Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 4 - The Barman of the Ritz

MARCH 19, 1944

Frank has heard nothing more about the possible assassination attempt; he is beginning to wonder whether he may have misheard. Then again, the possibility of an Allied landing is on everyone’s mind.

As for Georges, he is being less and less careful. He can sense the end is near, and it is fueling a kind of nervous excitement. He seems prepared to believe any rumor that might inspire even a flicker of hope.

“Have you heard what they’re saying about old Adolf?” he asks as they set up the bar.

“No.”

“Rumor has it he’s gone completely insane and the Nazis have locked him up in the Berghof. Can you imagine? They say the guy in the German newsreels is a double.”

Frank sighs.

“That’s rubbish, Georges.”

“Probably, but it confirms that the tide is turning. We could make a fortune! Think about it: no one is in charge anymore, the whole thing falling apart. We can do whatever we like, Frank. We could run a second set of books, what do you say?”

Frank looks at him sternly, but Georges is undeterred.

“Who’s going to check the orders, the inventory, the invoices, the expenses, the receipts? Nobody, Frank! The whole world is going to hell.”

“It would mean stealing from the Ritz, Georges.”

Ever since he came to work here in 1921, Frank has been loyal to the hotel. Except for the three weeks in the summer of 1939, when he supplied Blanche with morphine… Even when he desperately needed money to pay for the fake passports, he was careful not to run two sets of books—that is a line he refuses to cross.

“No, Frank, it just means taking advantage of a terrible situation and making money off the backs of the filthy rich. You’ve always loved money.”

“You’re wrong, Georges. I’ve never loved money. I love the freedom it affords me.”

“Look, whatever you say, it’s now or never. If the Nazis leave, we’ll go back to being the lackeys for the bloody bourgeois bastards. This is our one chance. You cut me in for twenty-five percent and we can make a fortune while the going is good. At least say you’ll think about it!”

Poor Georges. Frank knows that his friend has always aspired to be more than a humble barman; he dreams of being a boss, a high roller, a “bourgeois bastard” himself. He put his faith in Pétain, and then Laval and, after him, Lafont, and every time he has been disappointed. Who next? De Gaulle? Frank is deeply wary of the scheming of his old comrade-in-arms, but he does not want to provoke him, certainly not tonight. Georges is his only bastion against loneliness here in the bar. And he saved Luciano’s life, something Frank will never forget.

“Strange doll coming this way!” says Georges, as he finishes lining up the bottles. “It’s only half past five, should I let her in?”

“Go on.”

“She’s got a real thing for you, hasn’t she?”

“Georges!”

But it is a valid question. Inga Haag is back at the Ritz with her cat, flirtatious as ever, as if she has only been away on holiday for a few days. She and Frank have resumed their ritual of trading sardonic quips about the latest grim news of the war. But her intentions remain opaque as ever.

Here we are flirting while bombs fall and Resistance fighters are being executed.

Since Inga’s return, Frank has been trying to decipher what she’s up to. He has tried to correlate her visits with those of someone else, but he hasn’t been able to find any kind of pattern. He wondered whether she might be on a mission for her uncle—no way of knowing. The one thing that is certain is that she has never been here on a night when there was a bombing raid. But that could well be coincidence. She comes about every three nights, stays for an hour, then leaves. Frank is wary of her now, even if their connection bolsters his self-esteem and alleviates his loneliness.

This is the first time she’s come before the bar has opened.

She is wearing a sheath dress under a white fox fur coat, and for once her cat is not with her.

“Good evening, Inga. A glass of Roederer with raspberries?”

“No, thank you, Frank. I’d rather have a Martini.”

“Coming up.”

Clearly there will be no flirtation this evening. Inga looks troubled; she has a wan smile and a faraway look.

“Where’s Raimund?”

“I’ve just come from a meeting where he wasn’t welcome.” Inga takes her cigarette holder from her leather handbag.

“Can I give you a light?”

“Yes, please.”

She draws deeply on her cigarette.

“Could you deliver a letter to General von Stülpnagel from me?” she asks hesitantly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The thing is, I’m married, Frank, and so is the general… so I have to avoid being seen with him in public.”

“Oh… Yes, of course, I understand.”

Inga Haag is the younger Stülpnagel’s lover! The realization hits Frank like a slap in the face.

“I know that you’re extremely discreet, Frank. Would you be prepared to be our… how do you say it? Our dead letter box?”

“Of course, madame. I’m silent as the grave.”

He can no longer call her by her first name.

“Thank you so much, Frank.”

“Your Martini, madame.”

He watches as she brings the glass to her lips, but the image no longer has the same frisson. He tries to imagine her in bed with the general, but it is impossible. Even though he is the younger of the two Stülpnagels, he is still quite an old-fashioned, traditional type. So, she came here not to catch herself a humble barman but to harpoon a Prussian general. Has Inga been using him to track her prey? Is she a spy for Russia or for the British? Worse still, could she be working for Himmler? Or maybe she wants to trap Stülpnagel and sabotage his plans?

“There you go,” she says, handing him a slip of paper no bigger than a coaster. “I would be grateful if you could give him this note.”

“I will do so as soon as I see him, never fear,” Frank says, slipping the note into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I know he will be here sometime this evening. Thank you again, Frank. Now, I really must be off, I’m due at the Lutetia. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, nothing. You’ve hardly touched your Martini.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Have a good evening, madame.”

“See you soon, Frank.”

She waves to Georges and disappears.

What on earth is she playing at?

She has not even put the note into an envelope, it is simply folded in half.

Spy or lover, why so few precautions?

She knows that Frank will be able to read it, and of course he is longing to do just that. Slowly, he unfolds the note. One word appears: Sehnsucht—“Longing.”

It is a poem by Goethe:

This will not be the final tear

That burns and swells the aching heart;

With ever new and sharpening sear,

It soothes by pain that won’t depart.

Frank’s first thought is: Is that all?

Then again, what was he expecting? State secrets, or a scandalous invitation?

“Did she give you a little love note?” Georges says with a lascivious grin.

“Not really…”

“So, what is that?”

“A poem for General von Stülpnagel.”

“Are the two of them involved?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank murmurs.

“This bar of yours is getting really weird.”

Georges is right. Frank has been a fool.

A complete clown.

He is angry that he didn’t notice. He feels a cold fury welling up inside.

“You know what?” he says, “I’ve thought about it: we’ll run a second set of books…”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“I get seventy percent, you get thirty.”

Georges’s face lights up.

“Count me in. They all drink like fish. We’ll make a killing. A small fortune!”

A small fortune…

And old Widow Ritz can go to hell.