Echoes Page 0,116

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