“I’m afraid the only lady in my life is four years old. But if I do say so myself, she is quite beautiful.”
Schiller chuckled. “A proud father.”
“Indeed.” He passed men tacking upholstery to seat cushions. He’d been listening to Josie’s stories with greater deliberation. He didn’t understand the fantastical elements, but he recognized the creativity. More importantly, he saw themes of courage in the face of adversity, helping the downtrodden, and standing up to evildoers. And of that he was immensely proud.
Schiller turned his broad smile to Paul. “Perhaps I can introduce you to a woman in my office. A nice German woman to help relations between our countries. The situation is getting worse.”
“It is.” The US had frozen German assets, and Germany had retaliated. Then America had increased naval patrols to prevent German U-boats from attacking shipping in the western Atlantic. The United States might not have declared war, but she’d chosen a side.
“My colleague is intelligent and cultured and quite pretty,” Schiller said. “You’d like her.”
Paul rounded the end of the assembly line. “Thank you, but the timing is wrong.”
“I understand.”
The timing was very wrong. Paul was falling hard for a woman he had no chance with. His business help had softened her opinion of him but hadn’t changed it—nor was that the reason he helped. Besides, in the intimacy of a romantic relationship, secrets had a way of rising to the surface. And Paul’s secrets could get people killed.
At the employee entrance, a rack of time cards hung by the time clock. Three workers loafed by the clock—two hours after the factory opened.
“You’re late for your shift,” Paul said.
The men startled at the sight of the company owner and a German officer. Two of them ducked their heads. The third blanched, his eyes wide. “Oui, monsieur. Pardon.”
A British accent.
Paul’s heart seized. Downed RAF flyers were supposed to enter with the morning rush and be met at the time clock by Silvestre, who would escort them to the safe room.
Paul shot up a quick prayer that Schiller hadn’t recognized the accent and that he’d overlook the porcelain complexion of the redheaded airman.
He turned his back to Schiller, faced the airmen, and put on his sternest voice. “Stay here. I’ll speak to you later.” He held one hand in front of his stomach and flashed a V for Victory.
The French speaker’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he hunched his shoulders as if a chastened employee. “Oui, monsieur.”
Paul shepherded the German commissioner to the door. “I suppose you do not have problems with tardiness in Germany.”
Schiller gave him a rueful smile. “Our workers are motivated.”
Motivated to help the fatherland? Or to avoid brutal punishment?
Outside, Paul shook Schiller’s hand and said goodbye. After Schiller’s requisitioned 1938 Aubrey Authority pulled away, Paul returned to the factory and beckoned to the three alarmed Englishmen in French laborers’ clothing.
Paul led them into the warren of offices. Down an out-of-the-way hall, he unlocked a storage room. Only he, Moreau, and Silvestre had the key.
Inside, crates were stacked high to create a wall. On the far side, Paul showed the airmen their temporary home—cots, chairs, a jug, a plate of sandwiches, and a stack of English-language books from Lucie’s banned titles. “Make yourselves at home, gentlemen.”
The redhead stared at him. “You’re American.”
“A fact you will promptly forget.” Paul leaned back against the wall. “You’re late.”
“We do apologize.” The French speaker sat on a cot. “We were to meet our contact at a church, but she was delayed. A frightful nuisance.”
“I’m sure it was. Let me brief you fellows. Factory hours are eight to six. During those hours, the door will be locked. Lights off, no talking, no smoking. In the morning and evening, we’ll feed you and let you out to use the restroom. Use the bucket in the corner during the day. Please clean it out at night.”
“Smashing accommodations,” the redhead said with a smirk.
His buddy poked him with an elbow. “Better than a German prison camp.”
“Don’t forget that,” Paul said. “My men are sacrificing their meager rations and risking their lives. You will treat them as fellow fighters for the Allied cause. In fact, you’ll treat them as if they outranked you. Last week one of your comrades acted like an officious, condescending prig. I will have none of that, understood?”
