Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 8 - The Barman of the Ritz

It is one thing to have a sense of a public figure from newspaper articles and newsreels; it is quite another to meet them in the flesh.

Especially when there is so much flesh.

Nothing about Hermann Göring corresponds to his reputation as the Great Huntsman, chasing after deer and elk in his private hunting lodges. Reclined on a chaise longue in his silk chiffon kimono, lavender trousers, and bejeweled leather slippers, he looks more like an aging dandy than a supposedly avid outdoorsman, much less the commander of the Nazi air force. His face is saggy, bloated, and pasty, and plastered with foundation. The room positively reeks of Guerlain perfume.

The suite is so extravagantly baroque that Frank feels briefly disoriented and almost loses his composure. He glances now at Göring, this champion of Nazi manhood, who has clearly been preening in front of the double-leaf mirror. Frank suppresses a smile, even as he looks forward to telling Georges. And Blanche.

As planned, they have brought a bottle of champagne. A Veuve Clicquot 1913: the vintage served at the silver jubilee of Kaiser Wilhelm II. A true rarity.

The Reichsmarschall is flattered, the Widow rapturous. A plump man with square glasses wanders into the room. Göring introduces him as Karl Haberstock, his personal art dealer. He has come to appraise the clock brought by Marie-Louise.

Frank watches Göring as the Widow begins to unwrap the timepiece. The Reichsmarschall gazes at the gilded metal clock topped with a classical vase. He is a pig. Haberstock nods, thrusts out his jaw, and confirms its priceless value.

“It’s a veritable jewel of eighteenth-century craftsmanship,” Marie-Louise says, handing it to Göring, who lovingly strokes the pink porcelain plaques, then turns to the Widow with a smile that even Frank can see is charming.

“Madame,” Göring begins, “I wonder if we might come to an arrangement?”

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” says Marie-Louise. “The clock belongs to the Château de Versailles, and therefore to the French State.”

Göring laughs.

“Surely the French coffers could do with a little money just now?”

“I shall make enquiries of our manager or his deputy, Monsieur Süss,” Marie-Louise promises.

No sooner does she mention Süss than Göring asks whether she might permit the deputy manager to help Herr Haberstock in his mission to acquire great works of art in Paris. Marie-Louise does not bat an eyelid. Here is the opening for her to ask her own favor.

“In return for the services of Monsieur Süss,” she says, “might I ask whether it would be possible for you to take only one bath a day?”

Frank and Karl Haberstock each take a step backwards. The Reichsmarschall is dumbfounded. He squirms on his chaise longue, dismisses the art dealer with a perfunctory wave, then sits up. He thrusts out his chest and suddenly he is as imperious as a paladin. He stares at his hostess as though trying to read her thoughts.

Frank watches the two predators silently assess each other. Once again, he cannot but admire the Widow’s sangfroid. Göring has a stare that chills to the bone, but the Widow does not look away. The silence drags on for a few moments. Göring gets to his feet, takes a few steps.

“One of the great pleasures in life, I find, is revenge,” he says in a clear, calm, almost gentle voice. “I believe that, in this, we are very much alike.”

The Widow looks disconcerted but manages to compose herself. “At my age, you know, one has lived through so much.”

The Reichsmarschall gives a sly smile before once again settling his elephantine frame onto the velvet chaise longue. With his waxen face turned towards the ceiling and his hands resting on a belly like a zeppelin, he resembles a corpse.

“Hitler is our savior!” he announces, his eyes closed, raising his voice sharply. “We can see the evidence today. Left-wing vermin, Jews, and nihilists have been ground into the dust. One can never be too wary of the consequences of humiliation, do you not agree?”

He continues as though talking to himself.

“In order to triumph, one must annihilate one’s enemies completely; that is the one immutable condition if the Third Reich is to last a thousand years.”

He says no more, his bestial breathing slows. The visitors hesitate. Surely not…? Göring, now sunk deep into the thick cushions of the chaise, has fallen asleep. There is no more talk of his bathing habits. Frank looks down. He is standing on the skin of a Bengal tiger brought here by the Great Huntsman himself.