“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.

“Go with God,” she said before she left him, and he nodded.

She heard her code name on the shortwave radio two days later. It said only “Teresa. Samedi.” Saturday. Which meant Friday. Their missions were always a day earlier than stated. They would start watching and listening for the tiny plane around midnight. And as always, they would have to work fast.

The following Friday night she was in the field with seven of the others. There were two groups of four working together, holding flashlights. And then they heard it, the dull purring of the little Lysander. They spread out and switched on their torches. The plane came in fast, landed hard, and taxied for a short distance. Before it stopped, four men got out. They were wearing rough farm clothes and wool caps. The plane was in the air again in less than three minutes. The drop had been perfect. And within less than two minutes, the locals had disappeared and returned to their farms. The three men Colonel Montgomery had brought in went with them. They were on other missions, and would not see him again until they were back in England. They were dispersing to the south later that night. He was working alone, as he often did. With Amadea this time. She led him back to the farm where she lived, without saying a word. And took him to an old horse stall at the back of the barn. There was a trapdoor in the floor that she pointed to, in case he heard someone coming. There were blankets, and a jug of water under the trapdoor. They were to drive to the outskirts of Paris the next day to meet with Serge.

Amadea said nothing to the man known as Apollo, she simply looked at him and nodded as he watched her, and as she was about to leave, he whispered, “Thank you.” He meant not only for that night and the warm blankets, but for her willingness to do the mission. He knew everything about her background and the risk she was taking. The only thing he did not know about was Jean-Yves, which was unimportant in relation to what they were doing. He was a member of the British Secret Service, and of extremely high rank. He also knew that in her past life she had been a nun, which he had found intriguing. He knew she had left the convent to save the others.

She nodded again, and left to go to her own room at the back of the kitchen. In the morning, she brought him breakfast. He was wearing the same rough clothes as the night before. He looked clean, rested, and neatly shaven. And even in the rough work clothes, he looked impressive. He was as tall as her father had been, and had once been as blond as she was. Now the fair hair was mixed with gray. He looked to be in his early forties, roughly the same age her father had been when he died, and there was a vague resemblance, although her father had been French not British. But she could see how this man could easily pass for German. He looked like the ideal specimen of the master race. It would have been hard for him to pass unnoticed anywhere except in a crowd of Germans. He looked anything but French. And when she brought him breakfast, he spoke to her in German. His was just as flawless as hers, and as natural to him as English, as French and German were to her. She spoke English, though not as well, and this time she answered him in German. She asked him if he had slept well.

“Yes, thank you,” he said politely, looking deep into her eyes. He seemed to be searching for something, and she had no idea what it was. He needed to know her better, to sense her reaction to things, her timing. If they were going to pose as man and wife, he had to truly know her, and sense her, with more than just words.

“We leave at four this afternoon,” she said quietly, avoiding the ever-searching eyes.

“Don't do that,” he corrected her. “You know me. You love me. You are not afraid of me. You look me right in the eyes. You are comfortable with me. We have been married for five years. We have had children together.” He wanted her to learn her role, and feel it, so that it was part of her.

“How many children?” she asked, looking at him again, as he directed. What he was saying was not unreasonable, and she understood what he was trying to do. It had nothing to do with her. It was a role they had to play. Well enough to stay alive. Any slip either of them made could cost the other's life, or both, and she knew that. This was far more difficult and dangerous than meeting aircraft at midnight in a field.

“We have two. Two boys. Three and two. This is the first time you have left them since they were born. For our anniversary. I had business in Paris, for the Reich, and you decided to come along. We live in Berlin. Do you know it?” he asked with a look of concern. If not, he would have to teach her everything about it. Photographs, maps, restaurants, shops, museums, streets, parks, people, movie houses. She would have to learn it better than the town where she was born.

“Well enough. My mother's sister moved there when she married. I didn't know her. But I visited it as a child.” He nodded. That was a start. He knew she was from Cologne. He even knew her mother's maiden name. And the name of her sister. And the date they had been taken. He knew the school she had gone to before she entered the convent. There was very little he didn't know about Amadea. All she knew about him was his name and code name, and that he had been one of the organizers of the Kinder-transport, but she didn't mention it. They were not making friends, but only learning a part.

They talked all the way to Paris, about the things she needed to know, as he drove a car someone had given him. His papers were impeccable, as was his French. According to his papers, he was from Arles, and was a teacher there. She was his girlfriend. The single soldier who stopped them waved them on. They looked like a very respectable couple. He left the car where he had been told to, half a mile from Serge's house, and they walked the rest of the way, still talking. She had three days to learn the part. And to look it. He wasn't worried about that. She had the makings of a beauty. The one thing she didn't look like to him was a nun. They were halfway to Serge's house from the drop where they left the car, when he asked her about that. “Why did you enter the convent? Were you disappointed in love?” She smiled at the question, people assumed such strange things about why one entered a religious order. It was far less dramatic than they suspected, particularly at the age she had been then. She was twenty-six now. And he was forty-two.

“Not at all. I did it because I love God. I had a vocation.” He had no reason to ask, but he was growing curious about her. She was an interesting young woman.

“Are you married?” she asked as they walked along, her hand tucked into his arm, which was appropriate for the part, and a habit she would have to grow accustomed to with him. He was a little daunting, but as he had said, she had to become comfortable with him. It wasn't entirely easy. In spite of the rough clothes, there was an air of authority about him. And she knew who he really was. More or less.

“I was,” he said as they strolled toward Serge's place. Their strides were an even match, which he found pleasant. She didn't take little geisha steps like very small women, which he had always found annoying. He did things quickly and well, and had a tendency to be impatient. The rest of the world didn't always move quickly enough for him. She did. “My wife was killed in a bombing raid. And my two sons. Early in the war.” As he said it, Amadea felt him tense.

“I'm sorry,” she said respectfully. They had all lost someone. Or many. She wondered if that was why he was so willing to risk his life now. Like her, he had nothing to lose. In his case, he did it for his country. In hers, she did it for whatever lives she could save, and for the crucified Christ, to whom she felt she was married, or would be one day, when she took her solemn vows. She would have taken her solemn vows that summer, if life were still normal. Instead, she had left the convent nearly two and a half years before. But at the appropriate time, she renewed her vows now each year on her own.

They reached the home of Serge's grandmother then, where Amadea had come when she first came from Prague, with Wolff, the partisan who had brought her there nearly fourteen months before. It seemed aeons ago. Now she was going to be putting herself at great risk again, with this man.

They stopped to greet Serge's grandparents, and within moments went down the stairs at the back of the closet. Within seconds they were in the bustling room where Amadea had first come. It looked welcoming and familiar to her. Some of the same faces were there, and there were many new ones. One of the men was manning a shortwave radio. A woman was printing leaflets. Others were talking around a table, and Serge looked up with pleasure as they walked in.