Echoes (32 page)

Amadea didn't relax till she got on the train to Paris. They had a first-class compartment again, and she had scarcely been able to eat dinner, she was so worried that something terrible would happen and they'd get arrested on the spot.

“You'll get used to this eventually,” he said in a low voice as they boarded the train. But with luck she wouldn't have to. She had no idea what they were going to do to hide her outside Paris, but the idea of circulating among German officers, pretending to be the wife of an SS officer on vacation, nearly made her faint with terror. It was almost as frightening as the night she had fled Theresienstadt. That had taken courage, but this took rigorous composure. She sat rigidly in her seat once again until the train pulled out. And this time they would be traveling overnight.

The attendant opened the beds for them, and after he left, Wolff told her to put on her nightgown, as Amadea looked shocked.

“I'm your husband.” He laughed. “You could at least take off your gloves and hat.” Even she laughed at that.

She turned her back to him and put her nightgown on, pulling her dress off underneath it, and when she turned, he was wearing pajamas. He was a strikingly good-looking man.

“I've never done this before,” she said, looking embarrassed as he smiled at her, and she hoped he wouldn't take the charade too far. He didn't look like that sort of man.

“I take it you're not married?” he asked softly. The noise of the train covered their conversation, and he was no longer worried. No one was listening to them now.

Amadea smiled in answer. “No, I'm not. I'm a Carmelite.” He looked shocked for a minute and rolled his eyes.

“Well, I've never spent the night with a nun before. I suppose there's always a first time.” He helped her onto her bed, and sat looking up at her from the narrow bench across from it. She was a lovely looking girl, nun or not. “How did you get to Prague?”

She hesitated for a moment before she answered. There were no simple explanations anymore, for anything. Only hard ones. “Theresienstadt.” It explained everything with a single word. “Are you married?” she asked, curious about him too now. He nodded, and then she saw something painful in his eyes.

“I was. My wife and two sons were killed in Holland during the reprisals. She was Jewish. They didn't even bother to deport them, just killed them on the spot. I came back to Prague after that.” He had been back in Czechoslovakia for two years, doing what he could to put a stick in the Germans' wheels. “What are you going to do after you get to Paris?” he asked, as they rode through Germany. They would be in Paris by morning.

“I have no idea.” She had never been there before. If she had the opportunity, she wanted to visit her fa-ther's part of the world in Dordogne, and maybe even get a glimpse of their château. But she knew she wouldn't be free to move around. The partisans in Prague had assured her that she would be hidden by the underground in France, wherever they felt it was safest for her, more than likely somewhere outside Paris. They both knew that she had to wait and see what they told her when she arrived.

“I hope we travel together again sometime,” he said as he stood up and yawned. She thought he was remarkably calm, given the potential dangers of their situation. But he had been doing missions like this for two years.

“I don't think I'll be leaving France.” She couldn't imagine risking going back into Germany again until after the war. France would be difficult enough, given her situation. Germany was impossible. She would rather die than be deported again, next time more than likely to someplace worse. Theresienstadt had been bad enough. She couldn't help thinking of all the people there, and what would happen to them. It had been nothing less than a miracle that she'd escaped and was on this train.

“Will you go back to the convent again after the war?” Wolff asked with interest, and she smiled. Her whole face lit up as she did.

“Of course.”

“Did you never have doubts about the choice you made?”

“Never once. I knew it was right the day I went in.”

“And now? After all you've seen? Can you really believe it's right to be shut away from the world? There's so much more you can do for people out here.”

“Oh no,” she said with a look of wonderment, “we pray for so many people. There is so much to do.” He smiled, listening to her, he wasn't going to argue with her. But he couldn't help wondering if she'd really go back one day. She was a beautiful girl, and she had much to discover and learn. It was an odd feeling for him knowing that he was traveling with a nun. She certainly didn't look like one to him. She looked very human and desirable, although she seemed to be unaware of it, which he thought was part of her appeal. She was a very attractive woman in a distinguished sort of way.

He lay awake on his bunk that night, listening for problems on the train. They could be stopped and boarded at any time, and he wanted to be awake if that happened. He got up once or twice, and saw that Amadea was fast asleep.

He woke her the next morning in time to dress before they reached the station. He dressed and stood outside the compartment while she washed her face and brushed her teeth and changed. And a few minutes later, he accompanied her to the bathroom and waited for her. She looked very composed when they went back to the compartment and she put her hat and gloves on again. She had her passport and traveling papers in her purse.

She looked with fascination as they pulled into the Gare de l'Est. Her eyes were wide at the bustling activity on the platform. And he whispered to her before they left the compartment.

“Don't look frightened. Look like a happy tourist, excited to be here with your husband for a romantic vacation.”

“I'm not sure what that looks like,” she whispered back with a grin.

“Pretend you're not a nun.”

“I can't do that.” She was still smiling, and they looked like a happy young couple as they left the train. They each carried their suitcases, and she had a gloved hand tucked into his arm. No one stopped them, no one questioned them. They were two splendid-looking Aryans on their way to enjoy a holiday in Paris. And outside the station, Wolff hailed a cab.

They went to a café on the Left Bank, where they said they were meeting friends, and afterward would go to their hotel. The driver was sullen, and he didn't appear to understand German. Amadea had spoken to him in French, and he was surprised by how well she spoke it. He assumed she was German after listening to them talk in the backseat, but when she spoke to him, she sounded French. She looked German to him.

Wolff gave him a more than decent tip, and the driver thanked him politely and drove off. He knew better than to be rude to Germans, particularly officers of the SS. One of his friends had been shot by one six months before, just for mouthing off, and calling him a
“sale boche.”

They sat in the café, drinking coffee, or what passed for it these days, and the waiter brought them a basket of croissants. Ten minutes later they were joined by Wolff's friend, who was obviously thrilled to see him and clapped him on the shoulder. They were friends from student days, or so they said. In fact, they had never met, but they performed well, as Amadea observed them with a shy smile. Wolff introduced her as his wife. They sat together for a few minutes, and then Wolff's friend offered to drive them to their hotel. They got into his car with their bags. No one at the café appeared to be particularly interested. And once in the car, on the outskirts of Paris, Wolff changed his clothes into the ones their contact had brought. The SS uniform and all its accoutrements disappeared into a valise with a false bottom. He changed expertly as they drove along, while conversing with the driver. They paid no attention to Amadea, and appeared to be speaking in code. Wolff said he was going back tonight.

They stopped at a small house outside Paris, in the Val-de-Marne district. It looked like any other ordinary house. The kind of house where you would visit your grandmother or a widowed great-aunt. There was a pleasant old couple sitting in the kitchen having breakfast and reading the paper.

Their driver, whose name was Pierre, gave them a cursory glance.
“Bonjour
, Grandmaman, Grandpapa …” He walked right past them to a closet, opened a false door at the back of it, and then went down a dark stairway into the basement, as Wolff and Amadea followed. He walked them into the wine cellar, and stood there for a moment, without turning on a light, and then pushed a well-concealed door. Behind it lay a bevy of activity. Once the door was closed behind them, they saw a dozen men sitting around a makeshift table, two women, and another man on a shortwave radio. The room was cramped, and there were papers and boxes everywhere, a camera, several suitcases. They looked like they had been there for many days.

“Salut,”
the driver addressed one of the men, and the others nodded and acknowledged him.

“Salut
, Pierre” echoed around the room, and one of them asked if he had brought the package. Pierre nodded toward Amadea. She was the package they had been waiting for. One of the women smiled at her and extended a hand.

“Welcome to Paris. Did you have a good trip?” She addressed Amadea in German, who in turn answered her in flawless French, much to their surprise. “We didn't know you spoke French.” They didn't have many details on her yet, only that she was a camp survivor, and had been rescued by the partisans near Prague. They said she needed refuge in France. And word was she could be useful to them. No one had explained how. But it was obvious to them now. She looked German and spoke flawless German and French.

Wolff sat down with two of the men in a corner then, and filled them in on what was happening in Prague, and what the German movements and plans were there. They spoke in low voices, and Amadea couldn't hear what they said.

The man who appeared to be in charge was looking Amadea over carefully. He had never seen a more typical Aryan, and she seemed to be equally at ease in French and German. “We were going to put you on a farm in the South if we could get you there safely. You certainly look like a German, an Aryan for sure. You're Jewish?”

“My mother was.”

He glanced at her arm—he knew she had come out of one of the camps. “You have a number?” She shook her head. She was perfect. He hated to send her away. They needed her in Paris. He was squinting thoughtfully as he looked at her. “Do you have good nerves?” he asked with a wry smile.

Wolff overheard them and vouched for her. “She was fine on the train.” And then with an affectionate look at his traveling companion, he said, “She's a nun. A Carmelite.”

“That's interesting,” the head of the cell said, looking at her. “Isn't having good judgment one of the requirements for becoming a Carmelite? And a good nervous equilibrium, if I remember correctly.”

Amadea laughed. “How do you know that? Yes, both, and good health.”

“My sister entered an order in Touraine. They were crazy to take her. She has terrible judgment, and bad nerves. She stayed two years and came out and got married. I'm sure they were happy to see her go. She has six kids.” He smiled at her, and Amadea felt a connection to him. They hadn't been introduced, but she had heard several people call him Serge. “I have a brother who's a priest.” He was the head of a cell in Marseilles, which he didn't volunteer to Amadea. He had trained with Father Jacques in Avon, where he had been hiding Jewish boys in the school he ran. Serge's brother was doing much the same thing in Marseilles, as were individual members of the clergy all over France, often on an independent basis. Serge knew a number of them. But he didn't want to make use of this young German woman as a nun. She could be far more useful in other ways. She could easily masquerade as a German, and pull it off flawlessly, if she had the guts. That's what he had to learn. “We'll keep you here for a few weeks. You can stay downstairs until we get your papers in order. After that you can stay with my grandparents. You're my cousin from Chartres. That should be religious enough for you.” She realized then that Pierre and Serge were brothers. The darkened room had the atmosphere of a factory, there was so much going on. Someone was running a small printing press in a corner. They were printing bulletins to distribute to buoy French spirits and tell them what was really happening with the war.

One of the women took Amadea's photograph then, for her new French papers. And a little while later, the other woman went upstairs and brought back food for Amadea and Wolff. After what she had seen at Theresienstadt, food seemed so plentiful to her now everywhere. She was surprised to find she was ravenous, as Serge continued to interview her. And a few hours later, Wolff left. He was going back to Prague.

He stopped to say good-bye to her before he left. “Good luck, Sister,” he said, smiling at her. “Perhaps we'll meet again.”

“Thank you,” she said, sad to see him leave. She felt as though they were friends. “God bless you and keep you safe.”

“I'm sure He will,” he said confidently. He stopped for a few minutes to talk to Serge again, and then he and Pierre left. He would change back into the SS uniform on the way back to the station. He seemed fearless to Amadea. They all did. They were a shining example of French courage. Although the country had surrendered to the Germans in three weeks, there were cells like this one all over France, fighting to free the French again, to keep Jews alive, and restore the coun-try's honor. But more than anything, they were saving lives, and doing all they could to help the Allied war effort, working closely with the British.

Amadea slept on a narrow cot in the basement room that night, as the men talked until the wee hours. Her papers were ready the next day. They were even more remarkable than the German ones, which Serge said he would keep for her. He didn't want them on her, if she went out for him with the others. They had talked about her long into the night, and had made a decision. He was sending her to Melun. It was sixty miles southeast of Paris, and he thought she would be safer there. They needed her desperately. The British were parachuting supplies in to them there, and men. It was delicate work.