Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 4 - The Barman of the Ritz

APRIL 13, 1943

“Good evening, Frank.”

“Monsieur Auzello! What a surprise.”

Since the war began, Claude Auzello has not once set foot in the bar.

In times past, we would often have a late-night drink.

“Oh, Frank, it is a disaster.”

“What has happened, monsieur?”

“The Gestapo have come to arrest Blanche.”

“Again? What is it this time? Another of Lily Kharmayeff’s stunts?”

“They have accused her of leaving the kitchen lights on all night, allegedly to help British bombers find their target in the city center…”

“My God!”

Frank’s racing thoughts are crashing together.

“How is she? Where have they taken her? Do you believe she is capable of such a thing?”

“I have no idea! I don’t know who she is anymore, Frank. These days Blanche acts with an arrogance I’ve never seen in her. The bastards who came looking for her were rude and aggressive. But Blanche was calm. She just patted me on the cheek and told me it would all be fine. She was drunk. I suppose you know that she drinks too much.”

Claude’s voice cracks. Frank hands him a glass of triple sec, which he drains in a single gulp.

“Who knows about this?”

“Elmiger and Madame Ritz. They immediately called General von Stülpnagel’s room. But the SS reports to no one but Himmler. There’s nothing he can do.”

For a moment, both men fall silent. Blanche’s absence seems to fill the whole space.

It is Claude who finally speaks.

“If she talks, I’m a dead man. Look, I know I can tell you anything. I know you’ve been trafficking forged papers for Jews, so, if you inform on me, I’ll inform on you.”

Frank feels an icy chill in the pit of his stomach to be threatened so casually by a longtime friend. How has it come to this? Frank is like a rat in a cage.

“Don’t look at me like that, Frank. You know what this place is like. At the Ritz, everyone knows everything, but no one says anything. That’s the way here, isn’t it? Elmiger thinks I’m breaking my back trying to keep the restaurant kitchens supplied with fruit and vegetables, but do you know what I’m really doing?”

Frank shakes his head slowly. “Please, Claude, be careful what you say. You’re upset and—”

“Be careful what I say? I’m talking to you, to my friend, the man who once saved my wife.”

But now you openly threaten me. There should be a new word for friendship in wartime.

Frank nods and shows Claude his palms, inviting him to go ahead.

“I’m keeping the British informed about the comings and goings of our guests.”

For the second time tonight, Frank is dumbfounded. How could the barman of the Ritz not know that something like this was going on right under his nose?

“I’ve assigned the names of fruits and vegetables to Wehrmacht generals and various Nazi bigwigs. When I’m on the telephone, anyone would assume I am placing orders. Actually, I’m talking to a friend, a railway worker in Switzerland, telling him the times and dates certain people will be here.”

Seeing Frank’s amazement, the ghost of a smile plays on Claude’s lips.

“If Göring is going to spend three nights at the Ritz, then the day before his arrival I order three crates of turnips. If Jünger books a table for dinner, I order a basket of asparagus in the morning. And if the venerable writer is dining with his friend Stülpnagel, I add some cauliflower.”

“I have to say, I did think…”

“Think what?” says Claude, toying with his empty glass.

“… that there had to be something going on behind all this talk of greengrocers and wholesalers. That’s just the sort of thing I would expect of you, monsieur. As for your wife, she would never betray you. She is a woman of honor.”

Claude spreads his palms.

“Do any of us really know what we might be capable of if we were tortured?”

Frank feels a shiver run down his spine. He wishes that Claude had said nothing—but he knows the man is right. Blanche might well be interrogated, even tortured.

Unspeakable images appear on his closed eyelids. Blanche’s delicate features bruised beyond recognition, her frail body broken. Who could possibly withstand torture by the Gestapo?

She’s already told her husband that I’ve been trafficking in forged papers.

She might tell the Gestapo too. What can I do? Throw in my lot with Lafont in the hope he can get his SS friends to intervene? But if that doesn’t work…

What would happen to Jean-Jacques and Pauline?

And Blanche, they can’t just take her away. Not Blanche.

Diary of Frank Meier

This time, they’ve taken you away from me for good.

It has been a whole week since you disappeared. Where are you, Blanche?

These past six nights, I haven’t slept for tossing and turning.

The second I doze off, I see your disfigured face.

Your swollen cheeks, your bloody lips, bruises on your forehead.

Or I suddenly hear your voice, crying out for help. It haunts my nights.

And when I am so utterly exhausted that I fall asleep, I hear you screaming my name. Begging, pleading.

And I wake with a start.

During the day, I can manage to put on a brave face. But as soon as night comes… the night belongs to you.

I lie awake in bed, I think about praying to I don’t know who.

As I wait for dawn, your cries fill my ears.

I’m helpless.

I’m scared.