Part Seven: Winds of Change — Chapter 6 - The Barman of the Ritz

AUGUST 23, 1944

The Auzellos’ living room is standard fare for the Parisian bourgeoisie, with its period Empire furniture, grand piano, and crystal chandeliers. On the wall there is a dashing, full-length portrait of Claude in the uniform he wore during the Great War. But the man who welcomes Frank this morning looks nothing like the valiant soldier he once was. Claude Auzello is nervous and trembling. The shock of the previous day has only accelerated his recent decline.

“You can’t stay too long,” he says. “Blanche is very weak.”

“Of course.”

“The bastards were holding her at the prison in Fresnes. They released her without warning yesterday morning. She had to walk all the way back.”

“She walked from Fresnes?”

“Yes, with no shoes!”

“My God.” Frank pales at the thought. The prison must be hours from the city center on foot.

“She walked for six miles in rags before a crossing-keeper found her and telephoned me. It was a miracle. Elmiger and I went to fetch her in the Citroën. She had walked as far as the Porte de Vanves. Listen, I think I should warn you…”

“What?”

“She’s barely recognizable.”

Frank takes a deep breath.

“Why does she want to see me?”

“I expect you know better than I do, Frank.”

“I can assure you, I don’t.” Frank avoids Claude’s piercing gaze.

Claude spreads his palms in a helpless gesture.

“All right,” he says. “Follow me. I’ll take you to her room.”

Frank can feel his blood pounding in his temples. He can see in Claude’s eyes how shocked he is by his wife’s condition.

As they approach the door, Frank hesitates. He would rather not see her as she is now. Escaping reality is what he does best. When he thinks that, yesterday morning, Elmiger risked his life to drive through the pitched battles across the city to help Claude bring Blanche home—that’s where Frank should have been, in the Citroën T23, with them.

“I’ll leave you to it. Five minutes, Frank, that’s all she can handle right now.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“The curtains are drawn; Blanche cannot bear the light. And please don’t let her talk too much. She’s exhausted.”

Frank steps into the room. It is pitch-black. He can just make out a bed on the right. He has an overwhelming feeling of dread; a piercing pain between his ribs. He closes his eyes and searches his memory for an image of Blanche’s sardonic smile, for fear that what he will see is death itself. He can hear her breathing; she is whimpering like a wounded animal.

“Frank? Is that you?”

“Yes, madame, I’m here.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this… But come a little closer.”

Recognizing her voice has calmed him. His eyes gradually adjust to the darkness. Even beneath the sheet he can see how skeletal Blanche is. He can make out her shaven head, her face furrowed by deep wrinkles. Her teeth are chattering. He shudders.

“We have to leave,” she says feverishly.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve confessed everything. Everything. That I was born in the Jewish district of New York. That my name is Rubenstein. I told them that you knew, that you helped me; Frank, you have to get out!”

This is why she needed to see him so urgently.

She is barely alive and yet her first concern is for him.

“Don’t worry, no one’s coming for us anymore.”

“What are you talking about? They’re everywhere, you have to get out!”

“The Nazis are on the run, you don’t have to fear them anymore. And neither do I. You just need to look after yourself.”

“I thought I was going to die… If you knew what it was like, being half drowned in a bathtub.”

Frank reaches out a hand to calm her, but he stops before he touches her skin.

“They stamped on my arm and broke it, they… When I heard the firing squads at dawn out in the yard, I hoped my turn would come soon.”

“Do you know why they released you?”

A muffled gasp, almost a laugh.

“I just made the most of the chaos. Yesterday, just after I confessed, a guard burst into the cellar to tell my torturers that the last truck was leaving. They ran like hell and left the door open. So, I set off for Paris.”

“You’re safe now.”

“I feel so ashamed.”

“You shouldn’t.” A tear has begun to slowly leak from her eye. With the utmost tenderness, Frank wipes it from her cheek as gently as he can.

“I’ve told them about the false passport you got for me, about leaving the lights on in the kitchen, about the British pilot… I just needed it to stop. I’m sorry, Frank. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You did everything you could.”

Her only answer is a weary moan.

“Give me your hand.”

Blanche’s hand is cold and trembling. Frank is shocked by how fragile her fingers feel against his. She is nothing but skin and bone. Very carefully, Frank massages her fingers to warm her, fearful that the slightest pressure might break the delicate bones. Finally, he dares to peer into the darkness to try to meet her gaze, but her eyes are closed.

That kiss stolen in the summer of 1939…

So many years lived in the shadow of a love that could never be.

I know that Blanche will never be mine. She belongs to Claude, to Lily Kharmayeff. Be proud of yourself, Blanche. You are magnificent. You are the daughter of Sara and Isaac, two German Jews, you are a woman with a big heart and a rebellious spirit.

From her shallow breathing Frank realizes that Blanche has fallen asleep. He bends down and kisses her forehead. Feels the softness of her skin against his lips. This second kiss brings tears to his eyes, but the sadness has gone. Only the beauty remains.

Claude knocks on the door. Time’s up.

I’m going now, Blanche, he whispers. I’m leaving you to your life. I love you more than I ever have, and that’s a secret I will carry to the grave, I promise.