Part Seven: Winds of Change — Chapter 9 - The Barman of the Ritz

AUGUST 25, 1944

The clock has just stuck twelve. Frank is already behind the bar. He promised himself in June 1940 that, should the Occupation end, he would greet the homecoming of freedom here at his post. But does he still remember who he was then? From the walls of his bar, Fitzgerald and others still bear witness to the world of yesterday; in fact, his memories of the start of the Occupation have all but faded. In the beginning, no one could have imagined that all this would drag on for four years. No one could have imagined they would lose so many friends, neighbors, and loved ones. No one could have anticipated the roundups, the restrictions, the hunger, the despair, all the scourges that they experienced. Who could have imagined that it could go so far? Even those who had lived through the worst of the Great War had no idea that human beings could fall so far, a world away from the fighting on the front lines.

While he waits for the liberators, not knowing whether they are coming to drink or to arrest him, Frank reruns the film of this strange war in his mind. He sees Speidel, Bedaux, Göring, Guitry, and the others, Fersen, Stülpnagel, Jünger, Lafont, Knochen, Inga Haag, pass through his bar. He feels guilty now for burning the two notes from Inga in his sink—what was the point? All the people who came to his bar to plot against Hitler are either dead or on the run. There is no one left who can testify on his behalf—and anyone who found the two messages from Inga Haag would have seen only two poems, one by Goethe, the other by Schiller, two poems that could not prove anything. To the world at large, and the French Forces of the Interior in particular, Frank Meier spent four years as barman to the Nazis and the collaborators. It is an ironic twist of fate.

Although the sun is shining outside, Frank’s mood is dark. He thinks of Blanche lying in her dark room. He thinks of Luciano, of course. He may never know what happened to the boy. He may never know whether Süss survived. Just as he does not yet know that Hemingway and Capa are now in Paris.

It is twelve thirty when the first detachment enters the Ritz bar. They are British, trooping in in single file. A squad of laughing young men with haggard features and tanned skin, with rifles in their hands, helmets on their heads, dusty fatigues, and muddy boots. Most are in their early twenties, their eyes wide, as if to say: So this is the Ritz? The eldest among them is a redhead with sergeant’s stripes—he was probably still at school in the spring of 1940. What a stark contrast to the Germans who marched in four years ago. It’s not officers liberating the Ritz, but this gang of unruly boys. Still, they are a sight for sore eyes. They are handsome, vigorous, disheveled but proud. Little Lucianos, thinks Frank with a heavy heart. They greet the barman but do not stop to chat, impatient to be met by the crowds all over Paris. Claude Auzello and Hans Elmiger have already hoisted the French flag to replace the swastika that flew over the hotel. The British soldiers leave with a few ashtrays emblazoned with the Ritz logo in their knapsacks—the meager spoils of war, Frank thinks with a smile. There is nothing else to take, the Germans have looted everything.

The Ritz stands alone, immured in silence, awaiting its fate. From behind the bar, Frank can hear the crowds cheering the liberators on the Place de l’Opéra. What a racket! Cheering, clapping, singing, he can picture a great tide of humanity. From time to time, he hears snatches of people singing the “Marseillaise” at the top of their lungs. Frank goes out into the gallery to stretch his legs. He bumps into the head housekeeper, Madame Bourhis, and André Brun, the maître d’hôtel. They do not look too happy. Not a word, just furtive, worried glances, then Frank goes back to his post, waiting for the new army to arrive. Just like in 1940, he thinks. Everything is ready. The glasses are polished, the champagne is on ice. He even managed to find some strawberries and blueberries this morning.

The clock strikes two and Frank is sitting alone behind his bar, his hands shaking, his head spinning. He has not eaten since yesterday morning, and the nagging fear is still there that the hotel will be invaded by an angry mob. Let’s get this over with, Frank thinks. All the fear and the exhaustion of the past four years suddenly fall on his shoulders. He has done his best to stay calm, following his rituals: he has waxed his mustache, polished his shoes, tied his black silk tie. “You don’t wait for death, son, you prepare for it,” his mother used to say. If he is to be shot this afternoon by the French Forces of the Interior, he will look impeccable in his coffin. Then suddenly he hears someone coming. Hurried footsteps in the hallway.

Who is it?

It’s Georges.

“Hey, we kicked out those Nazi bastards!” he says, laughing, as though he has single-handedly rid the city of the occupiers.

“So they tell me.”

It has been more than a month since Georges hurriedly left the day after the failed assassination attempt. He looks much younger, with an optimism Frank fails to match.

“What the hell are you doing behind the bar? There’s a party going on out there!”

Georges adopts his signature cheery tone that could sometimes tip even a bad night at the bar into a good one. But Frank is not in the mood.

“I’m going to stay here.”

“Really?” Georges says, as though trying to wake him up. “Paris has been liberated, Frank!”

How can I explain? If I leave my bar today, especially today, it feels like my whole world will suddenly collapse.

“Get out, go on! It’s a beautiful day. There are lots of pretty girls and, let me tell you, they’re not shy either. You don’t want to miss it, believe me, it’s an amazing sight. There are people hanging off the lamp posts. People laughing, singing, crying, and kissing like there’s no tomorrow. Everyone is walking hand in hand, the crowds are joyful. The girls are climbing over Leclerc’s armored cars and we’re all waiting for de Gaulle, it’s going to be extraordinary!”

“What about the Nazis?”

“We got a few prisoners, people catch them and beat them. Come on! Now, wait, before you do anything pour me a glass of Perrier-Jouët, I’m dying of thirst, my throat is dry as the Sahara…”

“Coming up.”

“I’ll be right back, my bladder’s about to burst…”

Georges coming for a piss at the Ritz before going out to celebrate the liberation; life is back to normal.

Georges’s laughter is still echoing around the bar and, for a moment, Frank begins to glimpse a future. What if the Allies rush to the Ritz to celebrate their victory? After all, no one cares what went on in this bar over the past four years. That is the nature of a grand hotel: it is a fairy-tale palace, a place of dreams. The Ritz will remain a marvelous institution for whoever takes over. The Widow can go to hell, but Elmiger will come through and so will Frank.

Tonight, I will play the role of lord of the manor for the liberators, Frank mutters to the empty bar. And if all goes well, I might even escape unscathed with my spoils…

Luciano.

Frank can see his ghost in the doorway, and now that peace is here, he feels certain that he will never see the boy again. He would have sent a message by now. No tears, Frank. He failed to protect the boy and that is a cross he will bear to the bitter end. But he will survive. Frank has lived through two wars, and each has cost him loved ones. He has already learned: first you cry, then you find the strength to carry on. Tragedy has a short memory—for better or worse.

He thinks of Blanche. Blanche, a victim of her own demons. Blanche, who has been broken for a long time and encountered the worst that humanity has ever spawned. Blanche, whom he has loved so dearly, in secret. Frank smiles despite himself: in the midst of the chaos of these four years, at least he will have known, however briefly, what it means to love someone more than yourself. In the end, it does not matter that his feelings were not reciprocated; it is more precious to him than anything.

We’re born alone, we die alone, and in between, we do the best we can to ease the pain of loneliness.

Tonight, he will drink to the health of his soulmate.

May you find peace, Blanche. You have earned a little rest.

And if tears come, he will not hold them back.

Frank hears more footsteps in the corridor.

Is it Georges coming upstairs?

No. The door to the Rue Cambon has just been thrown open and there is a crowd milling in the lobby. Frank stiffens, then suddenly there comes a shout that is louder and deeper than the others.

“Raus les Boches!”

He recognizes that voice.

“Come on, boys!”

Could it be?

It is Hemingway’s voice.

Frank hears him, his pulse racing.

Don’t cry, not now, especially not now.

Everything is happening so fast. Life is picking up where it left off. Frank can hear Claude Auzello’s voice; newly reappointed as manager, he has come down to welcome Hemingway and the others.

Out in the lobby, people chattering, laughing. But it is a sound that a bartender recognizes better than anyone: the sound of a group of men who want to drink.

The door of the bar was already ajar, but Hemingway throws it open with his shoulder. He stands proudly in the doorway, his chest thrust forward.

“Hey, Frankie! How’s life?” he asks, as though they last saw each other only a month ago.

A broad smile spreads across Frank’s face. In this moment, it feels as though four years of hell have come to an end.

“Hello, Mr. Hemingway,” Frank says, and it’s as though a great weight has fallen from his shoulders. In its place, to his surprise, he finds hope, and the first inklings of joy.

“Jesus, it’s been a long time!”

“Oh, yes. Welcome to paradise.”