screaming with pain. Noelle awoke in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, and turned on the
bedside lamp. She lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and tried to calm her nerves. She
thought about Israel Katz. His leg had been amputated with an ax, and though she had not
seen him since that afternoon at the bakery, she had received word from the concierge that
he was alive but weak. It was becoming more and more difficult to hide him, and he was
helpless on his own. The search for him had intensified. If he was going to be transported
out of Paris, it would have to be done quickly. Noelle had really done nothing for which
the Gestapo could arrest her: yet. Was the dream a premonition, a warning not to help
Israel Katz? She lay in bed remembering. He had aided her when she had the abortion. He
had helped her kill Larry’s baby. He had given her money and helped her find a job.
Dozens of men had done more important things for her than he had, yet Noelle felt no debt
to them. Each of them, including her father, had wanted something from her, and she had
paid in full for everything she had ever received. Israel Katz had never asked her for
anything. She had to help him.
Noelle did not underestimate the problem. Colonel Mueller was already suspicious of
her. She remembered her dream and shuddered. She must see to it that Mueller was never
able to prove anything against her. Israel Katz had to be smuggled out of Paris, but how?
Noelle was sure that all exits were closely watched. They would be watching the roads
and the river. The Nazis might be cochons, but they were efficient cochons. It was a
challenge and it could be a deadly one, but she was determined to try it. The problem was
that there was no one she could turn to for help. The Nazis had reduced Armand Gautier to
a quivering gelatin. No, she would have to do this alone. She thought of Colonel Mueller
and General Scheider, and she wondered if a clash ever came, which one would emerge
victorious.
The evening following Noelle’s dream she and Armand Gautier attended a supper
party. The host was Leslie Rocas, a wealthy patron of the arts. It was an eclectic collection
of guests—bankers, artists, political leaders and a gathering of beautiful women whom
Noelle felt were there mainly for the benefit of the Germans who were present. Gautier
had noticed Noelle’s preoccupation, but when he asked her what was wrong, she told him
that everything was fine.
Fifteen minutes before supper was announced, a new arrival lumbered through the
door and the moment that Noelle saw him she knew that her problem was going to be
solved. She walked over to the hostess and said, “Darling, be an angel and put me next to
Albert Heller.”
Albert Heller was France’s leading playwright. He was a large, shambling bear of a
man in his sixties with a shock of white hair and broad, sloped shoulders. He was
unusually tall for a Frenchman, but he would have stood out in a crowd in any case, for he
had a remarkably ugly face and piercing green eyes that missed nothing. Heller had a
vividly inventive imagination and had written more than a score of hit plays and motion
pictures. He had been after Noelle to star in a new play of his and had sent her a copy of
the manuscript. Now as she sat next to him at dinner, Noelle said, “I just finished reading