Part Four: War of Attrition — Chapter 3 - The Barman of the Ritz

MARCH 4, 1942

The bombs rained down for over an hour. To the west of the city, Billancourt, Neuilly, and Clamart are plunged into fear and grief. War has reached the gates of the city, hammering loud and hard. During the night, RAF Bomber Command shelled the Renault car factories, leaving hundreds of people dead and more than a thousand wounded.

A complete bloodbath.

It’s the only thing people are talking about in the Ritz bar tonight. In a state of shock, the upper class instinctively huddles together. They need somewhere safe and comforting to ask the question on everyone’s lips: how could the Nazis have let the British air force get so close to Paris?

“Next time, maybe they’ll target the Ritz,” says Laura Corrigan with a mischievous grin. “What better way to wipe out the Nazi top brass!”

“Don’t say such things,” snaps Florence Gould, “you’ll bring us bad luck! But there has to be an explanation—I must have a word with Speidel or Jünger.”

Florence adjusts her moiré silk wrap and swallows the last of her champagne in one gulp to fortify herself. Next to her, Barbara Hutton has not said a word, nor has she touched her glass of brandy. Her slender face, haloed by a chignon of blonde hair, is so pale and perfectly still that she looks like a waxwork. Serge Lifar, on the other hand, downed two whiskies in the space of ten minutes, and has just ordered a third. Only Sacha Guitry still has the strength to fight dismay with wit:

“If the Great Scythe should gatecrash our little party, my friends, our nerves will be sorely tested. I find it is easier to think about death in the morning; at night, it is too terribly dreary…”

Frank watches as the wave of fear unfurls before his eyes. Since the beginning of the war, the well-heeled have believed themselves completely safe. They had money, excellent company, and privilege: surely they were shielded from danger? But bombs are a very different matter. Any soldier who has been in the trenches is familiar with the rain of steel; it is something he will never forget. He knows a bombing raid is a lottery. One stroke of bad luck and it’s lights out. And that constant whistling of the shells is enough to drive you mad. At noon, Maréchal Pétain was on the radio, assuring listeners that he was mourning with the rest of Paris. No one at the Ritz found his speech moving. What is Pétain’s government doing to protect the city from being bombed? If Charles Bedaux were still here, they would ask him, but yesterday he finally left to go to Vichy, where his appointment has been “imminent” for several months now.

The evening is foundering in futile recriminations when a voice that has not been heard in the Ritz for more than six years roars:

“Mesdames et messieurs, bonsoir!”

Everyone in the bar suddenly freezes, as though the two women who just walked in were parachuted from an RAF fighter.

Frank is the first to regain his composure.

“Miss Kharmayeff, Madame Auzello. Welcome.”

Lily Kharmayeff is back. She has tucked her tight chignon under her beret and come dressed as a man, sporting a tailored blue suit, a white dress shirt set off with a black velvet polka-dot tie, and a pair of leather loafers. With her defiant air and the cigarette dangling from her lips, she looks like Marlene Dietrich. Standing next to her is Blanche Auzello with an equally steely gaze. Her porcelain complexion is sharply accentuated by her black tailored suit.

“Good evening, Frank.” Blanche flashes him a smile. “Lily surprised us by turning up unexpectedly. What a thrill!”

“Absolutely. And how are you, Miss Kharmayeff?”

“I have no idea how I’m feeling, Frank. What would you recommend for a mood somewhere between despair and fury?”

“That calls for a classic. I would recommend a dry Martini.”

Behind them, the bar begins to empty.

Everyone knows that Lily Kharmayeff is persona non grata at the Ritz. The former dancer goads her detractors with a cheery goodnight. Guitry is the only one to respond. He comes and kisses the hands of both women, but even he feels it wise to leave.

“I can see nothing has changed,” Lily says with a peal of laughter. “Spinelessness is still in fashion. Such a fine bevy of lackeys.”

“You can see why I was not prepared to come alone,” says Blanche.

“Of course, chérie. What about you, Frank? Aren’t you afraid to see me here in your bar?”

The Martinis are ready.

“Why would I be afraid, mademoiselle?”

“Because the Widow will hear that I popped in for a drink,” she says with a giggle. “You do realize that you could be in serious trouble for not having me kicked out.”

“Everything seems fine so far,” the barman says calmly.

“You are a real gentleman, Frank. Your good health!”

A gentleman heading for a whole bunch of trouble. How could the Widow possibly ignore this deliberate insult? He has not had Kharmayeff thrown out quite simply because he cannot refuse Blanche anything. But he is on the alert and discreetly signals to Luciano, who takes up position at the door, so that if Süss or Elmiger shows up unexpectedly Frank won’t be completely unprepared.

In the meantime, Lily has drained her glass and is staring into the distance. Suddenly, there is absolutely nothing provocative about her.

“Since we’re among friends, I’d like to thank you for agreeing to help Monsieur Ruderman,” she says, her tone suddenly serious. “Such a pity, that…”

She trails off.

Like everyone in Paris, Frank knows that several hundred Jewish notables were arrested shortly before Christmas. Monsieur Ruderman had delayed his departure and was caught in the roundup with other retired magistrates.

“Have you heard about the Jewish internment camp in Compiègne?” says Blanche.

“I’ve heard of it, yes.” Frank keeps his tone even; this is not the time or place for such a conversation.

“The people there are French Jews, Frank! And the conditions they’re being held in are appalling. Tell him, Lily.” Blanche nudges her friend, who lowers her voice and begins to speak.

“Joachim Ruderman managed to get a letter to me. He could be executed just for sending it. What he wrote was horrendous. Thirty people are housed in barrack rooms built for fifteen, they have to sleep on lice-ridden straw mattresses on iron bedsteads. All the windows are broken, allowing the icy wind to blow in day and night. Many of them have fallen sick. Their food rations are inadequate. They are terribly emaciated and covered in sores from the lice. The toilets are filthy, and during the night, they are forced to use old feeding troughs as urinals. In the three months they have been there, they have only been allowed to shower once. We wouldn’t treat animals like that…”

“Can you imagine, Frank?” Blanche interjects, furious. “And no one is talking about it—certainly not your man Pétain. These people are French citizens, for God’s sake!”

“I know, madame.”

These days, Frank prefers not to think about the maréchal. His admiration for the man has waned significantly. He wonders how Lily managed to receive a letter from Ruderman when Süss has told him that even the wealthiest Jewish families are complaining that they have had no news of relatives interned in Compiègne.

She must have very good contacts.

When did she come back to Paris?

And why? Could Lily Kharmayeff be a Bolshevik?

By tomorrow, everyone in the hotel will know the two women were in the bar tonight. Just as things were finally beginning to calm down, Blanche has given the Widow the perfect excuse to get rid of her. Then there is Claude Auzello. The reason the Nazis tolerate Claude’s open hostility—it isn’t every day one refuses to shake hands with a general—is because, within the confines of the Ritz, he and Blanche are harmless. But Kharmayeff? She is a very different matter. He polishes the Baccarat champagne flutes to keep his hands busy and ease the dull anxiety he can feel welling inside.

“Have you heard about this, Frank?” says Blanche, interrupting his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, madame, what were you talking about?” Franks picks up another spotless champagne flute and begins to polish it with a dry cloth.

“Joan Fontaine and Olivia de Havilland. Did you know they are sisters?”

“I had no idea.” He replaces the glass, selects another.

“So, last week, they were both nominated for Best Actress at the Oscars in Los Angeles,” Blanche confides in a hushed tone, “Joan won and then blatantly refused to accept her elder sister’s congratulations. Everyone in Hollywood is talking about it!” Blanche is reveling in this piece of gossip. She must be missing America, Frank muses.

“Family is a prison, Blanche,” says Lily Kharmayeff. “You have to know how to escape, how to break your chains.”

“I’d rather not think about it, I have enough on my mind,” Blanche says with a sigh. “Poor Olivia. Life is brutal. But I have not been to see a film in a long time. I miss it. I’m told the cinemas are packed. I suppose people go because at least the place is heated.” Blanche is suddenly sullen.

“Why don’t we go tomorrow afternoon? I would love to see L’Âge d’Or starring Elvire Popesco. A comedy that pokes fun at the nouveaux riches.”

“A film about us, in a sense.” Blanche gives a small smile.

“It seems so. Frank, could you mix us two more Martinis, please?”

“With pleasure, Mademoiselle Kharmayeff.” Frank picks out two Martini glasses, gives them a quick wipe, and begins to work his magic.

As he mixes the drinks he helplessly watches the two women. Lily Kharmayeff holds Blanche in her thrall, even as the stakes mount higher and higher for both of them.

He watches as they laugh, as though they were still happy.

Diary of Frank Meier

We have all changed since this war began. I wish it wasn’t so… but haven’t I always been a man of secrets? Those of my past, my Jewish heritage? But those very same secrets that might once have been innocent, if uncomfortable to share, now dictate whether I live or die. What a fearful man I have become, my very life depending on how well I can convince others I am the upstanding Catholic bartender I pretend to be.

Blanche, too, has her secrets, but it wasn’t always so. She’s become someone I barely recognize at times. So heedless of her safety. Her eagerness to put herself in harm’s way leaves me speechless and makes me miss the times when she laughed freely.

I remember one evening in August 1939. France was yet to declare war on Germany. Blanche was perched at the bar, keeping me company as I attended to the needs of the beau monde. She always flirted a little with the customers but that night she seemed more interested in talking to me. She never could get enough of my time in New York. And she had her stories too, tales of acting in silent movies, life with her many siblings. I was, of course, an eager audience, imagining her as a young woman, with the world laid out at her feet. She was, and still is, such a beauty. The silver screen would have wrapped itself around her.

More charismatic than anyone I have ever known, she captivated me completely. I knew my affections for her had grown into something deeper. I would do anything she asked of me, anything at all. Wasn’t I already supplying her with the morphine she so craved?

But I had already begun to suspect there was little chance she would return my affections, despite our brief kiss weeks earlier. I kept waiting for a sign that she might return my feelings—a lingering touch of her hand, a gaze held a moment too long. Perhaps I had made too much of our moment together, but I could no longer extinguish what she had ignited in my heart. I loved her. Hopelessly.

As the hour crept past midnight and into the early hours of the morning, she finally tired, drained her glass, slipped a green silk shawl over her shoulders, and chastely kissed me goodnight. I felt the imprint of her lips on my cheek long after she left.

I no longer see the same light in Blanche’s eyes, the same lust for life. These days, when I greet her, it’s almost as if we are separated by glass, able to see each other but unable to touch, to feel each other’s warmth. A spark is missing. And though I still yearn for her, yearn for the intimacy we once shared during those long nights in the bar, she feels far beyond my reach. What will happen as this war rages on? How much further will she slip away from me?