Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 13 - The Barman of the Ritz

JULY 21, 1944

Frank is awoken by shouting. The door to the bar bursts open and SS officers stream inside. Frank starts and jumps to his feet. He hears more officers in the corridors outside, spreading out over the hotel, shouting to each other from one floor to another, vengeful, demanding access to every room. Frank is too panicked to think straight, to think at all. What will be will be.

But after a brief search of the bar, they move on to other rooms. So far, the SS do not seem to know about the letters, but it is only a matter of time. They warn him not to leave, and from the way Elmiger glares at him at midday, Frank realizes that the manager suspects something.

Georges arrives.

“What the hell’s going on?” his loyal second in command says worriedly. “Have you heard? People are saying that Stülpnagel and Speidel were in on the plot!”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Can you believe it? They must have been conspiring right under our noses, right here at the bar… Who knows, maybe Inga Haag was in on it too!”

“Of course she was, Georges.”

For a moment, Frank considers keeping his terrible secret, but he cannot bear it any longer. Maybe it’s a rash decision, but he is so starved for a confidant that he is prepared to risk it.

“And, to be completely honest, so was I.”

Frank immediately feels a huge weight lift from his shoulders. Georges staggers back.

“What?”

“In the beginning, it was just Stülpnagel and Inga Haag using me to pass a few messages back and forth. You thought Inga was flirting with me, I thought she and Stülpnagel were having an affair. Since last April, I’ve been a dead letter box for conspirators, although I didn’t really know what was in the messages I was passing back and forth.”

Georges tries to take it all in. He furrows his brow. He suddenly seems much older.

“And you’re still here?” he says frantically. “Get out, Frank, for God’s sake, get the hell out!”

“It’s too late. I’m forbidden from leaving the hotel until further notice. They’re keeping an eye on me.”

“We’re in deep shit and we need to leave as fast as possible!”

“You go,” says Frank. “Go before they come back. Leave before they lock you up with me.”

“All right,” Georges says, a little too glibly. “I’ll go, but I won’t be far, OK?”

“And you’ll be sure to tell the Yanks I wasn’t just a collaborator, right?”

Georges still finds the strength to smile.

“What is there to tell?”

Georges grabs his jacket, waits until the voices out in the corridor have faded away, then heads out. As he reaches the door, he turns back one last time.

“Victory is singing / Opening the gates / Liberty is guiding us / And from North to South / The war trumpet has sounded / The hour of battle…”

“Le Chant du Départ.” The song the boys in the trenches used to sing to give them courage. Georges taught it to Frank back in 1916.

“Tremble you enemies of France / Kings drunk on blood and pride,” Frank picks up the lyrics. “The sovereign people cometh forth / Tyrants, go down to your graves.”

The hair prickles on the back of Frank’s neck as he watches his old comrade-in-arms head towards the exit onto the Rue Cambon. Now he is alone against the enemy.

The future suddenly seems crystal clear. He will be arrested, jailed, and probably tortured. Fate has finally decided to give me a role to play, he thinks, trying to stave off his mounting dread. About time, too. No more spending the war sheltered behind this bar, I’m at the front of the action now. Someday, I’ll be able to say that I too languished in a Nazi jail—and if I die, Georges will remember for me. My honor is safe.

Honor, really?

Frank knocks back his drink, lights a cigarette, walks around to the other side of the bar, and slumps into a chair. He feels he has come to the end, tired of feeling scared, tired of watching his every action and reaction. Fate will either spare him or sacrifice him. All he can do now is wait.