“I’m not staying. I’m selling the factory.”
Schiller tugged down the sleeve of his gray uniform jacket. “The Militärbefehlshaber in Frankreich isn’t in the habit of buying factories.”
Paul’s mouth stiffened. “The military command would requisition my factory?”
“No, no.” He waved his hand as if to wipe out Paul’s words. “This is an American company. Your country is neutral. Germany is not America’s enemy.”
They weren’t America’s friend either. Paul turned back toward his office. “Whether I sell to a French company or German, I have no preference.”
Either way, the factory he’d built would churn out German military equipment. But what choice did he have?
“Can we not convince you to stay? The armistice has been signed in Compiègne, and we have been in Paris over a week. Have we not behaved well?”
“You have.” When the French government fled, they’d declared Paris an open city. The Germans had honored the French decision not to defend the capital and had entered without a shot fired.
“Please stay.” Schiller opened his palms and raised a slight smile. “It would be good for relations between our nations.”
“My company makes automobiles, the finest automobiles, the gold standard.”
Schiller paused before Paul’s office door, emblazoned withthe logo for Aubrey Automobiles, a golden “Au” on a black shield. “The chemical symbol for gold. A clever motto.”
“It’s more than a motto.” Paul headed to the stairs. “It’s how we conduct business at every level. If I can’t make cars here, I’ll go to the States and make them there, help my father expand.”
Schiller bowed his blond head. “Very well, Mr. Aubrey. I’ll help you find a buyer. But if you change your mind, please let me know.” He handed Paul a business card with his office address at the Hôtel Majestic.
The German army had planned the occupation with precise detail, down to business cards for the hotels they’d requisition.
Paul tucked the card into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, led Schiller down to the main entrance, and saw him off.
Back inside, workers prepared the machinery to start the day’s work.
Jacques Moreau leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs. The general foreman was no taller than Paul’s five feet ten but was twice as wide, with muscles earned by a lifetime of manual labor, a potbelly gained by sixty-odd years of French cooking, and oil-black eyes that registered only three emotions—indifference, disdain, and rage.
None was pleasant.
“Bonjour, Moreau.” Paul eased past him and climbed the stairs.
“You are selling to theboche.” Moreau’s footsteps clumped behind him.
Paul’s jaw clenched. None of Moreau’s business. But in the past six years, Paul had learned Moreau knew everyone’s business. One of the traits that made him an excellent foreman—and one of the reasons Paul had never fired him.
“I’ll try to find a French buyer rather than a German,” Paul said. “I do hate to put the workers in this bind.”
Moreau let out a scoffing grunt.
“Pardon?”Paul faced him.
