Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 2 - The Barman of the Ritz

FEBRUARY 20, 1944

Blanche is coming home!

Frank is overjoyed at the news and admits to himself that he was unsure he would ever see her again. The news of her impending release arrived moments ago, leaving just enough time for the staff to gather in the Rue Cambon lobby to welcome her home.

What does someone look like when they’ve spent ten months in the hands of the Gestapo?

The Widow is absent, claiming she is in pain from her sciatica. The chambermaids whisper among themselves, the waiters look grave, and the kitchen porters have their hands in their pockets. Georges is standing between the head waiter and the sommelier. Frank has taken up a discreet position near the door. From here, he can see just about everyone, even the two uniformed Nazi officers mingling with the staff. They are very young, no older than Luciano, and look like innocent little boys. But that has not stopped them from observing Blanche Auzello’s return to the Ritz so they can file a report later. Suddenly a ripple goes through the crowd. They are here. At first, all that can be seen are shadows framed in light: a woman, thin and fragile as a bird, hanging on the arm of a man in a hat with a cane. The extent of Blanche’s emaciation becomes more shocking as the Auzellos step into the lighted lobby. Her pale face has hardened, her skin is a sickly yellow, and the dark circles under her feverish eyes are so large that her eyes have all but disappeared. She moves slowly, clutching her husband’s arm as though if she were to let go, even for an instant, she would fall.

Blanche is surprised to see so many people, but when she realizes that this is a silent tribute, a testament of friendship, a shy, childlike smile appears on her bruised face. A few people applaud here and there but quickly fall silent. They are afraid to show their support too loudly, when the walls have eyes and ears. When Blanche finally meets Frank’s gaze, she finds the strength to give him a little wink. Frank slips away and races down to the cellar, before anyone sees his tears. He has never known such relief. Such gratitude. He gives silent thanks and wipes his eyes.

Two days later, they have a meeting in the Tuileries gardens. Blanche issued the invitation via a note left on the bar. The gardens, buried under the snow, offer a kind of neutral ground. Frank arrives early and sits on the edge of a fountain that has been drained for the winter. The icy breeze whips his face and the air in his lungs burns like a swig of vodka. The chestnut trees and Chinese elms are covered in hoarfrost, and the place is deserted but for a few birds in search of a meager meal. Frank shivers. What will they have to say to each other?

In the distance, the church bell of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois rings out, a slow, grave toll, then silence descends once more.

Suddenly Frank sees her.

He would recognize that profile among a thousand people, even now, as she walks warily, arms folded over her chest, staring at the ground. She is wearing a Russian lynx coat that may once have been in vogue but is now hopelessly old-fashioned.

She looks exhausted, as though her months in prison have aged her ten years.

Frank’s eyes mist over.

Pull yourself together, Frank.

If she could stand her ground against the Gestapo, he can at least prove himself worthy of her courage.

“Hello, Frank. I’m sorry to meet out here in the cold, but I felt the need for fresh air and a little patch of sky… I know you understand.”

She has come so close that he can smell the perfume she has dabbed behind her ears: Jean Patou, her favorite.

“I spent ten months wearing a filthy, smelly, lice-ridden bathrobe and a pair of wooden clogs,” she says with a wan smile. “So today I have opted for elegance.”

“Shall we take a little walk? Here, take my arm.”

“I’ll be fine. If I feel faint, I’ll let you know. Let’s walk down the central path.”

Shivering next to him, Blanche does not meet Frank’s gaze. Her breath comes in short gasps.

“It’s funny being here this morning. Do you know what my fellow prisoners called me?”

“Tell me.”

“Snow White. Because I was so pale.”

“You’ll soon get your color back.”

“At least I’m sober now. Ten months without a drop of gin, a glass of champagne, or a pinch of morphine. Quite an achievement! I hope you’re proud of me…”

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, madame. Did you suffer much?”

“Mostly at the beginning. Those perverts plagued me with questions about the ‘clandestine activities at the Ritz.’ They’re convinced the hotel is harboring a nest of spies. They would keep me awake all night and shout at me all day. More than once, they threatened to pull my fingernails out with a pair of surgeon’s tweezers they loved to wave under my nose. Sometimes they slapped me hard, but I wasn’t truly tortured. I could hear the screams of the people who were, and that was very different, believe me.”

Frank clenches his fists in his pockets.

“They quickly realized that I was suffering much more from my various addictions than from their beatings. No alcohol, no opiates; that was torture. I came to every interrogation bathed in sweat. I suffered agonizing migraines—I was completely incoherent. One night, I had such terrible stomach pain that I started writhing like a snake in the chair. More than once, I soiled myself in front of them. In those moments, I could see myself, my clothes stained with excrement, and I didn’t even feel ashamed… Those bastards just laughed. They even promised me a bottle of cognac if I confessed. But I wouldn’t speak. I got a few extra kicks in the kidneys for that. I thought I would die. It carried on like this for weeks. Then, one day, they left me alone. They must have decided I didn’t know anything.”

As she finishes her story, she slows her steps, utterly exhausted.

“Your bravery does you great credit, madame.”

“You would have done the same, I’m sure. You are a good man, Frank.”

The “good man” feels his stomach heave under the weight of his shame. All he can picture is Blanche’s emaciated body curled on the ground, clothes soiled with her own excrement. As in a nightmare, this image merges with those of the corpses he saw during the Great War. Frank feels as though he is choking.

Blanche could have denounced him and Monsieur Süss to spare herself this suffering, but she refused. Frank is not sure that he would have been capable of such bravery. And while Blanche was locked up, what was he doing? Standing behind his bar, getting rich. Earning tips, taking bets, trafficking in false papers: he was looking out for himself—he could not even save Luciano from having to flee. He feels pathetic. Frank dreamed of greatness, but his dreams have only eaten away at him inside. Before the war, Frank believed greatness was Hemingway, bottle of champagne in hand, berating the crowd of aristocrats at the Petit Bar for their privilege—but in 1944, true courage is Blanche Auzello’s refusal to confess, and Frank is not ready for that kind of greatness.

“Did you know that Süss caught me turning on the kitchen lights?” says Blanche as they stroll down the Allée de Diane.

“Yes, he told me.”

“I knew he wouldn’t turn me in to the Nazis because I caught him leaving them on too. Do you know something? I think that good old Monsieur Süss wanted the bloody Ritz to be bombed at least as much as I did.”

This had never occurred to Frank. Blanche was always more perceptive.

“He found himself caught in his own trap, and a British bomb would have set him free. Claude thinks the Nazis executed him, weighed down his body, and tossed it into the Seine. Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. He disappeared without a trace.”

“I often thought of him during the interrogations to stop myself from cracking. He was arrogant, I loathed him, but he didn’t turn me in. I had to be at least as noble.”

“He was a truly remarkable man.” Frank says this almost unthinkingly, surprised to feel a hint of jealousy. He would have liked Blanche to take refuge in thoughts of him when she was surrounded by wolves.

“Frank, I have one last favor to ask.”

Her voice is so feeble…

“Why ‘last’?”

“I want to go home. To leave Europe. Could you help me get back to New York?”

The question is like a knife in Frank’s chest.

“Well…”

He thinks for a moment. All forms of transportation to the United States and Britain have been suspended. The only way to get to New York would be by ship, from Lisbon or Casablanca. And what papers could she use? Her American passport is much too risky. A French passport would be just as suspicious. So, a forged foreign passport? Frank has not been in touch with Fersen for months, but for the wife of Claude Auzello, the Swedish diplomat might make an exception. Besides, Frank cannot imagine saying no to Blanche. Certainly not after all she’s been through.

“I’ll get the papers,” he says at length. “For you and Monsieur Auzello.”

“No. Just for me. Claude doesn’t know I want to leave. He plans to stay here. I can understand, he sees this as home. But I’ve made up my mind. Have you seen what they’ve done to me?”

“A few weeks in America, and you’ll be your old self again. You’ll be able to spend the whole summer in the Hamptons.”

“If you only knew how much that moves me, Frank… Every night in my cell, I would lose myself in memories of New York to escape the pain. It all seems so long ago. Those days in Manhattan were glorious. The excitement, the fun, we were so daring… Now all our friends are dead and everything we knew has disappeared.”

“Not everything. You are still just as daring.”

She looks at him and her eyes fill with tears.

“I love you so much, Frank.”

It is true, thinks Frank, she does love him, but not in the way he loves her, or she would have rushed into his arms on her release. She would have wanted him to come with her back to New York. He can finally accept that friendship is all he has ever had with Blanche, all he will ever get. He feels a sense of contentedness spread like a warmth through his body.

Let this winter walk with her last a lifetime.

She puts her arm through his, she is walking a little unsteadily, clearly in pain.

And so, Frank slowly walks her back to the Ritz, each of them in their own worlds, conjuring up a future in which the other plays no part.