Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 11 - The Barman of the Ritz

“Where’s Luciano?”

“In the kitchen, talking to Gianni. What’s going on, Georges?”

“One of the guys in Lafont’s entourage just told me. Someone at the hotel has been to the Gestapo to tell them that Luciano is a Jew. They’re on their way to check right now. They’re going to ask him to drop his trousers.”

“What? Who denounced him?”

“Who cares, Frank—just hurry up and warn the kid. He needs to get the hell out of here and fast, or they’ll cart him away. And you with him, my friend!”

“But how…”

“For God’s sake, hurry up! Go on, I’ll hold the fort at the bar.”

Frank regains his composure.

Take a deep breath, shoulders back, smile, Frank!

Before he leaves the cellar he bends down to tie his left shoelaces.

Above all, don’t rush. Look normal. Think about what comes next. Deep breath. Shit, they’re here already.

Three men with slicked-back hair wearing black leather greatcoats have just appeared at the far end of the Galerie des Merveilles. There can be no doubt that they have come to arrest Luciano.

Smile, Frank.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening.”

“How can I help you?”

“We are looking for the bar run by Monsieur Meier.”

“I am Frank Meier. Pleased to meet you. The bar is at the end of the corridor, just past the Cartier display on the right. Make yourselves comfortable, I shall be right there.”

To think that on any other night, Luciano would have been posted at the door. It’s just possible that the downfall of Mussolini will save his life.

If Frank wants to avoid being arrested, no one can see him with Luciano. So, he cannot just walk into the kitchens. He decides to hide in the laundry room, leave the door ajar, and wait for his apprentice to walk past. That way he can swear to Elmiger and the three Gestapo officers that Luciano simply did not show up for his shift. How much cash does he have on him?

One thousand five hundred francs, that’s not too bad. As long as Luciano has got his papers on him. I just hope that— But Frank doesn’t get to finish his thoughts. Luciano has appeared.

“Luciano!”

“Monsieur? What are you doing in here?”

“Shhh! Get in here, quick. There are three officers from the Gestapo at the bar. They’ve come to check whether you’re circumcised. You’ve got to get out of here, lad, right now! I have a way to get you out without anyone seeing. Have you got your papers on you?”

“Yes, monsieur, always—”

“Thank God for that! All right, listen. No one can see us together. You go first, and I’ll meet you at the door down to the cellar where we store the luggage.”

Luciano, bewildered, stares at him blankly.

“Go through the back of the hairdressing salon, there will be no one around at this hour. Do you understand?”

“The… the hairdressing salon. The cellar where the luggage is stored.”

“I’ll meet you there in five minutes. Now go, get a move on!”

“Yes, monsieur.” The shock is beginning to catch up with Luciano, draining the blood from his face. He looks as though he may be sick.

“And Luciano… walk, don’t run. Just act normal. I’ll see you in a minute.”

The boy’s palpable terror is heartbreaking. What’s going to become of you, Luciano? Frank cannot hide the boy in his apartment, with his neighbors, it would be too risky.

A quarter past seven. And here’s Marie-Louise Ritz coming down the grand staircase. Damn! Smile, Frank.

“Good evening, madame.”

“Why aren’t you behind the bar, Meier?”

“I was just going into the kitchen. I’m out of raspberries.” Not untrue.

“We had six punnets delivered only this morning, which I think is all we need. Try to look a bit more cheerful, Monsieur Meier, with a face like that you’ll frighten off the guests.”

Must remember to go into the kitchen and pick up those bloody raspberries later. Frank bites the ball of his thumb. He feels a sharp pain. There is a knot in the pit of his stomach, his palms are sweaty and he feels a twinge in his heart.

Who could have turned the boy in? No time to worry about that now, better get an oil lamp from the storeroom… Frank finds the storeroom empty, a small blessing. He pulls a lamp from one of the long shelves and heads for the cellar.

I’ll send Luciano to Biarritz.

Frank has a friend who works in a bar there who he feels sure would give the boy a hand.

“Ah! There you are. Good, follow me.”

Luciano is standing in the middle of the cellar, but he is pale as death.

“Who told you, m’sieur?”

“Georges.”

“I’m sure it was that bitch Marie Sénéchal who squealed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She’s got a new Kraut in her bed and she’s been giving me the stink eye for a week.”

“Why?”

“Someone drew a K on the door of her locker.”

K for Kollabo. Frank understands immediately.

“Don’t tell me…”

“She doesn’t know it was me; nobody saw me.”

Luciano bursts into tears.

“Listen, son, we don’t have time for tears right now. Look, right there, behind the pillar, can you see the door?”

“Yes.”

“Slide along the wall and lean against it. Go on!”

“I can’t open it. It’s stuck…”

“What do you mean, stuck? Put your back into it!”

“It won’t open, it’s locked on the other side…”

“What? Get out of the way.”

Frank turns on his flashlight and points it at the lock. Luciano is right: the latch on the other side has slipped. But this is their only hope. Luciano cannot risk going back upstairs. And he cannot hide down here: if the Gestapo search the cellar, they will shoot him like a rat.

“I’ve got my pocketknife. I can try to slide the blade through the gap and lift the latch…”

“Good idea, son. Give it a go.”

Didn’t Jünger say that the knife might save his life?

He slides the blade in. Too high. Too low. Nothing but empty space, then suddenly the door opens.

“Good work, lad!”

“What do I do now?” Luciano stammers.

“Go in and follow the tunnel. It comes out under the Jeu de Paume, the gallery in the Tuileries gardens, you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you wait until it gets dark, all right?”

“Yes.”

“If there’s a night watchman, you’ll have to wait there until dawn. If not, get out as quick as you can, go straight across the gardens and climb over the railing next to the Orangerie, and make sure to keep a lookout for patrols. Have you got that?”

“I’ve got it.”

“After that, you’re on your own—you need to head south and get as far as Biarritz, walk all the way if you have to, understood?”

“Understood.”

“When you get to Biarritz, go to the bar in the Hôtel du Palais and ask for Charles, he’s the head barman. He used to be my apprentice. Tell him I sent you. If he asks for proof, give him the recipe for the Happy Honey cocktail—he was the one who invented it. Will you remember all this?”

“Er, yes?”

“Do you remember the recipe for the Happy Honey?”

“Two ounces of brandy, one of grapefruit juice, and half a measure of acacia honey. Oh—and two drops of Tabasco.”

“Perfect. Don’t say you’re Jewish. Not to him, not to anyone. Have you got that?”

“Got it.”

“Then you ask Charles to help you get a place on a fishing boat bound for Spain or Portugal. Tell him I’ll pay him back. From there, you head south and find some way to get to Algeria or Morocco. I need you to do exactly what I’m telling you, is that clear?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“If you get stopped by Krauts along the way, show them your papers, they’re in order. Tell them you were working in Paris, but you’re a Swiss citizen from Lugano and you are going to Italy to fight to get Il Duce back into power, yes?”

“Yes.”

Frank reaches into his jacket pocket.

“This is fifteen hundred francs. It’s all I’ve got on me. Keep as many as you can for when you get to Algeria. If you need more, ask Charles. When you get to Biarritz, ask Charles to send me a postcard with a cocktail recipe on it. As few words as possible—you can’t be too careful. As for you, it’s important that you don’t write to me as long as the Nazis are still in Paris, got it?”

“Got it.”

“Here, take this money clip too. I bought it in New York when I was about your age. Give it to Charlie, he always loved it. It’s proof I sent you.”

Luciano stands still, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Don’t cry, son. If you run through the night, I promise we’ll see each other again. Now, go on, and don’t look back. You need to be tougher than they are. Go on, run! And make sure you’ve latched the door!”

“Yes, monsieur.” Luciano’s voice is muffled behind the hidden door.

“Bon voyage, Luciano. I will always be with you, never forget that. Goodbye, son.”

Frank hears an inarticulate murmur and the sound of retreating footsteps. Then nothing. Luciano is in the tunnel.

Frank didn’t even hug him.