Part One: The Siege — Chapter 5 - The Barman of the Ritz

JULY 1, 1940

A few nights earlier, while Colonel Speidel was enjoying a Golden Clipper aperitif, Elmiger and his deputy manager, the inscrutable Monsieur Süss, warned Speidel that, without additional funds, Reichsminister Göring, who would be arriving imminently, would have nothing to drink but mineral water.

Speidel had only to make a telephone call to the Hôtel Meurice, where German military headquarters had been established, and the matter was settled: General Streccius had ordered the Banque de France to open a credit line for the Ritz amounting to one million francs. As soon as the official confirmation arrived, Elmiger had swapped his lemonade for a White Horse—double, no ice.

And so the bar is able to keep juddering along.

Frank is unsure what lies in store for July, but it starts on a Monday, the first day off Frank has had since the Germans marched into Paris, two weeks ago. The sun is shining, he is still alive, the Ritz seems to have been saved for now.

When he woke up late this morning, he read the previous evening’s Paris-soir over a black coffee, then cleaned the kitchen and folded his laundry. For lunch, he settled for a slice of black bread and Ardennes pâté with a glass of Burgundy. Now he is on the Boulevard des Capucines. Wearing a lightweight suit of gray herringbone, complemented by a red and green tartan tie, he searches for traces of the city that was—the city that existed only a month earlier.

For the first time, Frank is surprised to find himself thinking that the Germans might never leave.

On the Rue d’Antin, he finds his tailor. In April, Frank had ordered two made-to-measure poplin shirts. A meaningful look is all it takes for the two men to share their resentment. As though in apology for having been closed for a few weeks, the tailor gives Frank a tiny pewter bud vase which can be filled with water and slipped into the breast pocket of his jacket. An ingenious trinket that keeps the flower in the buttonhole fresh. Tomorrow night, Frank will wear a white carnation, just to impress upon the Prussian officers that he is still a Parisian, a man of elegance.

Confounding the Krauts: so far, it’s the best weapon I’ve found.

As he leaves, he looks around for a taxi—an old reflex—before deciding to walk back to the seventeenth arrondissement. Little by little, the mild summer weather dispels his gloomy thoughts. But just as he passes the Parc Monceau, his eye is caught by a sign: NO JEWS ALLOWED.

He feels a shiver run down his spine. He, Frank Meier, the man high society thinks it knows, friend to the most sophisticated drinkers the world over, is risking his life—and not a single soul knows. But Luciano is a different matter. Until now, Frank has done his best not to think about it; the officers of the Wehrmacht don’t really care about ancestries. Not as fanatical as the Nazi bigwigs back in Berlin. And with the forged Swiss passport Frank got for him, Luciano should be fairly safe. But you can never be too careful. Luciano is young. He is a risk-taker. The smallest mistake could be fatal.

As he is climbing the stairs to his apartment back at the Rue Henri-Rochefort, Frank realizes that he will never feel completely relaxed, now that he needs to look out for both of them. The barman of the Ritz and his apprentice: two Jews caught in a trap.