Echoes

“We're so happy to have you,” she said warmly, and looked as though she meant it. In fact, she looked immensely relieved. She was in deep water with twelve lively young children, and knew it. As did the kinders, and they took full advantage of it. Amadea wasn't sure she could control them either, but she was certainly going to try. She thought they were adorable and fell in love with them at first sight.

“Tell us about the train you blew up,” Rebekka said cheerfully, as they all ate tea and scones, and Rupert looked slightly aghast as Amadea smiled. He had apparently briefed them about her. And she was sure he had also told them she was a nun, which was fine, too.

“Well, it wasn't a nice thing to do,” Amadea said seriously, “but they were Germans, so for now it was all right. But it won't be all right after the war. You can only do things like that when there's a war on.” Rupert nodded approval.

“They bomb us all the time, so there's nothing wrong with killing them,” Maximilian said fiercely. He was thirteen, and already knew his parents were dead. Relatives had told him. He wet the bed sometimes. And had nightmares. Rupert had told her that, too. He had wanted her to know everything about them. He believed in full disclosure and didn't want her to be shocked. There were times when they made him want to tear his hair out. Twelve children were a lot for anyone, no matter how wonderful or well behaved they were.

“Do your legs hurt?” Marta asked kindly. She seemed the gentlest of all. Gretchen was the prettiest. Berta the shyest. The boys seemed full of life, and were moving all the time, even while drinking tea and eating scones. They were itching to go outside and kick a ball around, but Rupert had told them they had to wait until they'd finished tea.

“No, they don't hurt,” Amadea said honestly about her legs. “Sometimes I don't feel them at all. Sometimes I do, a little.” Sometimes her back was excruciating, but she didn't say that. And the scars from her burns were ugly.

“Do you think you'll ever walk again?” Berta finally asked her.

“I don't know,” Amadea said with a smile, she seemed matter of fact about it, which tore at Rupert's heart. He hoped she would, for her sake. “We'll see,” she said, sounding hopeful. She was philosophical about her fate.

And then she suggested they all go outside and walk around the grounds before dark. The boys were thrilled, and were outside playing ball in less than a minute.

“You're wonderful with them,” Rupert said admiringly. “I knew you would be. You're just what they need. They need a mother. None of them has had one in five years, and may not again. Mrs. Hascombs is more like a grandmother to them.” In some cases, most in fact, Amadea was too young to be their mother, she was more like an older sister to them, but they needed that, too. It reminded her of when Daphne was young. She had loved being her older sister. This was good for her, too.

At dinner that night, they spoke of many things, not only about the war. They told Amadea about their friends, school, the things they liked to do. And Rebekka came up with the perfect name for her. She called her “Mamadea.” They all liked it, and so did she. They were now officially Mamadea and Papa Rupert.

The days sped by after that. Rupert went back to London after the weekend, and came back every Friday afternoon and stayed till Monday morning. He was vastly impressed by how well Amadea handled them. And he was touched when he saw what she had done on the first Friday night he was back. She had read about how to do it, and had done a Shabbat for them, with the challah bread. She lit the candles, and read the prayer. It was a deeply touching moment, and the first Sabbath they had celebrated in five years. It brought tears to Rupert's eyes, and the children looked as though they were drifting back in memory to a beloved place as she did it.

“I never thought of that. How did you know what to do?”

“I got a book.” She smiled at him. It had touched her, too. And somewhere in her history there were Sabbaths like that, too, even though she had never known them.

“I don't suppose they did that in the convent,” he said, and she laughed. She enjoyed his company and they were comfortable together. She had had her first glimpse of that in Paris when she was there with him. They talked about it once, and he reminisced nostalgically about the peach nightgown. He loved to tease her. “If you had slept any further from me in the bed, you'd have been levitating like some Indian soukh.”

“I thought it was funny when you messed up the bed the next day.” She laughed, but under the circumstances of their pretense, it had been a wise thing to do so as not to arouse suspicion.

“I had to preserve my reputation,” he said rather grandly.