Echoes Page 0,113

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