April 1916, Paris, France
It had been eight months since she’d begun work at the Renault factory at Boulogne-Billancourt, just west of Paris, and Evette still wasn’t used to the crowds. There was always someone rushing from here to there wearing what looked like their Sunday best. The serge dress that had served her so well in the village felt conspicuously rural in Paris. Her work clothes were better, allowing her to blend in with all the other factory workers. Some of her female coworkers even wore trousers, but Evette wasn’t ready to try that yet.
“Have you heard from Jean?” Evette asked Anne-Marie as they changed back into their fireproof work clothing after their meal break.
“I got a letter yesterday. He might have furlough soon.”
Evette wondered what it would be like to be in love and married and to worry about the man getting slaughtered at Verdun. There were other places to be killed, of course, but Evette had shared Anne-Marie’s relief when Jean’s unit had been rotated out. Evette’s brother Emile had been to Verdun too. He had a talent with words, and even though he’d given her few details, the tone of his letters had managed to convey the gloom and the despair. She wasn’t sure how much longer the French Army could hold out, but after so much sacrifice, the thought of withdrawal was practically treasonous.
“Cut the chatter, ladies,” the foreman yelled.
“We’re back early, and we can’t say two words to each other?” Anne-Marie muttered under her breath when he walked away. “He never complains when the men talk.”
“Or if they’re a few minutes late.”
Evette went back to her lathe. The machinery was designed for a man, but she was used to that. She had often tilled fields with a plow designed for someone taller, and every time she’d hit a rock, the handle had smacked her in the chin. In the factory, she simply had to reach higher than most workers. Her arms and shoulders ached by the end of the day, but the war couldn’t go on without munition workers.
She tried not to think about how many people might die from each shell she worked on, tried only to think of how completing as many as she could with the highest possible quality might make a difference to Emile and Jean and all the other men struggling in the trenches. Maybe the poilu who had given her money for the train ticket too. Eight months later and she still thought of him every day. It was ridiculous to remember him so often, and yet she’d never had a stranger notice her before, let alone show her kindness.
One of the other factory workers walked by, a man who had lost his foot in the war. He gave her a friendly smile, and she realized she was staring his direction. Focus, Evette. Stop daydreaming about a man who’s probably dead.
Another long afternoon passed, but Evette was used to putting in long hours. She’d done it in her village since she was old enough to pull weeds, and she was grateful for the work. Food and lodging were more expensive than she’d expected—and prices kept rising. She found herself in a strange position. She wanted the war to end, but when peace came, she would lose her job and possibly her independence.
The truth was the end of the war seemed a long way off. She could read the desperation, the depression, and the resignation in Emile’s letters, could see it in the haunted eyes of soldiers on leave in Paris. Sometimes she worried France was losing.
“You know the picric acid in the shells will turn your skin yellow?”
Evette glanced over her shoulder at the foreman. He was a tall, skinny man who ignored most of the women unless they were making mistakes. Why was he talking to her? “We all have to sacrifice something. The army can’t win without artillery shells,” she said. Besides, she wasn’t measuring out the powder, so her exposure to picric acid was minor.
“I don’t know that they can win, even with artillery shells.”
Evette studied him as he walked to another worker. She felt the same way about the army’s prospects, but why would the foreman try to discourage her? The smell of oil and cordite was potent enough to mask all but the strongest smells of alcohol, but she didn’t think he was drunk. His steps were too steady for that, and his eyes had been clear.
She watched the foreman over the next three hours. He spoke with a few workers and assisted some of the women when they had to lift a heavy object or tighten a lever the last little bit. Most of his attention was directed to other things: the warehouse structure, the stacks of shells in various stages of production, the security guards.
As she finished her shift, Evette dawdled, timing her exit from the factory to coincide with the foreman’s. On the street outside the factory, he bought a paper from one of the paperboys selling the news Emile always made fun of for its lack of accuracy. Then the foreman hung back, watching the workers depart. Two blocks from the factory, he ducked into an alley.
Hesitant, Evette approached the side street’s entrance and peered around the corner. Far inside the alley, the foreman spoke with a tall man in a suit and top hat. The man in the top hat handed the foreman an envelope and then walked farther into the alley, away from Evette.
She turned her back to the foreman and picked up a two-day-old newspaper from the gutter as he approached. She unfolded it and pretended she was fascinated by the contents until she had given him enough time to walk past her. She tried to locate him again, but there were still crowds of factory workers leaving, and she couldn’t pick him out. She had waited too long to follow him again that night, but she set her mouth in determination. He was up to something, and she intended to find out what.