Part Three: The Growing Conflict — Chapter 11 - The Barman of the Ritz

AUGUST 27, 1941

Yesterday, Frank got a letter from his son, Jean-Jacques, who has tired of hearing about German advances on the Eastern Front and the North African campaign. His son ends with these words: “We want to be able to live in the here and now.” But, Frank thinks, in the here and now, protesters are being rounded up. In the here and now, people are being slaughtered. In the here and now, the walls of Paris are plastered with posters for an exhibition at the Palais Berlitz: Jews and France.

“The realists are doing everything they can to escape,” says a hoarse voice.

As ever, Blanche appears in the doorway just as Frank is about to close up. She is wearing a blue serge coat with a black fur collar, her smile dark. Her pale complexion is set off by a chignon held in place by a hairpin of carved ivory encrusted with gold and diamonds. The sudden wave of joy he feels initially catches Frank off guard, but then he understands. What attracts him to Blanche, much more than her beauty, is everything that, deep down, he seems to be lacking in these troubled times: her impudence, her sense of humor, her bluntness. She has a certain sangfroid in the face of hardship that Frank cannot help but envy.

Frank is pleased to see that Blanche is almost entirely her old self again, and even ventures out into the city from time to time. Tonight, she has come to talk to him about someone she met earlier this afternoon, a thin, elderly Jew from the Marais, a friend of Lily Kharmayeff. They met at the Café de la Paix because the man did not want Blanche to come to his home, so ashamed is he of the grinding poverty that now pervades the historic Jewish quarter. He lives on the Rue des Écouffes, in Saint-Paul, less than half an hour’s walk from the Ritz.

Blanche is still shaken by the encounter.

“His name is Joachim Ruderman, he is seventy-three, he lives on his own and he would do anything to go to his younger sister, who emigrated to Chicago fifteen years ago. He has never been outside Europe in his life, but now, he knows he has to leave. Everywhere he goes, he can feel the vicious hatred of the Jews, everywhere he goes he feels as though he were a hunted animal. A terrible catastrophe is looming and all he wants is to die in peace. Monsieur Ruderman told me that, ten days ago, a man who managed to escape from Zborów came to hide out in his building. One night, all the tenants in the building gathered in the living room of the Ackermann family and listened as this man, a peasant farmer, described the horrors he experienced this past summer. The Nazis marched into Zborów on July 4; three days later, they massacred every Jew in the city. The Einsatzgruppen forced them to dig their own graves, ordered them to lie down top to tail in the trench, and shot them one by one: six hundred people. They didn’t scream, they didn’t beg: they knew there was nothing they could do to escape death. The farmer said that he was requisitioned by the SS to lead Jews to the mass grave, where for hours they heard the groans of victims dying under the mass of tangled bodies. He saw a six-year-old boy crawling over the bodies to get to his dead mother; the child was sobbing his heart out until an SS officer in shirtsleeves, swigging from a bottle of schnapps, shot the child in the head to cheers and laughter from the others.”

How could anyone believe such a story? Is this man a liar? When he fought on the Somme, Frank knew men who made up all manner of horrors just to scare people. This peasant farmer could have been sent by the Germans to frighten Western Jews—it has become so difficult to distinguish fact from fiction.

Or what if Ruderman is right? Could such a thing be possible?

“I know it sounds unbelievable,” Blanche says, her face streaked with tears. “But if you had looked into his eyes, Frank! He wasn’t lying, I’m sure of it. And I wondered whether…”

Frank stops her with a gentle gesture. He knows where this is going. Right now, everyone is dreaming of acquiring a fake passport.

“He says he will not stay in France any longer,” Blanche goes on, “he fears the worst. I thought about asking Laura Corrigan, she’s supposed to be well connected, but I hate the woman. Oh, Frank, I’m begging you. You helped me stay; will you help this man leave? I’m begging you, if you know a way…”

Frank hesitates. No one other than Süss can know that he has connections who can supply forged papers. But he looks into Blanche’s eyes, and her gentle compassion melts his heart.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

Frank already knows what he is going to do. He will get a false passport for Monsieur Ruderman from Fersen, at his own expense. Süss has finally paid him, and very handsomely, he cannot complain. His legs almost give way as Blanche leans over and kisses his cheek.

“You have such courage, madame,” he says.

Once again, she bursts into tears. Frank is overcome by Blanche’s tenderness. He dares to lay his hand on hers. His courage returns. Blanche stares at him intently. She grasps his hand and brings it to her face. The hand he uses to select bottles and mix cocktails awkwardly brushes against Blanche’s cheek. Frank wavers, his courage flailing. He does not know what to do. He can feel the soft warmth of her tear-streaked skin against his palm.

Overcome with emotion, he thinks about stroking her hair, wishes he could bury his fingers in her unraveling chignon. His head is spinning. Listen to your heart! He longs to kiss her, comfort her, embrace her. What the hell are you waiting for? Suddenly, a series of muffled thuds makes them start. Blanche sits up straight, pulling sharply away from Frank. It sounds as though a stack of empty crates in the cellar has toppled over. Warily, Frank turns round. He hears more crates falling.

“Who’s down there?”

The barman’s gruff tone masks his fear.

“Who’s there?”

As the cellar door creaks open, Blanche gives a frightened cry. She gets to her feet, takes a step back, and holds her breath. Frank is standing ramrod straight, his every muscle tensed, as he stares at the door. He glances towards the ice pick in the sink. Is it a Kraut?

Then, behind the dark half-open door, Frank sees Luciano’s pale face. Relieved, he relaxes his muscles and leans against the bar.

“What are you doing here, lad? It’s very late!”

“I forgot my penknife, m’sieur. You were talking and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You were spying on us!” says Blanche.

“I wasn’t, madame, honestly.”

The young apprentice blushes to the roots of his hair, clear proof that he overheard everything.

“Right, get off to bed!” Frank barks.

Not daring to look them in the eye, the boy bids a sheepish goodnight, pulls on his jacket and disappears into the hallway.

“I suppose you’re aware your apprentice probably thinks we’re lovers?” Blanche laughs and Frank feels a sudden flush of cold.

“Don’t worry, madame, I can vouch for his loyalty. Luciano is like a son to me. He won’t repeat a word, I can promise you that.”

For a moment, Frank considers telling Blanche that Luciano is also a Jew but changes his mind. Never break the golden rule.

But still, I’ll need to have a quiet word with the boy tomorrow night.

Blanche decides to go up to her apartments. She puts on her coat and heads for the door. Frank can see that she has been shaken by this incident and unsettled by what almost happened between them tonight.

Did it almost happen? Or did I imagine it? If she turns round again before she leaves, I’ll find the courage to kiss her someday, he bargains.

On the threshold, Blanche pauses and turns back. Frank holds his breath.

“Good night, Frank.”

“Good night, madame…”

He listens to the click of high heels on marble as she walks down the hall.

Frank lights a cigarette, watching the smoke spiral towards the ceiling as he slowly exhales. He leans back against the bar, troubled, confused, pathetically hopeful.