Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 6 - The Barman of the Ritz

APRIL 3, 1944

Today Frank turned sixty. He was thirty when the Great War began in 1914. Two wars in one lifetime—not something he would wish on anyone.

This splintered, shell-shocked century is mine, and I will drink it to the dregs, he thought this morning as he ran a fresh razor blade over his sunken cheeks. Tonight, despite the increasingly turbulent environment of the city, everyone has gathered in the bar to celebrate his birthday. Ernst Jünger arrived with Florence Gould, Elmiger with his wife, Josée de Chambrun with her husband. Sacha Guitry is here, of course, as are Arletty and Cocteau. This is no surprise party: it was Frank who came up with the idea, aided by Georges and a few regulars. But he didn’t expect so many people.

Even Fersen came, just after the bar opened. He gave Frank an old French edition of Ibsen’s play When We Dead Awaken. The diplomat discreetly murmured that the real gift was on page 84. Frank did not need to look to understand: inside is a passport in the name of Alba Hoffsen, with visas for both Spain and Portugal. Frank has decided he will give it to Blanche tonight.

But when Blanche finally arrives on Claude’s arm, he sees only a blank expression, as though she has forgotten what she asked him to do. As though she has forgotten him. He hides the book containing the passport in the cellar, masks his feelings, and thinks of Inga Haag. She has not arrived yet—will she come? She and General von Stülpnagel are still exchanging messages. Regardless of their content, her relationship with the general has changed the bond between her and Frank. The sense of camaraderie, even if it was only ever superficial, has faded. All that remains is a barman’s courtesy to a regular customer.

Frank consoles himself by gazing out at the large crowd and enjoying the scowl on the face of Marie-Louise Ritz, who has not even deigned to come and shake his hand.

But there is someone missing behind the bar. Where are you now, Luciano? Frank has still not received a postcard, but he continues to hope. Some days ago, unable to stand it any longer, he called the hotel in Biarritz and asked to speak to his friend, Monsieur Launay. “Monsieur Launay has not been with us now for more than a year,” Frank was told. “He left for Casablanca.” Who knows, maybe Luciano did go to the Hôtel du Palais and discovered that Launay was no longer working there but managed to get work. He could even be working there right now. For a split second, Frank considered asking the receptionist to put him through to the new head barman, or asking her whether there was a young Swiss apprentice… But he didn’t dare. Will he ever know? In the long months since Luciano left, Frank has been doing his best to keep up appearances, but his heart is no longer in it. His illicit activities these days are reduced to delivering love notes between a possible spy and a Prussian general, and shamefully skimming off the profits of the bar, fed by those who have washed up at the Ritz. He still sets aside ten percent of his share for Luciano, in case he ever sees the boy again. In the meantime, now that he has no apprentice, Frank has to crush the ice himself, like he did when he first started out. Just as he is about to swing the ice pick, he hears a welcome voice rise above the clamor.

There is a grim seriousness about Colonel Speidel as he comes to shake Frank’s hand. Speidel is now a fearful man. Is this because of what he witnessed on the Eastern Front?

What’s he afraid of?

“What a pleasure, Colonel! What brings you here tonight?”

“I was appointed chief of staff to Field Marshal Rommel, so I am back on the Western Front. And then I heard about your little birthday party…”

“Are you staying here at the Ritz?”

“No, we are based in La Roche-Guyon, near Giverny. We’re staying at the Château des La Rochefoucauld.”

They are immediately joined by General von Stülpnagel, who is smiling broadly.

“Guten Abend, Herr Meier! As you can see, I brought you Speidel—a perfect gift, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely, I am delighted to have him back among us. What can I get you?”

“A Royal Highball for Speidel, und ein Happy Honey für mich, bitte.”

As he turns away to prepare the cocktails, Frank gives a little shake of his head.

One day, I will tell people that a colonel from the Wehrmacht unexpectedly showed up at my sixtieth birthday party. What sacrilege for a French war veteran!

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please!”

Clutching his Happy Honey, Carl-Heinrich von Stülpnagel has just taken command of the evening’s events.

“I would like to propose a toast to our dear Frank. Tonight, I raise my glass to him on his sixtieth birthday, which happily coincides with a break in this dreary weather. A birthday made more splendid by the flowers of spring, but also, as Captain Jünger pointed out to me this morning, by the sight of pretty women once again strolling through the streets of Paris. We know how sensitive Frank is to the beauties of nature. Frank Meier, to your health! On behalf of all those here tonight who cherish you, I wish you a very happy birthday!”

Well, well! All this applause for a little kike who serves drinks to his enemies like a coward.

The commander-in-chief of the occupying forces has offered his best wishes, and anyone who is anyone in collaborationist Paris is giving me a standing ovation. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Smile, Frank. Make eye contact, bow and nod and say thank you.

The evening is going perfectly. People are drinking, laughing, talking.

Why don’t you all go away and have dinner somewhere? I can’t bear this anymore!

But now Stülpnagel is coming over to talk to him.

Smile, Frank.

Before he sits down, General von Stülpnagel glances over his shoulder and makes the most of the loud and crowded bar to discreetly lean a little closer.

“Have you got a note for me, Frank?”

“Not tonight, sir, I’m afraid. Mademoiselle Haag has not been to the bar for several days.”

Stülpnagel looks peeved. Frank senses something is amiss.

“I understand that she was recalled to Berlin yesterday by her uncle, Admiral Canaris,” says Stülpnagel.

Frank does not bat an eyelid.

“Problems?” he asks.

“I would rather think not. But, whatever the case, you have been a wonderful ally to us, Frank. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I may ask you to act as a dead letter box again, if you don’t mind…”

The general trails off, as though to allow the barman a moment to think. Playing letter box could cost him dearly. Frank tries to gauge the situation. Were Stülpnagel and Inga Haag really lovers? Not very likely… A plot by the Wehrmacht against the Nazi big shots? Possible.

At the far end of the bar, beneath the portrait of Fitzgerald, Sacha Guitry is proposing a toast: “To Frank Meier, the best of us!” It is a welcome distraction. His mind still racing frantically, the barman raises his champagne glass to acknowledge the playwright and his little group. What should he say to Stülpnagel? He surely cannot refuse to help—he’s been acting as a dead letter box for Inga Haag, after all. Frank’s instinct, despite his reservations, is to accept. In the nest of German spies that Paris has become, he would still rather be on the side of Stülpnagel.

“That would be fine,” he says at length.

Stülpnagel smiles, then goes off to say goodbye to two officers about to leave. He adopts a jovial air, but Frank will not forget the dark glint he saw in the general’s eyes. The same grim look he saw in Speidel’s eyes earlier tonight.

Who knows what those two are up to?

Frank would rather know as little as possible. Tonight, he turns sixty, surrounded by Germans and overwhelmed by his own weakness.

Who are my real friends in this crowd? All of them seem to want something from me. The Widow, Elmiger, Inga, Stülpnagel… and Blanche? Blanche only measures how useful I can be to her. Am I a mere pawn in this game of war, or will I come out of it a better man? And what of my son? I couldn’t invite him into this nest of vipers. He wouldn’t have come anyway. But what is a birthday without family?

Franks falls asleep with these thoughts churning in his mind. Six decades on this earth and yet he feels utterly adrift.