World War II.

The statement shocked the world, all though they had all been expecting it. The seas were full of mystery, for German U-Boats lurked in the black waters, waiting to pounce on their prey.

Relations were tense, especially for the Cahills. Trust no one had never been such a true statement.

Their work-finding the clues- would have to pause, and Lucian Adolf Hitler would have to be stopped. This German tyrant, and cold-blooded Jew-hater was hated even by members of his branch.

But the treacherous Lucians who opposed Hitler kept silent, preferring to work in the darkness of the underground. The world had turned into a huge spy story, but it wasn't a game.

People such as Corrie ten Boom, Odette Brailly, Jesse Owens, Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg and many other Cahills knew the truth of it.

It wasn't a game. This was real. This was intense. This was a cause worth dying for.

And Amy Cahill was wrapped up in the midst of it all.

The Madrigals were still the ruthless, feared branch, and Amy Cahill worked quietly with other Cahills, ignoring the fact that they did not know her lineage.

At first, she wasn't trusted by any branches. But when she proved herself, after whisking athlete Jesse Owens out of Adolf Hitler's racist fist immediately following the Olympics, she was accepted by all those who were against Hitler's Germany.

September 1, 1939.

The day brought shudders of horror to thousands. For that was the day Hitler sent his Nazi troops barrelling into Poland.

Two days later, Great Britian and France, sticking with the alliance they had made with Poland, declared war on Germany.

World War II had begun.

The "Phony War" was in full swing, and Cahill agents were running everywhere, trying to fortify bases, and strengthen their sides.

Thankfully, there had been little fighting for several months.

Secret meetings were held everywhere.

Agent Amy Cahill sat in a meeting, equipped with a sharp pencil and a notebook.

Jesse Owens, African-American athlete, and winner of four gold medals, was speaking. His deep voice echoed in the quiet basement where all the other agents sat scribbling notes in code.

To anyone who was able to sneak a peek into the agents notebooks, all they would have seen was tips on how to make a delicious cheesecake.

The agents were assembled in groups. There was the base groups, and then there were the slightly higher up groups, and then the highest.

Each small group used their own code. A leader from that group knew the code of another group, whose leader knew their own code and different group's code.

This way no one knew every code, and this way if someone was caught, only two groups' codes would be revealed. The leaders of the groups met together, and used their own code.

Then there was the top. Leaders of the leaders, so to say, met together, using secret code that only specific individuals knew.

Every sentence could be a code, and the agents had to always be on their guard, in case a secret message was trying to be relayed.

Jesse Owens, the co-leader of the group, turned to Amy. "We have a job for you." He said.

Amy nodded. "I'd be happy to do your laundry."

The group burst out laughing. Jesse frowned. "Mrs. Smit." (Everyone in the underground was known as Mr. or Mrs. Smit) "Do not try to be funny with me."

Amy smiled. "What? I hear you don't often do your laundry!"

Owens frowned. "Hilarious. You must get it from your brother, Mr. Smit."

Amy smiled. "Yeah, and I suppose you get your athletic ability from your mother, Mrs. Smit?"

Jesse arched his eyebrows. "Of course." Then his tone turned serious, "There is a German agent who has been trying to infiltrate us."

He turned to Amy. "Mrs. Smit, it is your job to find this agent, and turn him over to us."

She nodded. "Ok . . . . and this job will be doing . . . ." Then she pursed her lips, understanding flooding through her. "Oh, I see. You'll talk to me about it later."

Nodding his agreement, Jesse rustled through some documents, and then turned back to the small gathering of worried, strained faces around him. "You guys can all go. Except for Mrs. Smit, of course."

The small crowd stood up, their faces lined with anxiety. They had heard of German agents infiltrating before, but that had been last year, and they had not imagined it would happen again. Nor did they imagine it would happen again.

Amy stood up, and went up to Jesse. "What does this job contain?"

Owens smiled. But it wasn't a happy smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "You will be pretending to be a Nazi's widow. This Nazi died a while ago . . . and we . . . took out . . . his wife, but no one is sure of that yet. We're going to create a sob story for you, and then you can infiltrate their side."

Amy arched her eyebrows. "And that's supposed to be all?"

The man frowned. "Well . . . ." He hesitated.

"Well?" Amy questioned.

Jesse frowned. "You have to pretend to be in love with a certain officer. It was rumored they were having an affair. But rumors have been confirmed. You will have to . . . play the part."

Amy nearly choked. "By play the part you mean have an affair? With someone I don't even know?" Worry ran through her. "But . . . my body will definitely be different than this widow's. I may look similar, but I can't have every feature of her. Lovers will recognize something is wrong."

Owens nodded. "I know. That's why I sent you. You're pretty sharp, Smit, and I think you could handle the stress."

Amy gulped. "If you say so. When do I leave?"

Owens smiled. "As soon as you're ready. Guten tag, cherie."

Amy laughed. "I believe that "cherie" is French."

Owens laughed. "Good ear. But you'll have to perfect your German. And have a French accent. This Nazi widow came from France."

Amy sighed. "Is that even possible?"

Owens' lips parted into a beaming smile. "It is for you, Mademoiselle."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Thanks . . . " She looked up at him, a glint in her jade eyes. "Mr. Smit."

Then she ran out the door before he could slap her.

Paris, France February, 1940

The night was dark. The snow fell softly on the cobbled streets. A man, his face masked in shadow, strode briskly towards a small house tucked neatly in a dark alleyway.

The smell was atrocious. It smelled of human waste, garbage, and mystery. Only a small shaft of moonlight could be seen through the cloud cover, and it wasn't showing here.

The man's eyes checked around him, looking for any possible tails. Seeing none, he continued towards the door of the meeting place of the German secret agents.

Knocking once, twice, three times in a certain beat, he waited for the door to be opened.

Within a few moments, the door creaked open. "Hallo." His voice was rough, loud, in the silent night.

"Hallo. Was ist unser Bericht sagen? Haben wir alle Fortschritte gesehen?" The man inside the door spoke.
"Hello. What's our report say? Have we seen any progress?"

The man nodded. "Die Kuh - der kleine spoin-hat uns erwischt. Darf ich reinkommen?"
"The cow - the little spy - has caught up to us. May I come in?"

The man inside nodded. "Natürlich, Arschloch, Natürlich."
"Of course, asshole, of course."

Stepping inside, he quickly shut the door behind him. "Sie haben meine Präsenz in ihren Kreisen entdeckt. Sie wissen nicht, dass es mich ist, aber Sie sind heiß auf meinem Weg. Ich werde bald entdeckt werden, wenn wir nicht vorsichtiger sind."
"They have discovered my presence in their circles. They do not know it is me, but they are hot on my trail. I will soon be discovered if we are not more careful."

The other man gasped. "Was?" He sighed. "Halten Sie still, oder wir alle Zahlen." His voice was grave, his face serious, even in the darkness.
"What? Keep quiet, or we'll all pay."

The man nodded, and then he was gone, his last whispered words lingering in the darkness. "Heil hitler."

Maine, February, 1940

The waves rolled, a furious monster in the ocean. They beat against the shore, sending spray flying high up into the air. The sun caught the water droplets and caused them to shimmer in the light.

Amy sat perched up on a rock, high above the foaming water, studying her German. Being Frau Hellmann was certainly not going to be an easy job.

A contact had told Jesse Owens that Frau Hellmann's favorite phrase was "Halt den mund." -which was translated, "Shut up."

Amy had to learn to speak German, with a flawless French accent, which was not going to be easy. She had an American accent, and while French had come easily to her, she spoke it with an American accent.

Sighing, she looked down at her piece of paper, which held all the terms she was to memorize by tomorrow - in a French accent, of course.

"Ich liebe dich. I love you. Ich liebe dich." Amy clenched her teeth. "Halt den mund, Frau Hellmann!" She shouted.

Then, resentfully, she whispered. "Frau Hellmann, you're an arschloch."

The Next Day

"Amy? Are you listening to me?" Jesse's voice fell on empty ears. Amy was staring out the window, muttering something, and weaving flowers in her hair.

"Amy!?"

Amy turned around, her face the expression of innocence. "Heil hitler, Kuh." The sunlight caught on her auburn hair, and strands glowed in the beams. A daisy chain was half-woven into an eloquent half-braid. She was beautiful.

Owens tried to ignore her beauty, instead concentrating on her earlier statement. His face turned a dark purple. "Did you just call me a cow?"

"Halt den mund. Uh . . . " Amy paused. "Ich did it für Hitler." Her German was brusque, crisp, and it held a lilting French accent.

Owens' mouth fell open. He inwardly decided to ignore her offensive statement. "How'd you learn to get your accent down that fast?"

Amy smiled. "My secret." Then she frowned. "Haven wir alle Fortschritte gesehen?"
"Have we seen any progress?"

Jesse shook his head. "No. We're waiting on you now, to finish your German, and I must say, you're doing very well. You'll be ready to go in a couple weeks."

Amy smiled. "Heil Hitler. Kann alle gut sein." She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping for the best.
"May all be well."

A Meeting of the Underground in Poland, February, 1940

"Honey? How do you manage to make your cheesecake so delicious?" The street was bustling around them. A man and a woman holding hands walked by the two women, suspecting nothing.

"Why, Mrs. Smit, how do you not know! I gave you the recipe! You must use plenty of cream, and lots of freshly chopped red strawberries. In fact, I'll send some over today!"

The woman kept her face blank, but her eyes held a flash of understanding. "Ah! I think I see! I'll prepare the batter the way I normally do, and you'll send over some strawberries?"

The other woman smiled. "Yes! Be ready!"

The two women parted ways, and no around them was the wiser. Except for one man. He had noticed a small mistake the two woman had made. Neither of them were named Mrs. Smit.

He was going to have to do a little investigating. "Für Hitler." He told himself.

Smiling, he walked away, and decided that strawberries sounded delicious. He would have to steal some from some ladies later today.

The Home of the Monarch

She laughed, serving her guests poisoned tea, which had been carefully brewed. She played the perfect hostess, insisting that they drink their tea, and have more of it.

"Drink it!" She persuaded, her tiny dimples showing in her flushed cheeks. Her merry laugh echoed in the perfectly decorated room, with its French carpets, and China decorations.

The windows let in just the right amount of sunlight, giving the lush room a cheery glow. And with her laugh echoing around the room . . . they were dead meat.

Her guests looked at her, and hurried to gulp down the dangerous liquid. One man, his large stomach jiggling as he laughed, asked for me.

He did not survive the night.

And her husband, the Monarch, dumped his body in a ditch, without a second thought.

Maine, March, 1940

With the smell of salt, and the spray of the ocean splashing upon her face, Amy completed her German test.

"Darf ich reinkommen, junger Herr?"
"May I come in, young sir?"

"Natürlich, meine Dame!" Owens played the part of whoever Amy was speaking too, forcing her to use her beautiful French accent, and her common courtousy skills gained during her study of German.
"Of course, my lady."

"Danke! Junger Herr!"
"Thank you, young sir!"

"Ihr willkommen, mein kleines Mädchen!"
"Your welcome, my little girl!"

Amy looked down at the ground, and smiled shyly, not knowing what else to say.

Owens frowned too, and looked at his paper. "You passed." He announced. "As you can see, I saved the easiest for last, but there's one more thing you need to know . . . " Frowning, he looked down at his paper, and then he spoke. "Ist Erdbeeren und Sahne, Ihre Lieblings-Käsekuchen Aufstockung?"
"Is strawberries your favorite cheesecake topping?"

Amy smiled. "Nein, Heir." Then she frowned. "Wait . . . are you an agent for our side? Do I say yes?"

Jesse shrugged. "I don't care. I mean, you should say yes, if you suspect. But remember, not everyone knows our code. But if you think they're going to hurt you, say no." He reached over and patted Amy's frail arm. "Use your judgment, Cahill."

Amy frowned. "I'll try." Brushing a long strand of hair away from her face, she looked out at the rolling ocean, its tossing waves, its tears splashing up onto her face. A gull soared high above her in the canvas of sky. Strokes of fluffy white - the clouds - were a brush of white on a blue canvas, by a master painter.

It inspired her.

"I can do it." She silently told herself, although she didn't believe it.

She looked up at Jesse, who was staring down at her with an odd expression written on his dark face. "What's wrong?" She asked, although she had a feeling she knew what it was.

Owens shrugged. "Nothing. I'm just . . . worried."

Amy frowned. "It's about that officer, isn't it?"

Owens looked startled for a minute, but then he glanced out at the foaming water. His face was distant, and his eyes stared out at something Amy couldn't see. He turned to her, and before Amy knew what was happening, his arms were around her, and her face was pressed against his solid chest. "Yes."

Amy didn't know what to say. Instead, she wrapped her arms tighter around Jesse's warm solidness that belonged solely to him. "Ich liebe dich." She murmured.

Jesse's arms tightened. "What?"

Amy looked up at him. He was looking down at her, a scared look in his eyes. "Exactly what I said. I love you."

Jesse said nothing, just shut his eyes, and held her closer. He turned, and released Amy. Turning his body away from her, he stared out at the vast blue ocean, full of mystery, and his body shuddered.

The fastest man on the planet was crying. Amy put her hand on his back, and said, "Shh. You'll never lose me. Ever."

Jesse turned to her. "I know. Its just . . . I'm scared you'll like that guy more than me."

Amy frowned. "What's his name?"

Jesse looked startled. "I never told you?" He shut his eyes. "Herr Ian Kabra."

Amy snorted. "That sounds like a snake!"

Jesse laughed. "Well, agents have reported that he is a snake. He's sly, smart, and exceedingly crafty."

Amy frowned. "I have to have a pretend affair with a man who acts like a snake?"

Jesse nodded. "Yes. I'm afraid you do."

Amy shook her head. "Well . . . let's hope he looks like a snake too." Pausing, she turned to Jesse. "Jesse, I will never forget you, and the influence you've had on my life, no matter what happens."

Jesse turned away from her again, and stared out at the raging sea. "I know." His voice was throaty, choked. "I'll never forget you either."

A Rolling Meadow, Maine, 1940

The wind was blowing the golden-green grass, and the two black horses were sleek and shiny. Their hooves thundered on the dry ground,

The grass parted as they ran by, their massive hooves rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. Amy and her brother, Dan, sat on top of the Fresian monsters there aunt had owned for as long as they could remember.

They were full-out running, at a gallop, and Amy was leaning forward, holding on to her horse's wavy black mane that streamed in her face.

Dan was right behind her, and he was yelling something to his poor horse, which, as Amy insisted, was the slower of the pair.

Her horse was sweating, and there was nothing more glorious than having a glob of horse froth slam into your face. Yuck.

Smiling, Amy pulled on the reins, and looked back at Dan. Her victory was the cause of her triumphant smile, and warmth radiated from her.

Her horse slowed to a trot, and Dan caught up. Amy slowed her horse even more, and he reduced his speed to a slow walk. Dan did the same.

It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, and the wind was blowing in their faces. The blue sky held not a trace of a cloud.

It was a fresh canvas, waiting for the painters mark.

The horses had been rearing to go, cooped in their small corral, and Amy and Dan could not resist. It was their last day together, maybe forever, and they had decided to go riding.

Amy had previously said a tearful, painful goodbye to Jesse, and the next step on her list was to speak adieu to her family. It was going to be painful, especially since Amy's parents had died when she was only seven.

They had lived with their cruel aunt, and one bright spot in their miserable lives with her was that she owned two beautiful black Fresians, which she generously let them ride.

The only other minor light was their grandmother, who visited them sometimes from her home in Boston, Massachusetts.

Their home in Brunswick, Maine, was too far for her to visit often. Twenty-five year old Amy could only remember a handful of times when Grace had come over . . . besides holidays.

The two siblings carried much pain over their parents' death, and their aunt's quite obvious hatred of them. Grace, they reasoned, was the only one who truly loved them.

And then Amy met Jesse.

Her grandmother had told her that the only way to prove herself to the other branches was to do something stupid . . . and succeed.

Amy had whisked Jesse Owens out of Germany after the Olympics, and it had definitely been love at first sight . . . the rest was history.

And now Amy stood staring at the grass waving around her, tinted green at the bottom, but dried gold at the top.

She turned to Dan. "I'm going to miss you, ya know that, right."

Dan nodded, pulling his horse up next to Amy's. "I know. I wish you would tell me where you're going!" He cried. "I hate to think of you, all alone, and where I could never rescue you if you got caught." He glanced down at the ground, and grabbed a handful of his horse's very black mane.

Amy nodded. "I know. I know, Danny. But . . . rules, regulations. ANYONE could find out, and I could get caught. If you said something like, 'Oh, yeah, my sister is off in France, visiting relatives . . .' Any German spy could figure out that no sensible American would go off and . . . I don't know . . .visit relatives in France, right near the front of the war!"

Dan nodded. "Ok." Then he smirked. "Are you going to France?"

Amy shook her head. "No. I'm going . . . " She caught herself. "Somewhere you can't know, honey."

Dan reached over, and smacked Amy. "Don't call me honey."

Then he kicked his horse, and galloped away. Amy spurred her horse on, and followed close behind him.

The day was perfect in everyway. The sunshine, the slight breeze, the baby blue sky . . . but it wasn't right for saying goodbye.

No day ever was.

Location Unknown. March, 1940

The man's voice was scratchy. "Ist das wahr? Kommt Sie hierher, zu unserem großen Vaterland? Wie wagt es Sie!"
"Is it true? Is she coming over here, to our great fatherland? How dare she!"

"Ich bin nicht sicher. Ich habe nur Gerüchte gehört." The second man's voice was low.
"I'm not sure. I've only heard rumors."

"Nach wem ist Sie?" The first man was annoyed. He stopped pacing, and looked over at the other man, anxiously waiting for his answer.
"Who's she after?"

"Ich bin nicht sicher. Ein Nazi-Offizier von uns. Er ist nicht in der Undercover ... Ich weiß das." The man shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm not sure. Some Nazi officer of some sort. He's not in the undercover . . . I know that."

"Wer ist Sie imitiert?" The man was anxious, eager to find out.
"Who's she impersonating?"

The other man, the dreaded Monarch, shrugged. "Ich weiß es nicht. Halten Sie einfach die Augen offen."
"I don't know. Just keep your eyes open."

The first man's eyes gleamed. "Natürlich, Schmetterling Monarch."
"Of course, butterfly monarch."

Arching his eyebrows, the Monarch shook his head. "Tue nicht. Jeder könnte zuhören."
"Don't. Anyone could be listening."

The man shrugged. "Also? Sie fliegen einfach weg, wie Sie schon vorher getan haben!"
"So? You'll simply fly away, as you've done before!"

The Monarch sadly shook his head. "Nein. Das kann wahr sein, aber wir dürfen nicht zulassen, dass uns diese Fehlerquote. In Hitlers Deutschland gibt es keine Fehlerquote!"
"No. That may be true, but we must not allow ourselves that margin of error. There is to be no margin of error in Hitler's Germany!"

In a Plane Above the Atlantic, 1940

She was terrified. The terror had grasped her throat, and was choking her.

Far below, the raging Atlantic tossed and turned, its foamy waves like saliva from a dragon, ready to devour her.

The plane had "hit some turbulent spots" as the pilot had kindly tried to explain to her. All she'd cared about was that her stomach felt like it was going to climb out her throat.

But now the plane was bouncing like a little beach ball on a giant wave. Amy could see beads of sweat on the dark pilot's forehead.

He was struggling to control the plane, and Amy, inexperienced though she was, could tell. Perspiration dripped down his neck, and she could see the veins in his neck.

The pilot had been told that Amy was going to Germany to be a missionary. He'd eaten up the lie, hook, line, and sinker, especially when Amy had asked him if he knew the Lord Jesus Christ.

Pulling out a Bible, she had taken the liberty of giving him a lengthy Bible study. The man had nodded, listening politely, but ignored her words.

He thought she was a freak, which was exactly Amy's intent.

She turned to the man. "How do you say, 'Bible' in German?" She laughed. "I just realized I had no clue how to say that."

The pilot was struggling to maintain control of the plane. "Bibel." He replied, through gritted teeth. The veins in his neck popped out with sheer concentration.

Amy walked away, calling over her shoulder, the German word for "Thank you."

As soon as she was out of hearing, she fell to her knees, grabbed the nearby trashcan, and vomited the contents of her crawling stomach into it.

They had barely been going for two hours, and already, she had thrown up. It was going to be a long, long, long ride.

Nierstein, France. 1940

They had landed. Amy had never been so thankful for the dry ground. She had kissed the pilot goodbye, and urged him to, "Gehe mit Gott.", or "Go with God" in English.

The pilot had smiled, and said, "I wish the same to you, my lady. I hope the Germans aren't too rough on you."

Amy had smiled, and said, "They won't be."

But it was dangerous for her to be seen speaking English, so she had waved a simple goodbye, and held her tongue around the crowds who had flocked to see this daring woman who had ridden in a plane across the Atlantic.

From now on, she would speak only German.

She stood, in the bitter February cold, chilled to the bone. The sky was a murky gray, and French soldiers stood everywhere, guarding their precious "Maginot Line."

Amy hoped, with all her soul, that the Germans would not break through this heavily fortified line.

However, she would have to pretend, once she got into Germany, that she hoped they would.

But now, in France, she didn't have to say anything if she didn't want too. She could be as silent as a mouse in its hole.

She stared down at the gray cobblestone streets, wondering where the man who was supposed to pick her up was.

Jesse had told her that he was supposed to be wearing a white rose. She scanned the streets, looking for anyone with any type of flower pinned to their shirt.

There was no one. The street was vacant, except for a small begger boy, picking through a pile of trash by a villa.

Sighing, Amy shoved her hands deeper down into her thin coat pockets.

The underground had decided that it would be best for her not to take her good fur coat, one, because she was at first traveling as humble missionary, and missionaries would not have such things; and two, because if she had really been held hostage by the Polish as her story, then they would have stolen such nice things.

So now Amy was wearing a horribly thin, patched, ill-fitting coat, and she was freezing. Even her bones seemed frozen.

Just then someone touched her. She looked up, and glanced into kind blue eyes. A man with a dirty white flower reached for her hand, without saying a word, and led her away.

She followed meekly, stepping lightly on the cobblestones, for her shoes too were old, and broken, and they leaked cold through them. They offered no more protection than cheesecloth.

The man pulled her into an alleyway, and led her towards what appeared to be a small, dingy hut.

He looked around him nervously, and then sighed. "I thought I'd never find you. I'm afraid your Mr. Smit failed to tell me the right street. Or I misunderstood, either way . . ." He let his words trail off awkwardly.

Amy smiled. "It's ok. I'm nothing more than permafrost anyways."

The man looked shocked. "What's permafrost?"

Amy mentally kicked herself. The man probably had no clue where she was from. Jesse told her that oftentimes, people in the underground helped each other, no questions asked. This man had no clue of her mission, and he would probably never know.

And in case of questioning . . . it would be better if he knew nothing about where she was from.

Permafrost was probably something only the well-educated knew about. Amy did not want to label herself as anything. She wanted to anonymously come, and just as anonymously, disappear.

Turning back to the man, she smiled. "Its when you never unfreeze."

He grunted. Amy groaned internally. Way to go, Cahill.

Later

Having arrived safely in France, Amy was now privileged to enjoy a short twelve hour rest, before she was to be transported to the next stop.

She felt as if she was an escaping African-American in the 1800s. This was the twentieth century, and things were supposed to be more modern, more ritsy, but Amy felt as if she had been transported back to the Civil War . . . prejudice and all.

Wearily sinking down onto the mattress the man had provided, she shut her eyes, and was instantly asleep.

Her dreams were troubled, and her sleep was restless. She tossed and turned, the mattres creaking on the cold floor. Her blankets were twisted, and her dress was tangled around her knees.

Suddenly she sat straight up, her breath gone. Whatever she had seen had troubled her. She couldn't remember what it was, just that it was terrifying. Her heartbeat was incredibly fast, and she felt as if it would burst out of her chest.

She couldn't remember what it was. And she was petrified. Too scared to go back to sleep, she lit a small candle and studied 'her story'.

'She' had been born in Frankfurt, Germany on June 23, 1907 to Lanita and Franke Zohyn. Her parents were now both deceased. One, Lanita, in childbirth, in 1911, and the other, Franke, in an automobile accident in 1924.

The following year, she had met Gerd Hellmann, the love of her life. (until she had meet the Nazi officer, that is) and married him, in 1926, at nineteen years of age.

She had had trouble having children, until Gerd Jr. was born, on Janurary 19, 1930. Three years later, on November 2, he had died of scarlet fever.

In 1938, her husband had been drafted to defend the "Fatherland" and he had been killed in battle. (Or by undercover agents, but she wasn't supposed to know that).

Amy's mind was spinning, there was no way she could remember all that.

Someone would ask her something, and she would stutter, and then they would become suspicious.

She read the typed pages, over and over again, until she thought she had it down. Then there was a knock on the door.

The man had told her that he was not going to get up, so as not to see who took her.

Amy hurriedly stuffed her extra clothes, raggedy though they were, into her satchel, and folded up the blankets.

Then she opened the door, and stepped out into the night, her black dress swirling around her legs.

I'm really excited about this. Like, I've never written this long of a chapter in my life.

I already have chapter 2 written (which is a little longer than this) and I'm working on ch 3... I"M SO EXCITED.

I've had this up my sleeve since reading Auf Weirdersehen Sweetheart. The German language is such a beautiful language, so I hope you don't mind me having people speak in German, and than translating it into English later.

Also, I'm hoping to get the dangerous-ness of WWII displayed, along with the hurt, the pain, and the sorrow that it carried. Of course, more of that will come in the second chapter.

Please review, if you don't mind. :DDD