Part Seven: Winds of Change — Chapter 1 - The Barman of the Ritz

PART SEVEN: WINDS OF CHANGE

JULY 15, 1944

Hôtel Ritz, room 202. Wool carpet, Louis XVI-style writing desk, a bust of Goethe on the mantelpiece, and opposite, an enormous bed with exquisitely soft pillows stuffed with goose down. A quilted bedspread, silk sheets—and beneath the sheet, the sleeping face of Frank Meier. He could happily sleep for hours still, when there comes a sudden burst of machine-gun fire outside his window. He wakes with a start, his heart pounding, gasping for breath.

Who on earth is shooting in the street in this part of Paris? Has the battle finally begun?

Through the gap between the curtains, Frank can see the blazing July sun. He does not know how long he has been asleep and has no idea what is going on outside. The shooting stops. There is silence once more. Frank tastes the softness of the sheets against his bare skin, and gradually the images come flooding back. Jünger in the bar, the last shot of Calvados, mounting the grand staircase in the deserted hotel, the open, empty suite. Before going to bed, he indulged in a long bath with vetiver-scented bubbles. Then he shaved; he still smells of cologne. He grimaces as he remembers seeing his emaciated body in the full-length mirror. The hunched shoulders, the dark rings around the eyes, the shriveled penis: a human body that has withstood four years of fear and dread. He has grown old and flabby. Who would want me anymore? Too prudish, too proud.

His stomach is growling. It has been at least four days since he had a proper meal. Perhaps more. He thinks about calling room service. Could he have breakfast sent up? Scrambled eggs, warm brioche, a litre of coffee… He pictures the look on the waiter’s face when he opens the door to find Frank Meier lounging on the sumptuous bed. Assuming there are any waiters left, of course.

Just then, there comes a knock at the door.

“Frank, are you in there?”

It’s not a waiter.

It’s Elmiger. How did he know?

“Frank, it’s the hotel manager. Are you awake?”

Awake, yes. But stark naked.

“Just a moment, monsieur!”

Frank leaps out of bed and runs into the bathroom. Hastily, he thrusts his head under the tap and pulls on a bathrobe. What can Elmiger possibly want? As he throws open the curtains, Frank is blinded by the sunlight. Why would his boss knock on the door instead of marching in and summarily kicking him out?

“Coming!”

For twenty-three years Frank Meier has been surrounded by luxury, but now that he’s been caught in one of the hotel rooms, he feels like the son of the Austrian factory worker he has always been. How will he explain his presence here? As he walks across the room, he considers saying that Jünger personally agreed to pay the bill.

But no, that’s ridiculous.

“Good morning, Monsieur Elmiger.”

“Hello, Frank. Can I come in?”

“Of course. Make yourself at home.”

Elmiger does not look angry. He is calm, and impeccably dressed in a three-piece tweed suit, a white shirt, and ascot tie held in place by a brass tiepin.

“The housekeeper heard you snoring last night,” he says. “Madame Bourhis knew the room was vacant, so she immediately informed me. We opened the door and found you sleeping like a baby.”

How strange. While I was hiding in my bar, the housekeeper was going about her daily duties. No Gestapo, no SS. All I had to do was step outside and ask for some food.

“I… I didn’t hear anything. I was woken up ten minutes ago by machine-gun fire out on the Rue Cambon.”

“Listen, Frank, we’re faced with something of a dilemma. A few days, or a few weeks from now, the Germans will be gone. What state will they leave the hotel in? I have no idea. But right now, I need to be planning for the arrival of Allied troops while managing our current guests. A real conundrum. The only possible solution is for you to reopen the bar for the Germans. Discreetly, of course.”

It makes sense to Frank. Alienating the Germans too soon could be disastrous for the hotel and its occupants. For the moment, they will walk a fine line in diplomacy.

“You mean a private bar?”

“In a sense. We will tell the Americans and the British that we had no choice. It’s a balancing act. What do you think?”

“I have to admit, it makes sense.”

“Very good. As far as the outside world is concerned, we need to give the impression that the bar is closed. So, for the duration, I suggest that you stay in this room and you run the bar on your own. Deal with the top brass as only you know how, flatter them, pamper them, that way they might leave me in peace. And in exchange, you get to stay here.”

Frank is now wide awake. He has clearly slept for more than twenty-four hours.

“What about the Gestapo?” he asks.

“The SS have more than enough to do right now, believe me. The Nazi police have initiated a brutal purge of the Wehrmacht officers, a real bloodbath. Over the past five days, many of your former customers have disappeared, but the Gestapo have made no attempt to find out where you are. Let us hope it stays that way.”

Frank nods.

“I won’t disappoint you, monsieur.”

“I am counting on you, Frank. As is Madame Ritz. And take off that ridiculous bathrobe, it looked much better on Barbara Hutton.”