The palace served as a different kind of symbol for the men grouped in front of its main doors. They’d chosen the Strasbourg site as a sign of renewed labor radicalism and unity in Europe’s two most powerful nations. Two of them headed France’s largest trade union confederations. The other three ran organizations representing millions of German laborers, assembly-line workers, and white-collar professionals.
“Fellow citizens and fellow workers, we stand at an historic crossroads.” Markus Kaltenbrunner, the tall, black-haired leader of Germany’s Scientists and Technical Workers Union, had been elected to speak for them all. He paused, knowing his words were being carried live into fifty million homes across the continent. “Down one road, down the path pursued by those in power, lie poverty and degradation for German and French workers. The corporate giants and their government lackeys have one aim, one purpose: to boost their obscene profits by cutting our collective throats! They strip us of our wages and our jobs and hand them over to foreign slaves! And they have the audacity, the utter gall, to ask for our patience and cooperation while this ‘restructuring,’ this cruel robbery, unfolds!”
Kaltenbrunner shook his head angrily. “But we will not stand for it! We will not cooperate in our own destruction.” He nodded toward the other union leaders standing around him. “That is why we have come here today. To join in common cause against those who would reverse the progress of fifty years.
“Accordingly, we have agreed to the following nonnegotiable demands — demands that apply to the corporations and governments of both our great nations.” He pulled a pair of wire-frame glasses from his pocket, flipped them open, and slipped them onto his nose. Then he cleared his throat and began reading from a document handed to him by an aide. “First, we call for an immediate end to the shipments of foreign workers to French- and German-owned factories in central and eastern Europe. All available positions in these facilities must be reserved for true French and German laborers, not for Turks or Algerians!”
The German labor leader scowled. “Second, there must be an immediate and across-the-board moratorium on all layoffs and firings during this time of economic crisis. And finally we call on the politicians in Paris and Berlin to fund massive new public works programs to put our fellow workers back to work. Profits, earnings, and budgets must bow to more important human needs!”
He stopped reading and stared directly into the cameras. “We have no illusions that the politicians and the fat-cat businessmen will agree to do these things simply because they are the right things to do. We are not that naïve. Not at all. If necessary, we are prepared to compel them to meet these just and reasonable demands.”
Kaltenbrunner paused again, letting the tension build. “The bureaucrats and plutocrats have until October 7. That gives them five days to accept our terms — without condition and without compromise. If they fail, we will take our people, all our people, off the job and into the streets.”
The assembled journalists and camera crews stirred in astonishment. The five trade unionists in front of them represented a sizable fraction of the Franco-German labor force. Any job action involving all of them would have almost unimaginable economic consequences.
Kaltenbrunner nodded. “That is right. This is an ultimatum. The governments and corporations must either meet our demands or face a general strike!” He held his right hand up with all five fingers extended. “If our warnings are ignored, in five days’ time no trains will run. No planes will fly. No trucks will bring food to the markets. No factories will operate. And no ships will sail with goods bound for foreign shores!”
No one listening to him could doubt that Markus Kaltenbrunner and his colleagues were in deadly earnest.
The eight men meeting in the presidential palace’s Cabinet Room were dwarfed by the chamber’s high ceiling and massive furniture. Each of the eight ran one of the republic’s most powerful ministries. They represented a self-selected inner circle, and for all practical purposes they controlled the French government. The chair reserved for France’s ailing President was empty.
“A general strike? Now? Can they be serious?” Henri Navarre, the Minister of the Interior, seemed stunned.
Other faces around the table mirrored his bewilderment. For more than a decade, support from the trade unions had helped keep their political party in power. The votes the labor confederations controlled were the margin of victory in any close election. And every recent election had been close.
“They are quite serious.” Jacques Morin, the new director of the DGSE, said it plainly, without emotion. “All reports from our informers point in the same direction. The preparations for a general strike are well under way. Our German allies are seeing the same signs. Isn’t that right, Foreign Minister?”
France’s new Foreign Minister, Nicolas Desaix, nodded in agreement and approval. He’d secured the appointment of his former deputy to head the intelligence service. It was an arrangement that guaranteed him de facto control over the DGSE and its associated security agencies.
He leaned forward, eyeing each of his cabinet colleagues in turn. “What Morin says is true. I do not think there is anything to be gained by hiding our heads in the sand. These radicals are not making idle threats.”
“Perhaps we should negotiate with them… come to some arrangement…” Navarre’s voice trailed off as Desaix frowned. The small, stoop-shouldered Interior Minister’s prestige had fallen precipitously in the past several weeks — a product of his growing inability to control the police and special riot troops.
“Negotiate? Impossible!” Desaix shook his head in contempt. “Their demands are absurd — an insult. Meeting even the least costly of them would bankrupt our largest and most profitable companies. Nor do I see any merit in surrendering effective control of this government to a band of mechanics and shop stewards!”
“Then what, precisely, do you propose, Nicolas?” Barrel-chested Michel Guichy, the Minister of Defense, tapped the table for emphasis. “If the gendarmes and the CRS can’t keep order now, how can we depend on them during such a strike? My God, most of the bastards are in the unions themselves!”
Others around the room echoed Guichy’s sharp-edged question. Even at the best of times cabinet meetings could be contentious. Now they were all on edge, worn down by the last month’s steady stream of strikes, riots, and worsening economic indicators, and they were frightened by what was coming. France simply could not afford either the threatened nationwide walkout or the exorbitant demands being made by her trade unions. Her heavily subsidized industries were already on the edge of bankruptcy.
Desaix kept his face still, careful not to show his irritation. He’d worked too hard for too long to build his influence with these men to risk losing his temper now. Besides, he scented opportunity in this crisis — even in a crisis partly of his own making.
He shrugged mentally. It was becoming all too apparent that he’d miscalculated the effects of the foreign worker relocations. He’d anticipated widespread anger in Eastern Europe — not this rage at home.
Still, there were positive aspects to the situation. This confrontation with organized labor had been building for years. So had public hatred for the immigrant population. His first attempt to solve those twin problems, the Sopron covert action, had partially backfired. Perhaps it was time to bring both disputes to a head. To kill two birds with one presidential decree. Especially if it could be done in a way that would advance his vision of a more powerful, more united France.