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over her. This was the first time she had been both safe and alone in many months. Yet it seemed either a lifetime ago or only yes terday that she was bidding good-bye to her parents on the steps of their Oslo home, off to Paris for language study at the Sorbonne in the fall of 1938. Who could have imagined that the world she was leaving would so soon disappear? Or that the shy, naive student who was about to embark for France would also vanish, to be replaced by the determined, experienced woman now riding across London? No one, least of all her.
    Instinctively she reached across the backseat of the taxi to take Victor's hand and was momentarily surprised when it wasn't there.
    A natural linguist, she had been studying Slavic lan guages, with a concentration in Russian. Her father had encouraged her. "We Scandinavians cannot expect the people of Europe to learn our languages, Ilsa, so we must learn theirs," he told her. She threw herself into her studies, forsaking the nightlife of St. Michel for the hard work of Russian grammar and the rewards of being able to read Tolstoy in the original. She would have time later for celebration, she reasoned. Plenty of time.
    Then, on the first of May 1939, she met Victor Laszlo.
    "Get dressed, Ilsa!" said Angelique Casselle, her best friend, diving into Ilsa's closet, coming up with her best dress, and tossing it at her as she pored over a textbook. "You can't stay in your room studying for ever. Do you want to die an old maid?"
    "But, the examination," protested Ilsa.
    Angelique put her lips together and blew, a typically French gesture of disparagement. "Bah!" she said. "You already speak Russian better than Stalin. What more do you want? Come on! There's somebody I want you to meet."
    Ilsa would never forget the address: 150, boulevard St.-Germain. She had stopped at the open-air market that lined both sides of the rue du Seine and bought some fresh cheese and a bottle of Bordeaux to bring as presents. When she pressed the buzzer of the flat, the door was opened by the handsomest man she had ever seen, a man who greeted her with continental elegance in perfect French.
    "Miss Ilsa Lund, I believe," he said, kissing her hand. "My name is Victor Laszlo." His eyes met hers. "Miss Casselle told me you were the most beautiful girl in Paris. She lied. You are the most beautiful woman in all Europe."
    Ilsa was astonished. Everybody in Paris knew Victor Laszlo, the Czech patriot who, before the Munich Pact of 1938, had so resolutely opposed any accommoda tion with the Nazis in his daily newspaper, Pravo. Laszlo had fearlessly exposed the Nazis' record of brutality, redoubling his efforts after the Sudetenland was handed over to Germany. When Hitler annexed Bohemia and Moravia on March 15, 1939, Laszlo became a wanted man. He went underground for a time, continu ing to publish. Finally, when the situation became too dangerous, he fled to Paris, where he joined the Czech government-in-exile and continued his opposition.
    From that moment on, they were nearly inseparable. Victor fell in love not only with Ilsa's beauty, but with her intelligence and strength; he saw in her a partner in his grand crusade. For Ilsa, Laszlo opened up a whole world of knowledge and thoughts and ideals, and she looked up to him and worshiped him with a feeling she supposed was love. They worked together feverishly, not for themselves, but on behalf of all the captive peo ples of Europe.
    Swept away by his selfless dedication, Ilsa Lund se cretly married Victor Laszlo in June 1939. Not even their closest friends knew of their wedding.
    Despite her protestations, Victor returned to his homeland in July to carry the fight to the enemy. She told him it was too dangerous, but he wouldn't be dis suaded, "Ilsa, I must go," he had told her. "How can I ask others to do what I myself will not?"
    The Gestapo, however, was waiting for him; a few days after arriving in Prague, Victor was arrested and sent to the concentration camp