Part Three: The Growing Conflict — Chapter 8 - The Barman of the Ritz

JUNE 22, 1941

When he is behind the bar at the Ritz, Frank is the boss. But today, as soon as he leaves, he is once again the son of a Jewish weaver from Łódź, the boy from the Tyrolean mountains, the penniless teenager lost in the Vienna of the belle époque. He has one foot in each world; he is no longer there, but never completely here. Who is he this afternoon, as he sits in the waiting room of an embassy where he has been for almost fifteen minutes? The callow youth or the man of the world he has become? A respected barman or a fool in love trying to defend someone else’s wife? He is all of these things, of course. This morning, he contacted Fersen’s office and, despite the fact that it is a Sunday, the Swedish diplomat immediately agreed to meet him. The two men have not seen each other since that night last October when Fersen came to the Ritz bar, but they hold each other in high esteem and both are sensitive to the weaknesses of men.

A portrait of Bernadotte, King of Sweden, hangs on the wall of the embassy. With its magnificent ceilings and the intricately carved cornices, everything here speaks of stability, of continuity, of peaceful times. Here more than anywhere else, Frank can see just how far he has risen in society, even as he contemplates the yawning chasm that will always separate him from the aristocracy.

Göring, Stülpnagel, Speidel, Baron Pfyffer, and Fersen were all aristocrats or upper class. No matter how much war might shuffle the deck, they will always remain at the top, while people like me, the Scheuers, the Süsses, even the Lafonts, struggle on as best we can while we wait for the axe to fall. César Ritz himself came from humble stock.

Although César Ritz rose far above his humble beginnings to be admired and respected, everything was in the hands of the bankers. And had he wanted to found a dynasty, he was doomed to fail. Marie-Louise spent years hiding the fact that her husband was in declining health so that she could take over the business; soon, she too will die and leave their Ritz to her only remaining son, Charley, who will sell it off because he is only interested in fly fishing.

Frank still holds his own fate in his hands. Süss has given him forty-eight hours; there are thirty-six left, and he has not yet decided what he will do. He could choose to do nothing: Süss might be bluffing, or Claude Auzello might find some way to silence him. Then again, the money Süss has offered might prove useful. But what does Frank know about the art market? Nothing. And then there is the question of his moral duty—does he have an obligation to help these frightened families obtain the papers they need to leave? He will take the next day and a half to mull over his churning thoughts. Among them: how long can he continue to live with his conscience intact, in glorious isolation at the Ritz, serving cocktails to Nazis, blind to the horrors outside the hotel?

“Monsieur Meier?”

Frank starts, but quickly regains his composure.

A civil servant leads him into the diplomat’s vast office, which overlooks a lush garden. On a rosewood console table, Fersen has placed a miniature pair of scales. A few Swedish krona keep it lined up with the horizon. A perfect balance.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, my friend, it’s been a busy day.”

The greeting is commonplace, but the tone is sincere. Frank already knows he has come to the right door. He obliquely explains his situation; Fersen gets the picture, asks no questions, and proceeds in hypotheticals to put him at ease. Gentlemen implicitly understand each other.

The Swedish diplomat is as familiar with the gray area of forged papers as he is with international law, and is prepared to pull strings for people that he trusts. Needless to say, he would not do this himself, “but hypothetically, solutions exist…”

The conversation pauses for a moment and Frank glances at the scales.

“Money?” says Fersen with a smile. “Of course, there are some solutions that require Reichsmarks. But, since I am dealing with you, I would not stoop to imposing such a condition. Besides, if I understand correctly, you are still at the exploratory stage of your… project?”

“Exactly.”

“If there is any way I can be of help, it would be my pleasure. I know that you would wish to express your gratitude—and that does you credit. I am quite sure that, if need be, we could come to an equitable arrangement.”

In that moment, Frank realizes the enormity of what he is asking—and of the favor Fersen is proposing to do him.

“You should come to the bar from time to time,” Frank says, getting to his feet. “General von Stülpnagel is a regular and I think you might learn something interesting.”

Fersen smiles and extends his hand.

“My dear Frank, I know how valuable the conversations at your bar can be. But when it comes to politics, big or small, thankfully I have other networks.”

Beneath the faint Swedish accent, Frank hears the subtle irony characteristic of the Club des Élégants, an irony that impresses without ever insulting.

As he leaves the embassy, he feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, but the weight of decisions still to be made remains heavy. Unconsciously, he walks back towards the Ritz, he takes stock, hesitates, calculates the risks.

His head is spinning. It is no longer enough to talk and think; he will have to take off the kid gloves and get his hands dirty. Regardless of what he decides between now and tomorrow, he will find himself in a new world. A world where he will be more isolated than ever.

Turning into the Rue Cambon, he checks his watch. He still has thirty-five hours to decide.