Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 2 - The Barman of the Ritz

AUGUST 25, 1940

“Are you toying with me, Meier?”

“No, madame…”

Gripping the edge of her desk, Marie-Louise Ritz is incandescent with rage. Hans Elmiger, who she has urgently summoned, arrives just after Frank. Süss is already there. It is the first time Frank has been in the office of César Ritz. Spartan, austere, the decor reflects its owner. Even the portrait of the founder that hangs on the wall looks dull, and everything smells of beeswax polish.

“Whatever it takes, Meier, I want you to bring the writers, the artists, the elite of Paris back into the bar, and to throw these prostitutes you’ve allowed into the Ritz back out onto the streets! That’s an order!”

Frank knows one thing for certain in that moment: the Widow despises him.

When he first came to work at the hotel, two years after the death of the legendary César Ritz, Frank was dazzled by her elegance and poise. She moved effortlessly between several languages and lavished extraordinary attention on her guests. No request was too outlandish—when the Marquise Casati was in residence, Marie-Louise insisted that the maître d’hôtel personally fetch live rabbits to feed the boa constrictors she kept in her bathroom. But even the Widow’s hospitality had its limits; she had once politely requested that the Countess de Salverte move out of her apartments because her pet lion had grown too big. To Frank, she was the epitome of an iron hand in a velvet glove. Although deferential to guests, she could be cruel and contemptuous to staff—and Frank had often felt the lash of her tongue.

By the time she left for her rest cure in Lucerne, Frank thought she looked like a wizened old owl; now she has returned as a poisonous reptile.

It’s as if this war has given her a new lease on life.

“You cannot begin to imagine how grueling my journey from Lucerne was,” the Widow says to no one in particular. “My hips are in agony. Two whole days it took me to get here! And at least two hours yesterday to cross that cursed demarcation line: the Germans searched our car from top to bottom. This country has been humiliated; I feel ashamed for it.”

On this, Frank and the Widow are in agreement.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” she erupts. “You’ve always been incompetent, Meier! And a coward to boot. Everyone knows it! Monsieur Süss, could you tell everyone what you told me earlier?”

The tight-lipped Süss complies.

“Last night, hearing voices in the bar, I popped my head around the door… and saw a scruffy captain of the Wehrmacht at the piano with a tart on his lap.”

Who would have thought that, beneath the elegant manners of the dandy, there lurked a snitch?

Süss does not dare mention that the young woman in question had her hand in the officer’s trousers—a hand job from Paris, the welcome gift of occupied France. But he describes the group of hairy drunken German officers carousing with a group of prostitutes. Hans Elmiger, who does not frequent the bar where his deputy can often be found, listens wide-eyed. Marie-Louise’s eyes flare with anger and the pleasure she seems to take in berating her barman.

“It is utterly revolting, Meier. You are turning this venerable establishment into a cheap brothel. I demand that it cease immediately!”

Frank nods his head, but not for a moment does he believe it will happen. The Nazis will never give up their high-class whores with their patent-leather heels, silk stockings, fashionable perfume, and cut-price blow jobs. The soldiers may be impeccably polite, but they behave like conquering heroes.

“Listen to me,” the Widow says soothingly. “I want to keep you on, Meier. To be perfectly honest, your skills are much appreciated by our German hosts and by the Paris elite.”

Silence. Marie-Louise stares at him, her eyes shining like boot buttons. “Let me make a deal with you, Meier. Through the good offices of Colonel Speidel, Reichsminister Goebbels has informed Monsieur Elmiger and myself that he would like the Ritz to return to its familiar place as the hub of social life as soon as possible.”

Goebbels! The Minister of Propaganda and radical hater of Jews. Is there no German the Widow finds too odious?

“He finds Paris depressing and is determined that this should change,” she continues. “He wants bustle and gaiety. He would like a hand-picked clientele of Parisian artists to find their way back to the Place Vendôme. You could help us bring back some of the old regulars: Sacha Guitry, Serge Lifar, Jean Cocteau—I believe that you have a special relationship with these people, is that correct?”

“They do me that honor.”

“Shall we just say that this would be a way for you to prove your loyalty?”

Frank can smell the trap. It’s an all but impossible challenge: few wish to frequent the Ritz while the bar is full of uniformed Nazi officers. Then again, knowing how artists crave the limelight, perhaps there might be a way.

The Widow will do anything to keep the hotel open and the money coming in. Even bowing and scraping to the Nazis.

“You can count on me,” says Frank. “I will have a word with Guitry as soon as I can.”

“Excellent! I am sure that you and I can do business together, Monsieur Meier… provided, of course, that you are also prepared to agree to my second request.”

The Widow gives him a smile that bodes ill.

Süss is gleeful, clearly aware of what’s coming, while Elmiger is on tenterhooks.

“I would like you to make the bars single sex again.”

She pretends to think for a moment.

“No, on second thought: I want you to deny women access. Yes, I want you to make it one of the rules of the house. Is that clear?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And until you manage this, your bar will remain closed.”

“Yes, madame.”

The Widow offers a feigned smile as Frank gets up and takes his leave.

“I see you have finally come to your senses, Monsieur Meier. We are on the road to reconciliation. I cannot wait for Reichsmarschall Göring to come and join us. His presence will bring a little order to the ranks. By the way,” she says, turning to Elmiger, “is everything ready, Hans? Will the work on the bathroom be completed on time?”

“By Friday, madame. And the furniture from the Château de Versailles is to be delivered tomorrow.”

“Wonderful. We also need to check that the bed linen and towels are embroidered with his initials. A monogram in red and black. So many things still to be done!”

Frank Meier leaves the office wearier than ever. All around the city, people are clamoring for foreign workers to be fired, and there is increasing talk of a “special status” for Jews. Frank is ashamed and humiliated by his own spinelessness. He feels abandoned by the country that he fought for in the Great War. But mostly, he is terrified. Frank cannot predict the future, but he can take a cue from the recent past—he has read about the racial purity laws enacted in Germany, the horrors of Kristallnacht, the wanton destruction of Jewish businesses. He does not want to imagine what Marie-Louise Ritz would do if she discovered her precious barman was not merely an incompetent coward but a Jew.