Echoes

by Danielle Steel

  This time her papers said that she was an unmarried woman from a town near Melun. Her name was Amélie Dumas. They used her correct birthday, and said she had been born in Lyon. If asked, she had studied at the Sorbonne before the war. She had studied literature and art. He asked her if there was a code name she wanted, and without hesitating she said, “Teresa.” She knew it would give her courage. She had no idea what they expected of her, but whatever it was, she would do it. Yet again, she owed these people her life.

  She and the other two women drove to Melun that night, they were just three women who had come to Paris for a few days, and were going back to the farms where they lived. They were stopped once, their papers were checked, the German soldiers laughed and winked at them for a minute, tried to tease them with chocolate bars and cigarettes, and sent them on their way. They were harmless for once, and loved flirting with the French women. They had spoken to the three women in broken French.

  It was after dark when they got to the farmhouse, and went in. The farmer and his wife seemed surprised to see Amadea. The other two women introduced them, and the farmer's wife showed her to a small room behind the kitchen. She was to help them on the farm and help with the chores. The farmer's wife had terrible arthritis and could no longer help her husband. Amadea was to do all they directed her to do, and at night she was to work for the local cell. One of the men would come to see her the next day. The farmer and his wife had been in the Resistance since the occupation of France. They looked like harmless old people, but were not. They were extraordinarily courageous, and knew all of the operatives in the area. The clothes the farmer's wife gave her made Amadea look like a farm girl. She looked like a strong girl, and although she was still very thin, she was healthy and young, and she looked the part of a farm girl in a worn faded dress and an apron.

  She spent the night in yet another unfamiliar bed, but was grateful to have one. The two women from the cell in Paris went back in the morning, and wished Amadea well. As she did with everyone now, she wondered if she would ever see them again. Everything about life seemed to be transient and unpredictable. People disappeared out of each other's lives in an instant. And each time you said good-bye, it could be forever, and often was. They were doing dangerous work, and Amadea was anxious to help them. She felt as though she owed them a lot, and wanted to repay the debt.

  She helped with the chores on the farm that morning, and milked the few cows they still had. She carried wood, worked in the garden, helped cook lunch, and did the washing. She worked as tirelessly and as seriously as she had in the convent, and the old woman was grateful. She hadn't had that much help in years. And after dinner that night, their nephew came to visit. His name was Jean-Yves. He was a tall gangly man with dark hair and dark eyes, and there was something faintly sorrowful about him. He was two years older than Amadea and looked like he had the world on his shoulders. His uncle poured him a glass of the wine he made himself, and offered a glass to Amadea, which she declined. She had a glass of milk instead, from the cow she had milked that morning. It was cold and fresh, and she sat quietly at the kitchen table as the two men talked. Afterward Jean-Yves asked her if she'd like to go for a walk, and she understood that it was expected. He was the cell member she was meant to work with. They strolled outside in the warm air, like two young people getting to know each other, and he looked at her somewhat suspiciously.

  “I hear you had a long trip.” She nodded. It was still hard to believe she was here. She had left Prague only days ago. And her refuge in the forest only shortly before that. Her head was still spinning from it all, and the stress of crossing borders with a partisan dressed as an SS officer, and carrying false papers. She was Amélie Dumas now. Jean-Yves was a Breton, and had been a fisherman, before he came to Melun, but he actually was related to her hosts. It was all confusing for her at this point. It was a lot of information to take in and absorb. False identities, real jobs, secret agents of the Resistance, and all of them trying to free France.

  “I'm lucky to be here,” she said simply, grateful to them all for what they were doing for her. She was hoping to help them in exchange. It was better than hiding in a tunnel somewhere, praying that the Nazis didn't find her. She liked this better, and it made more sense to her.

  “We need you here. We're getting a drop tomorrow.”

  “From England?” she asked softly, but there was no one to hear them in the gentle night air. He nodded in response. “Where do they come in?”

  “In the fields. They radio us first. We go out to meet them. We use torches. They can only stay on the ground for about four minutes when they land. Or sometimes they just parachute things in. It depends what they bring.” It was dangerous work, but they were anxious to do it. He was one of the leaders of his cell. There was a man above him, but Jean-Yves was one of their best men, and the most fearless. He had been a daredevil in his youth. She couldn't help wondering why he looked so sad. As they walked through the orchards, he looked mournful. “Do you know how to use a shortwave radio?” he inquired, and she shook her head. “I'll teach you. It's fairly simple. Can you use a gun?” She shook her head again, and then he laughed. “What were you before this? A fashion model or an actress, or just a spoiled girl?” She was so good looking, he assumed it had been something like that, and this time she laughed at him.

  “A Carmelite nun. But if that was supposed to be a compliment, thank you very much.” She wasn't sure being called an actress was a compliment, her mother certainly wouldn't have thought so. He looked startled by her response.

  “Did you leave the convent before the war?”

  “No. Only after my mother and sister were deported. For the safety of the others. It was the right thing to do.” She didn't know it yet, but Sister Teresa Benedicta a Cruce, Edith Stein, and her sister Rosa had been deported to Auschwitz from the convent in Holland only days before. By the time she was walking in the orchards in Melun with Jean-Yves, Edith Stein had been gassed and was dead.

  “And you'll go back to the convent after the war?”

  “Yes,” Amadea said with the ring of certainty in her voice. It was what kept her going.

  “What a waste,” he said, looking at her.

  “Not in the least. It's a wonderful life.”

  “How can you say that?” he said argumentatively. “All locked away like that. Besides, you don't look like a nun.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said calmly. “And it's a very busy life. We work very hard all day, and pray for all of you.”

  “Do you pray now?”

  “Of course I do. There's a lot to pray for these days.” Including and most especially the man whose death she had caused on her escape from Theresienstadt. She still remembered Wilhelm's face with blood everywhere from his cracked head. She knew she would feel responsible for it all her life, and had a lifetime of penance to do.

  “Will you pray for my brothers?” he asked suddenly, and stopped to look at her. He looked younger than she felt, although he was older than she. She felt very old these days. They had all seen too much by now, some more than others.

  “Yes, I will. Where are they?” she asked, touched that he would ask her to pray for them. She would pray for them that night.

  “They were killed two weeks ago by the Nazis, in Lyon. They were with Moulin.” She had learned who he was from Serge. He was the hero of the Resistance.

  “I'm sorry. Do you have other brothers and sisters?” she asked gently, hoping that he did, but he only shook his head.

  “My parents are dead. My father died in a fishing accident when I was a boy. My mother died last year. She had pneumonia, and we couldn't get medicine for her.” His brothers' recent deaths explained his mournful look. His entire family was gone, except for his aunt and uncle in Melun. Hers was too.

  “My family is gone too. Or they may be. My mother and sister were deported a year ago June.” There had been no news of them since that she knew of. “My father died when I was ten. My mother's family was all
deported after Kristallnacht. They were Jewish. And my father's family disowned him when they married, because my mother was German and Jewish. He was a French Catholic. They were in the first war then. People do such stupid things. Neither of their families ever forgave them.”

  “Were they happy?” He seemed interested, and Amadea was touched. They were two young people making friends. In hard times. Very hard times.

  “Very. They loved each other very much.”

  “Do you think they regretted what they did, defying their families, I mean?”

  “No, I don't. But it was hard on my mother when he died. She was never the same again. My sister was only two. I always took care of her,” Amadea said, as tears sprang to her eyes. She hadn't talked about Daphne in a long time, and suddenly it made Amadea miss her more, and her mother too. “I think there are a lot of people like us now, who have no families left.”

  “My brothers were twins,” he said as though it mattered now. It mattered to him.

  “I'll pray for them tonight. And for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said politely as they walked slowly back to the farm. He liked her. She seemed very mature, but she had been through a lot too. It was still hard for him to believe she was a nun, or to understand why she wanted to be. But it seemed to give her something very deep and peaceful that he liked about her. She was comforting to be with. He felt safe with her, and knew he was. “I'll pick you up tomorrow night. Wear dark clothes. We black our faces when we get out there. I'll bring you some shoe polish.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile.

  “It was nice talking to you, Amélie. You're a good person.”

  “So are you, Jean-Yves.” He walked her back to the farmhouse then, and as he drove back to the farm where he lived, he was glad to know that she'd be praying for him. There was something about her that made him feel she had God's ear.

  19

  JEAN-YVES PICKED HER UP AT TEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT night. He was driving an old truck and the headlights were turned out, and he had another man with him, a sturdy-looking farm boy with red hair. Jean-Yves introduced Amélie to him, and said his name was Georges.

  She had worked hard on the farm all day, and had been a big help to Jean-Yves's aunt. She was grateful for Amadea's assistance, and she and his uncle were already in bed when they left. They asked no questions. They knew the routine. There had been no mention or acknowledgment of what Amadea would be doing that night. They just said goodnight and went upstairs. And a few minutes later, Amadea left in the truck with Jean-Yves. The old couple made no comment to each other when they heard them leave. Amadea had worn dark clothes, as Jean-Yves had told her to. They drove straight over the fields and bumped along, without saying a word.

  When they got there, there were two other trucks, which they parked in a clump of trees. There were eight men in all, and Amadea. They said nothing to each other. Jean-Yves handed her a small jar of shoe polish, and she put some on her face. If they got caught, it would give them away, but it was better to black out their faces. And as they heard a drone in the sky, the men began to spread out and then run. Minutes later they took out their flashlights and signaled to the plane. It was only seconds before she saw a parachute come slowly down. There was no man attached to it, just a large bundle, drifting slowly to earth, as they turned out the flashlights and the plane flew on. That was it. When the parachute landed near the trees, they all ran toward it. They unclipped the parachute, and one of the men buried it in the field as quickly as he could. The others took the bundle apart. It was filled with ammunition and guns, and they loaded them into the trucks. Twenty minutes later they had all dispersed, and she and her two companions were heading back to the farmhouse. They had already wiped the shoe polish off their faces.

  “That's how it's done” was all Jean-Yves said. He had handed her a rag to wipe her face, and it looked clean again. It had been a remarkably smooth operation, and she had been impressed. They made it look easy, and it went off with the precision of a ballet. But she knew it wasn't always that way. Sometimes accidents happened. And if the Germans caught them, they'd be shot, as an example to the town. It happened all over France, and had happened to his brothers, whom she had prayed for the night before, just as she had promised him she would.

  “Do they usually land, or just drop things off?” Amadea asked quietly, wanting to know more about their work and what would be expected of her.

  “It depends. Sometimes they parachute men in. If they land, they have to take off again in less than five minutes. It's a lot dicier then.” She could well imagine it would be.

  “What do you do with the men?”

  “It depends. Sometimes we hide them. Most of the time they take off. They're on missions for the British. It's harder getting them out. Sometimes they get hurt.” It was all he said on the ride back. And Georges said nothing. He was watching Amadea and Jean-Yves. He teased him about her after they left. They had been friends for a long time, and been through a lot together. They trusted each other completely.

  “You like her, don't you?”Georges asked him with a grin.

  “Don't be stupid. She's a nun,” Jean-Yves growled back at him.

  “She is?” Georges looked shocked. “She doesn't look like a nun.”

  “That's 'cause she's not wearing the dress. She probably looks like one when she does, and the hat. You know, all that stuff.” Georges nodded, impressed.

  “Is she going back?” He thought if she did, it would be too bad. And so did Jean-Yves.

  “She says she is,” Jean-Yves said as they drove back to the farm where they lived. They were farmhands on a neighboring farm.

  “Maybe you can change her mind.” Georges grinned as they got out, and Jean-Yves didn't comment. He had been wondering the same thing.

  The object of their interest was on her knees at that moment, thanking God that their mission had gone well. She had a moment of wondering how proper it was to be thanking God for helping them to bring guns in, which were likely to kill people. But there seemed to be no other choice at the moment, and she hoped He'd understand. She stayed on her knees for a long time that night, examining her conscience, as she had in the convent, and then she went to bed.

  She was up before six, and went out to milk the cows, as she had learned to do. She had breakfast ready when her hosts got up. They ate a simple breakfast of fruit and porridge, and fake coffee. But it was a feast compared to what she had eaten for the earlier part of the year. She still thanked God every morning and night for bringing her safely to France. She sat pensively that morning, thinking of the mission she had participated in the night before.

  There were two more like it over the next weeks. And three in September where they brought men in. In one case the plane landed. In the other two they parachuted in, and one of the men got hurt. He sprained his ankle badly, and they hid him on the farm. Amadea ministered to him until he was well enough to leave.

  It was October before German soldiers came to visit them. They were just checking the farms, and their papers. They looked at Amadea's, and her heart nearly stopped. But they handed them back to her without comment, took some fruit away in baskets, and moved on. It was obvious that Jean-Yves's aunt was badly crippled with arthritis and they needed a girl to help. And her husband was old too. Nothing seemed out of order to them.

  She told Jean-Yves about it that night. They were on their way to another mission. They picked up more weapons and ammunition, and some radios that night.

  “I was scared to death,” she admitted to him.

  “So am I sometimes,” he said honestly. “No one wants to get shot.”

  “I'd rather get shot than go back where I was, or worse,” she confessed.

  “You're a very brave girl,” he said, looking at her in the moonlight.

  He liked working with her, and talking to her. He came by at night sometimes just to talk. He got lonely now that his brothers were gone. She was easy to talk to, and she had a good heart. He lik
ed the rest of her as well, but he never said that to her. He didn't want to offend her, or scare her off. She talked about the convent a lot. It was all she knew now, and she missed it a great deal. He loved her innocence, and her strength at the same time. She was an odd combination of things. She never shirked work or responsibility, and wasn't afraid to take risks. She was as brave as any of the men. The others had commented on it too long since. They respected her, as did he.

  She worked on every mission with them through the fall and into the winter. He taught her to use the shortwave radio, and how to load a gun. He taught her to shoot in his uncle's field. She was a surprisingly good shot. She had good reflexes and quick wits. And steady hands. And above all, a kind heart.

  Two days before Christmas, she helped him transport four Jewish boys to Lyon. Father Jacques had promised to take them in, and then couldn't. He was afraid to jeopardize the others, so they took them to Jean Moulin, just the two of them, and came back alone. One of the boys had been sick, and she held him in her arms and took care of him.

  “You're a wonderful woman, Amélie,” Jean-Yves said as they drove back to Melun. They were stopped by soldiers on the way, and their papers were checked, as the soldier glanced in. “She's my girlfriend,” he said casually, and the soldier nodded.

  “Lucky guy.” He smiled. “Merry Christmas.” And waved them on.

  “Sale boche,” Jean-Yves said as he drove off, and then he looked at her. “I wish it were true.” She wasn't paying attention, she was thinking of the sick boy and hoped he would recover. He had been hidden in a hand-dug tunnel for three months, and had a fierce case of bronchitis as a result. He was lucky to be alive.

  “What?”

  “I said I wish it were true that you're my girlfriend.”

  “No, you don't.” She looked startled. “Don't be silly.” She sounded like a mother as she spoke, and he grinned and looked like a kid, instead of a man who was risking his life for France constantly.