Echoes (36 page)

“Are you all right?” Armand could see that she was deeply moved by something. His father was already waiting for them in the garden. She nodded as they went outside, and he showed them around.

“You're a very brave woman to bring those children down on your own. If I had a daughter, I'm not sure I would let her do that. In fact, I'm sure I wouldn't.” He looked at Armand then, frowned, and lowered his voice. “I worry about Armand as well. But none of us has any other choice these days, do we?” In fact they did. There were others who made different choices. She liked the one she was making, and theirs.

As they walked around through the once-beautiful gardens, the count asked her nothing about herself. They were all better off not knowing too much. Everyone was careful these days. It was dangerous to say too much to anyone. But as she sat down on one of the ancient time-worn marble benches that had been rubbed smooth by the elements, she looked up at him with sad eyes.

“I don't know why,” he said gently, “but I have the feeling I know you, that we've met somewhere.” There was no one around but Armand. “Have I?” He was in his late fifties, she knew, and not old enough to be senile. But he looked confused, as though he heard voices from another time, and wasn't sure what he was hearing, or seeing. “Have we met?” he asked her again. He didn't think it likely, but he might have forgotten. And as she sat there, looking at him, she looked remarkably like Armand.

“You knew my father,” she said in a gentle voice, never leaving his eyes with her own.

“Did I? What was his name?”

“Antoine de Vallerand,” she said calmly. Nicolas was his brother, and her uncle, and Armand her first cousin. There was absolute silence between the three of them for an endless moment, and then without saying a word, tears began to roll down his cheeks, and he took her in his arms.

“Oh my dear…oh my dear …” He couldn't say anything else for long minutes. He was overwhelmed by the memories she had brought with her. “Did you know when you came here?” He wondered if that was why she had taken the mission. But she hadn't known.

She shook her head. “Not until we drove in here, and Armand said your name. It was a bit of a shock, as you can imagine.” She laughed through her own tears. “I wanted to say something at dinner, but I was afraid you'd ask me to leave. I wanted to savor it for a little while. My father always talked to me about all this, the place where he grew up.”

“I never forgave my father for what he did. I hated him for it, and myself, for not having the courage to defy him. We were barely civil to each other after that. And when he died, I wanted to ask your father to come home and forgive us. He died two weeks later. And my wife died the year after. I wanted to write to your mother about how I felt about what happened, but I never knew her, and I felt sure she hated all of us.” Instead, he had written a proper letter of condolence, and nothing more.

“She didn't hate you,” Amadea reassured him. “Her family was even worse to her. They wrote her name in the family's book of the dead, and wouldn't let her see her mother when she died, or go to the funeral. My grandmother had come to us two years before, and we got to know her. I never met the others.”

“Where are they now?” he asked, looking concerned, as Amadea took a breath before she answered. The rest was all bad news.

“The entire family was deported on Kristallnacht. Some people thought they were sent to Dachau, but I don't know for sure. My mother and sister were deported to Ravensbrück two years ago. I haven't heard from them since.” He looked horrified by what she had said.

“And you came here?” He looked confused as Armand watched her intently. She was an amazing woman. Armand had no sisters, and wished he had one like her. He was an only child, with no relatives other than his father. They had made the decision to join the Resistance together, all they had in the world was each other, and this house, which was in a genteel state of disrepair as was the property all around them.

“I was in Theresienstadt for five months. Friends hid me before that, after my mother was deported. I was in a Carmelite convent for six years before that.”

“You were a nun?” Armand looked shocked.

“I still am, I suppose,” although that had been questionable for a while. But she was sure again now. Ever since Jean-Yves died. She had found her vocation again. She wasn't sure now that she had ever lost it. She had just taken a brief detour, in extraordinary circumstances. “Sister Teresa of Carmel. I'll go back after the war. I had to leave the convent so as not to endanger the others.”

“What a remarkable girl you are,” her uncle said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Your father would be very proud of you, if he were alive. I am, and I hardly know you.” And then he looked at her wistfully. “Could you stay longer?” They had a lifetime of catching up to do. And he wanted to hear all about the years he had lost with his brother. There were a thousand things he wanted to know.

“I don't think that would be wise,” she said sensibly, showing Carmelite good judgment, as Serge would have said. “I'd like to come back, if I may,” she asked politely. He could see that she was beautifully brought up.

“I'd be heartbroken if you didn't.” They walked back inside then, and spent the rest of the night talking. They never went to bed, and then finally she went to lie down for a few hours before she left.

She went to kiss the children good-bye, and they cried when she left them. And she, Armand, and Nicolas all cried as she drove away. She had promised to come back, and her uncle had begged her to be careful and take care of herself. She could still see them in the rearview mirror, standing in the courtyard, waving, as she turned and they disappeared out of sight. It had been one of the best nights of her life, and she wished that Jean-Yves and her father could have been there. But as she drove back to Melun, she felt them close to her, along with her mother and Daphne. They were all part of an unbreakable chain, linking the present, the future, and the past.

22

A
MADEA'S DRIVE BACK TO
M
ELUN WENT SMOOTHLY
. S
HE
was stopped by soldiers only once, and although they admired her and chatted for a few minutes, they let her drive on fairly quickly. They had scarcely glanced at her papers. One of them waved with a big boyish grin as she drove off.

She was back in Melun at the farmhouse by late afternoon. By the following week, she was back with the others, picking up supplies parachuted in, and following their familiar routine. The British had sent them two more shortwave radios, which were concealed at neighboring farms.

It was late September when Serge came to visit them again. He liked to see the men and women who worked for him face to face whenever he could. He wanted to have a sense of them, to make sure that they weren't putting others at risk, and that they were as loyal as he believed. He had a sixth sense about those things. And this time there was something he wanted to discuss with Amadea. He had heard from others that she had been depressed for a long time about Jean-Yves, and still blamed herself not only for his death, and Georges's, but for the assassination of the four young boys. Even worse, she was afraid that Jean-Yves had died as punishment for her sins. Serge had grown fond of her in the time she had been doing missions for him, and he had a profound respect for her good judgment, great courage, and cool head. He wanted to make sure she was all right, and there was a mission he wanted to talk to her about. As always, when something was delicate, he wanted to speak to her in person. He sent a message to her, and they met at a neighboring farm.

As soon as she walked in, he saw that she looked drawn and tired, and her spirits were still lagging. She seemed to feel haunted by the deaths she felt she had caused, and talked a lot again about how anxious she was to go back to the convent after the war. She ate dinner with him, and filled him in on the supplies they had brought in, some of the new people working with them, and after dinner, they took a walk.

“There's something I want to talk to you about,” he said after a few minutes. “I need an operative in Paris for a special mission. I don't know if you feel up to it, but I think you would be perfect.” He had been asked by the SOE in England to find someone with specific qualifications, and she had them all. They needed someone who spoke German faultlessly, and could pass as a cool, sophisticated, aristocratic German woman. Amadea not only looked the part, but was in fact precisely that. And she could pass equally as French or German. They wanted to pose her as the wife or girlfriend of a high-ranking SS officer who was coming to visit Paris. The officer in question was going to be impersonated by a member of the British Secret Service who himself was half German and was also fluent in French. He needed a perfect match for him, and Amadea was it. The big question was if she would do it, and as always she had the choice.

Serge explained the mission to her as they walked along in the dark, and she listened to him in silence. For a long time, she didn't answer, and he didn't press her.

“When do you need to know?” She wanted to pray about it. She was happy in the countryside, doing what she could for them. It was far more dangerous for her going to Paris, and flaunting herself in the face of the SS. She didn't mind being shot by the Germans stationed in Melun, in the course of a midnight mission. The one thing she didn't want, and feared more than anything, was being deported back to the camps. That was more crucifixion than even she felt ready to risk, or face again. She knew she wouldn't be as lucky again, as she had been in escaping Theresienstadt. So far, not a single soul had escaped from Auschwitz, or most of the other camps. It had been a sheer fluke, the night of the leveling of Lidice, that she had been able to escape the Nazis' “model camp.” They were in fact at that moment preparing to show their “Town for Jews” to the International Red Cross. Deportation to any other camp, or even that one now, was almost certain death, after unthinkable torture. Serge's invitation to Paris, masquerading as the wife of an SS officer, sounded risky to her. Too much so.

“We don't have much time. And you're our only real possibility,” Serge said honestly. “The agent who is running the mission is coming in at the end of this week. I was going to tell you about it tonight anyway. He's coming in with three men.” She already knew what those landings were like, and had assisted them often with Jean-Yves and the others. They landed a tiny Lysander for less than five minutes, while the men got out, the plane took off again, and the men dispersed quickly. They were the same planes that did their supply drops, and sometimes parachuted agents in. The landings were far harder. They came in without lights, and relied on the freedom fighters on the ground to guide them with flashlights and protect them. So far, in Amadea's time of working with them, they hadn't had a single mishap, nor lost a single man. Although on several occasions they had come close.

“He must be someone important,” Amadea said thoughtfully, wondering who it was and if she'd heard of him. She knew many of the names now of the people they worked with in England. She heard their code names on the radio, when she manned it, which she did from time to time. She was proficient now with the shortwave. Jean-Yves had taught her well. And loved her well, for the brief time they shared.

“He's very important,” Serge admitted, referring to the British agent. “He can do the mission alone if he has to, but it will provide a diversion if he has a ‘wife.’” He looked at her honestly then. “You're the only one who can do it.” None of their other operatives spoke German as fluently as she did, and could pass for German. Even if they spoke it well, which some did, it was obvious that they were French. Amadea looked completely Teutonic. Not only German, but Aryan to the nth degree. As did the officer she'd be working with. Like her, he was half German, although not Jewish. His mother was a Prussian princess, well known as a great beauty when she was young.

“Who is he?” She was curious about him now and, in spite of herself, intrigued by the mission.

“His code name is Apollo.” She knew she had heard the name before, and thought she might have met him once. It rang a chord of memory, but she could not place the face that went with it. And then suddenly it hit her. He had landed there once before. She had met him with Jean-Yves. Rupert Montgomery. He was one of the men who had started the Kinder-transport. “He's a British lord.”

“I've met him.” Serge nodded. He knew that she had.

“He remembers meeting you, too. He thought it would be a good match. You're the right look.” And the right personality. Although she wasn't aware of it, in times of crisis, she had nerves of steel and exquisite judgment. Everyone who had worked with her said so. There was an endless silence as they walked back to the farmhouse. The air was getting cold. Winter was coming early. And as they reached the gate in the fence, Amadea looked at him with a sigh. It was what she owed them all, and perhaps the only reason why she had been spared so often. To serve the Lord, no matter how frightening. “I'll do it,” she said softly. “When does he come?”

“I'll send you a message,” he had said at the end of the week. As they stood there, it was Monday. She looked at Serge with troubled eyes. He knew it was a lot to ask of her. Maybe too much. But she was willing to do it. Any price for victory and freedom, even if only to save one life.

“I'll be waiting,” she responded and Serge nodded. She had made an impression on Colonel Montgomery, too. He had remembered her code name. Teresa. They used it for messages, and on the shortwave. She would be listening for it now.

“Thank you. He's careful. He knows what he's doing.” She nodded. She had decided to do it because of what he had done for the Jewish children. She wanted to help him.

Serge hugged her then, and went into the barn where he was staying, as she walked home alone. She wasn't afraid of anything in the countryside of Melun. In spite of what they did there, she felt safe among the farms. And the Germans were pretty tame here, except in the case of reprisals.