Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 12 - The Barman of the Ritz
By Philippe Collin
JULY 27, 1943
The Office of Jewish Affairs, 31 Avenue Foch, in the sixteenth arrondissement. A heartbroken fifty-nine-year-old barman has arrived to undergo his first interrogation by the Gestapo. My name is Frank Meier, I have been head barman at the Hôtel Ritz for twenty years, I fought at Verdun, and I am an Ashkenazi Jew. Frank has pulled out all the stops: black alpaca jacket, white shirt with a dickey, gray silk tie, mother-of-pearl cuff links, black patent-leather shoes. This morning, Jean-Jacques asked if he was going to a funeral. He considered lying, but he felt that his son and niece needed to know. The moment he uttered the word “Gestapo,” his son fell apart and Pauline started to sob.
Frank reassured them as best he could and promised they would have news before lunchtime.
It is 11:10 a.m. and Frank is patiently waiting his turn. Dignified. Standing stiffly upright. He thinks of Elmiger, who is in the interrogation room right now. The poor bastard: this isn’t the first time he’s been questioned, though he likely knows nothing about the clandestine activities going on in his hotel. Probably for the best. He has been in there for over an hour, leaving Frank to stare out of the vast, gold-framed window at the birds perched in the trees of the park. He spots a pair of collared doves, a wood pigeon, three song thrushes, a couple of finches, a great tit, some greenfinches, and a hedge sparrow. A childhood spent in the countryside is never forgotten. The long wait is probably part of the interrogation process, designed to lower his defenses. But the birds have given him strength. They are free, safe from the Nazis, oblivious to the war. His nose pressed against the glass, Frank wonders where Luciano is right now. His heart aches.
“Herr Meier?”
“Ja.”
“Guten Morgen. Kommen Sie bitte herein.”
“Danke schön.”
Jean-Jacques warned him they would question him in German—the language of the Reich, Ich bin Frank Meier, zwanzig Jahre lang Chef-Barkeeper im Ritz, ich habe in Verdun gekämpft, und ich bin ein aschkenasischer Jude. Frank wishes he could have seen Elmiger coming out, to get some clue, something in his eyes, but the interrogation room is empty. Elmiger must have left through the other door.
At a glance, Frank registers the furniture: a glass-fronted Louis XV cherrywood bookcase, a lamp with a lacquered metal shade, a three-legged pedestal table, a large wool rug with crimson circles like poppies on a green background, a marble coffee table: it looks for all the world like a typical Parisian living room but for the lean, short-haired SS officer sitting behind the elegant Sormani desk.
“Please sit down, Herr Meier. I know you speak perfect German, but I would rather we conduct this interview in French. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, as you wish.”
If the interrogation is being conducted in French, it can only be because there are members of the Gestapo listening who do not speak German. Who is eavesdropping?
Perhaps Henri Lafont himself, who knows? He must be livid at the thought that his glorious SS reception was organized by a Jewish barman.
“Standartenführer Knochen thinks very highly of you, Herr Meier. He asked me to send his regards.”
My name is Frank Meier, head barman at the Ritz, I fought at Verdun, and I am an Ashkenazi Jew.
“I’m flattered. Give him my regards.”
“He is nonetheless curious to know whether you knew that you have been harboring a dangerous little Jew.”
I would like to spit in this man’s face. What a scene that would make.
Frank speaks, his voice steady. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back.
“If you are referring to my young waiter, he is not a Jew. Nor is he dangerous.”
“How did you meet this young man?”
“I met his mother in New York many years ago. Her name is Sofia Baresi. She’s a devout Catholic. The boy does not have a drop of Jewish blood, believe me.” Frank is sitting perfectly still, his hands in his lap; he can feel tension mounting in his body. Right now he would like to stretch, to run away, but he is captive in this room. With this Gestapo officer.
“But his name is Luciano Levi,” the officer says, as though he is surprised that Frank doesn’t know.
“No, monsieur,” Frank says smoothly. “His name is Luciano Baresi. He never knew his father.”
“Is he your son?”
Frank sits up straight, prepared for a confrontation.
“Absolutely not. He was my apprentice.”
“Where does his mother live?” The questions are coming faster.
He wants to catch me out, the old dog.
“In Zurich. She works as a housekeeper for a middle-class family.”
“Don’t you find it strange that she has not seen her son for five years?”
Frank takes a moment, as if to consider.
“But there is a war on, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“I saw my daughter at Easter. Yes, there is a war on, but there is nothing to prevent this woman coming to Paris to spend Christmas with her son. Unless she is worried about being arrested at the border?”
Frank does not rise to the bait.
“Sofia and I both work for other people. We have very little free time. I have been working at the Ritz for more than twenty years. The hotel is my life. I live to serve.”
“To serve, I see… You became a naturalized citizen in 1923, is that correct?”
“No. In 1921.”
“You were born in Austria, in…”
The SS officer pretends to look through the paperwork scattered over the desk.
“… Kirchberg, on April 3, 1884.”
“That’s correct.”
“In August 1914, you were posted with the 1st Foreign Regiment to Morocco. You volunteered to fight against Germany to serve France. I have your file here. In August 1941, the police carried out a detailed investigation into you. Being the barman at the Ritz, you would be in contact with our most senior officers of the Reich, so we needed to be sure that you were trustworthy.”
“I understand.”
But I am not trustworthy, so your investigation isn’t worth the time you spent on it.
“To be completely honest, we were a little surprised that an Austrian should choose to fight for France in the Great War. We began to wonder whether perhaps you might be Jewish.”
Frank’s heart is hammering so hard he almost thinks he can hear it echoing around the walls of the office.
“Excuse me?” he sputters.
“Are you a Jew, Herr Meier?”
“I am not, Herr Oberstleutnant! I am Catholic, baptized by our parish priest in the Tyrol.”
“Yet your name does not appear on any parish register in Kirchberg, or in Vienna. Curious, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That said, your name does not appear in the Jewish registers of the Tyrol either. Given your reputation, we have given you the benefit of the doubt for the last two years. But you must surely realize that employing a Jewish apprentice casts a very different light on the matter.”
Frank marks a momentary silence, then adopts a different strategy.
“Do you really think I am stupid enough to hire a Jew to wait on the highest-ranking generals of the Wehrmacht?”
“Then why did the boy run away?” says the officer in a matter-of-fact tone.
The chess match has begun.
“I have no idea, perhaps he was scared.”
“Scared of what, Herr Meier? Surely the only people who are scared of the police are criminals?”
Frank looks at the man but says nothing.
My name is Frank Meier, head barman at the Ritz, I fought at Verdun, and I am an Ashkenazi Jew.
“When did you last see him?”
“Early yesterday afternoon. We were setting up the bar for the evening.”
“And then, he just took off. I imagine someone warned him that we were coming. Do you know who?”
“No.”
The officer studies Frank for a moment, then leafs through the documents in front of him.
“And this other man… Süss. You were friends, I believe?”
“No, not really.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No.”
But I wish I had.
“Another Jew?”
“No, I don’t believe so.” Frank wonders if the officer really believes Frank will admit to knowing Jews were employees of the Ritz.
What a waste of time.
“There are a lot of suspicions circulating about you, Herr Meier.”
Another brief silence in which Frank’s heart rate slows. If this is the end, so be it.
“Listen,” says Frank calmly. “You talk about suspicions—there is nothing I can do about them. For the past three years, I have been faithful to my post. I have made no distinction between my past guests and my present ones. I have served German officers with the same pleasure and the same dedication as I’ve always brought to the bar.”
“Nobody can complain about you. In fact, you’re so popular that Standartenführer Knochen refuses to give you a medical—”
“Tell him I am prepared to undergo a medical examination at any time. I am not circumcised.”
“What is your relationship with Mademoiselle Haag?”
“Polite acquaintances, nothing more.”
“Is she your mistress?”
Frank heaves a sigh and meets the officer’s eyes.
“No, absolutely not.”
“But she regularly comes to your bar, does she not?”
“She is a regular, yes. As are Captain Jünger and General von Stülpnagel.”
“Do you get the impression that she listens in on conversations?”
Does the Gestapo think she’s a spy?
“Not particularly,” Frank says.
“I have to say, you are not particularly forthcoming.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m simply telling the truth.”
“The truth!” the lieutenant-colonel growls irritably. “Don’t make me laugh! Nobody tells the truth anymore, Herr Meier. There is no truth anymore!”
The officer seems to have one last card up his sleeve. He glances at the documents one last time, then wearily pushes them to the edge of the desk.
He is silent for a moment, then smiles broadly and adopts an almost friendly tone.
“I am getting married again next month to a French woman. The wedding reception is to take place at Monsieur Lafont’s estate in Neuilly-sur-Seine. I would appreciate it if you could join us and share your cocktail skills with my guests…”
Frank is caught off guard. To say that he was not expecting this would be an understatement. But he manages to pull himself together.
“It would be a pleasure, Herr Oberstleutnant. Though obviously I will have to get permission from the management.”
“Herr Elmiger has given his blessing. He and I have come to an understanding.”
“That’s perfect, you can rely on me.”
“That is excellent news. You are dismissed. And please, don’t hesitate to let people know that the Gestapo is capable of demonstrating courtesy and intelligence.”
The officer walks him to the door. They are about the same age; they probably fought against each other thirty years ago, in the Argonne or the Ardennes.
The least he could have done was show respect for a former soldier!
But Frank is grateful nonetheless; the interview could have been worse. There could have been an arrest, torture.
Instead, this Jew has been hired by the Gestapo to host a wedding reception.
Frank could almost laugh. Almost.