ignored them. If she did not want the Nazis as an enemy, neither did she want them as a friend. She decided that she would remain like Switzerland: neutral. The Israel Katzes of the world would have to take care of themselves. Noelle was mildly curious about what he had wanted from her, but she had no intention of getting involved.
Two weeks after Noelle had seen Israel Katz, the newspapers carried a front-page story that the Gestapo had caught a group of saboteurs headed by Le Cafard. Noelle read all the stories carefully, but nothing was mentioned about whether Le Cafard himself had been captured. She remembered Israel Katz’ s face when the Germans had started to close in on him, and she knew that he would never let them take him alive. Of course, Noelle told herself, it could be my fantasy. He is probably a harmless carpenter, as he said. But if he was harmless, why was the Gestapo so interested in him? Was he Le Cafard? And had he been captured, or had he escaped? Noelle walked over to the window of her apartment that faced on the Avenue Martigny. Two black rain-coated figures stood under a streetlamp, waiting. For what? Noelle began to feel the sense of alarm that Gautier felt, but with it came a feeling of anger. She remembered Colonel Mueller’ s words: You have me to be afraid of. It was a challenge. Noelle had the feeling she was going to hear from Israel Katz again.
The message came the next morning from— of all the unlikely people— her concierge. He was a small, rheumy-eyed man in his seventies, with a wizened, leathery face and no lower teeth, so that it was difficult to understand him when he spoke. When Noelle rang for the elevator he was waiting inside. They rode down together, and as they neared the lobby, he mumbled,“ The birthday cake you ordered is ready at the bakery at rue de Passy.”
Noelle stared at him a moment, not sure whether she had heard him correctly, then said,“ I didn’ t order any cake.”
“ Rue de Passy,” he repeated stubbornly.
And Noelle suddenly understood. Even then, she would have done nothing about it if she had not seen the two Gestapo agents waiting for her across the street. To be followed around like a criminal! The two men were in conversation. They had not seen her yet. Angrily Noelle turned to the concierge and said,“ Where is the service entrance?”
“ This way, Mam’ selle.”
Noelle followed him through a back corridor, down a flight of stairs to the basement and out to an alley. Three minutes later she was in a taxi, on her way to meet Israel Katz.
The bakery was an ordinary-looking shop in a rundown, middle-class neighborhood. The lettering on the window read BOULANGERIE, and the letters were flaked and chipped. Noelle opened the door and stepped inside. She was greeted by a small dumpling of a woman in a spotless white apron.
“ Yes, Mademoiselle?”