Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 7 - The Barman of the Ritz

MAY 15, 1943

It is almost 10 p.m. and the hardest part is over. Lafont’s reception is in full swing, Frank has control of the bar, and Lafont is strutting around as his sleazy horde rejoices among the dark-purple dahlias and orchids. The gaudy extravagance was the most discreet way Frank could think of to mock the hero of the day. As soon as he discovered that the newly minted commander was passionate about flowers, Frank decided to put them everywhere. And since he has often heard Lafont proclaim his admiration for Hitler, he has hung a portrait of the Führer on the wall.

In his role as barman, he has created a few new cocktails. But while one of the officers has shown interest in his Siegfried, most of the others have been fueled by champagne.

Süss was right: everyone is here. He sees the Paris chief of police cozying up to a group of Gestapo officers; Nazi collaborators rubbing elbows with war profiteers; criminals mingling with the political elites of Paris. Needless to say, there are also a few “countesses,” but they checked their titles at the cloakroom and left their fishnet stockings at home.

Frank is watching Georges, who seems very uncomfortable among the same thugs he was once so quick to idolize.

He dreamed of being like them, but it’s not in his nature.

He is held back by his moral code—and perhaps a little cowardice. Georges is not cut out for a dog-eat-dog world. Frank can sense his friend’s shame and frustration. He is not angry that Georges has finally come to realize that this world is much more corrupt than the last. These people do not rob, they “requisition.” They don’t burgle; they “confiscate.” They don’t extort, they “file a complaint.” Even words have been appropriated.

“Monsieur?”

“Yes, Luciano.”

“There’s a woman at the door. She doesn’t have an invitation, but I’ve seen her here before. With Mademoiselle Chanel. She had a cat with her.”

“Ah! The strange little doll with too much makeup…”

“The what?”

“Don’t worry. Ask Monsieur Lafont, he makes all the decisions tonight.”

What’s a woman like that doing at a reception like this?

“And two seats at the bar, please!”

Henri Lafont is laughing, proud and delighted to welcome the newcomer. Frank has to admit that the young woman looks even more spectacular than he remembers. Ash-blonde hair with iridescent highlights, a milky complexion, eyes of opaline, and very voluptuous. The green, belted satin dress gives her the figure of a cabaret singer. A doe among wolves, but one who keeps them at bay. Purring beneath her pale-yellow silk glove, the cat is as snooty as his mistress.

Who on earth is she?

“Frank, my friend, pour this little Fräulein a glass of Roederer!”

“Right away, Monsieur Lafont.”

His right hand caresses the small of her back.

She doesn’t react. Are they lovers?

“Your champagne, mademoiselle. I’ve added a raspberry; just let it soak up the alcohol and save it for last. You’ll see, it’s divine.”

She delicately reaches out a hand to take the gold-rimmed glass.

“Thank you. I admire your restraint. It is a mark of true elegance.”

“You flatter me. What is your cat’s name?”

“Raimund. Like Ferdinand Raimund. An Austrian playwright of the last century. A confectioner turned writer who took his life at the age of forty-six because he thought he had been bitten by a rabid dog. I like to imagine that he was reincarnated as a cat.”

The young woman’s gaze is hypnotic; on her lap, the Chartreux cat looks ready to get his claws out.

Hold it together, Frank.

“My dear Inga,” Lafont cuts in. “May I present Helmut Knochen, head of the Gestapo in Paris?”

“Pleased to meet you, Herr Standartenführer. I am Inga Haag, secretary and niece of Admiral Canaris.”

Admiral Canaris, the head of German military intelligence! What is his niece doing here?

“Your uncle’s work has been invaluable in helping us to track down the terrorists who come to France to spread their propaganda,” says Knochen.

“He works on it day and night, believe me.”

“The French are easily manipulated by Allied propaganda, and it is up to us to, let’s say, help them understand that the British are our enemies.”

Inga Haag gives him a provocative smile.

“Let us toast the victory of the Third Reich!” Lafont suggests.

“God hear you, Lafont. Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!”

Just what kind of game is this woman playing?

Behind them, the wolf pack, deprived of its leader, is beginning to grow impatient. The thugs are demanding a trip to the One-Two-Two, Lafont’s favorite brothel.

Helmut Knochen finally gives the signal to leave.

“Herr Meier, thank you for this magnificent evening.”

“It was a pleasure, Herr Knochen.”

Lafont also gets to his feet.

“It was perfect, Frank.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Lafont.”

Frank can feel Inga Haag staring at him.

He suddenly feels ashamed of being so affable towards this man he despises.

“Fräulein Haag, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Thank you, Frank. Oh, one more thing—I hear you give excellent racing tips. Could you include me? I adore horse racing.”

“It would be a pleasure, mademoiselle.”

The woman wants something from me, that much is obvious.

Frank is disconcerted by her charm.

Calm down, Frank.

The reception went off well, Lafont and Knochen are delighted, mission accomplished.

“Luciano! Escort Monsieur Lafont to his car!”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Now the only people left in the Ritz bar are two weary war veterans. Georges is morose. Pétain promised to get France back on its feet; instead he handed it over to thugs and pimps.

The maréchal, more than anyone, has betrayed us.

Frank lays a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. They look at each other, then they look around this bar with its ridiculous clusters of purple dahlias and the comically oversized portrait of Hitler in pride of place and burst out laughing.

“Shall we do the sums?” Frank says, as though to cheer himself up.

They line up the stacks of banknotes on the bar, as they have done since they first started out, set aside a share for Luciano, put what is due to the Ritz back in the register, and divide the rest between them—in the name of what they lived through together a lifetime ago.

Money. At least they have that.