Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 1 - The Barman of the Ritz

PART FIVE: OUTRIGHT WAR

Nice, January 31, 1943

Papa,

I received your letter and the money order today. Thank you. It could not have come at a better time. I am completely broke. Now that Wehrmacht troops have been stationed in Nice, I’ve lost my job. Hotel Le Negresco was requisitioned by the German High Command and all the staff were laid off. I’m completely disheartened. Things are pretty dire here, Papa. There are rumors that Laval is going to pass a law to send young Frenchmen like me to work as forced labor in Germany. But I refuse to go. So I have a favor to ask, and I won’t pretend it isn’t part of the reason I’m writing this letter. I’d like to come and live with you in Paris. Maybe it would be easier for me to find a job there? And it would give us a chance to make up for lost time. What do you think? I know that we have never been very close, but, as Pauline says, it’s never too late. And your niece would like to come with me, if that’s all right with you. She was working as a personal secretary to the manager of the Negresco, so she has lost her job too. She’s a wonderful, hardworking woman. I think you would like her. And she would love to see you again. It’s been so long since we were all together.

Would you have room for both of us? We won’t be any trouble, I promise. I hope this letter will resonate with you. I am your son, Papa, and I am asking for a little help. I hope you are doing well in these strange times. When will it all end? Pauline and I send our love and look forward to hearing from you.

Affectionately,
Jean-Jacques

Frank stands, dumbfounded, his eyes brimming with tears. He never expected Jean-Jacques to come back into his life. In his solitary existence, where every move is dictated by the Germans and he is constantly at the mercy of the times, being called “Papa” has shaken Frank to the core. He is heartened by the idea of reconnecting with his son. As for Pauline, he has not seen his niece in almost twenty years, but loved her as a child… Her proud, gentle eyes. Her iron will. Frank smiles. Having them with him would be a real luxury. He sets the letter on the table and looks out of the window. The street is swathed in the darkness of late afternoon.

An elderly woman is slowly walking along the opposite pavement, shivering in a thin coat and pulling a woolen shawl tight around her neck. Frank looks away. His coal-fired stove produces almost too much heat. He thinks of Jean-Jacques’s letter: “It would give us a chance to make up for lost time.”

He feels a niggling sense of irritation. His son has always known how to tug on his heartstrings whenever he’s needed something. He’s his mother’s son, a smooth talker. Instantly he feels guilty for this shameful thought. He reads the letter three times, then, taking his Montegrappa fountain pen from the table in the hall, he looks for a sheet of paper. He will write to his son now. Jean-Jacques and Pauline could move into the Birenbaums’ apartment upstairs on the sixth floor. And Pauline will be a buffer between us. Although he cannot say why, he feels reassured by the prospect of having a woman around. He immediately sets about writing the letter.

Diary of Frank Meier

I had arrived home from the bar just after midnight. It had been a long shift, and a busy one. We got through all the olives, so keen was the thirst of the German officers for dry Martinis. I was about to make myself a hot chocolate, a rare treat, courtesy of the Ritz, when the bell to my apartment rang. My first thought was Blanche. My second, the Gestapo. But whoever it was, they weren’t going away—the bell gave another long peal.

I am ashamed to say I felt relief and a little disappointment when I opened the door to my son and niece. Relieved it wasn’t the Gestapo, relieved Jean-Jacques had made it safely to Paris, and disappointed it wasn’t Blanche.

A tall, good-looking young man, Jean-Jacques stepped into my apartment and gazed around the room before we hugged. An awkward embrace—I had not seen him in years and years, and even when he was a child, we had never been truly close. I had failed him as a father, absent, selfish in my own ambition, and we had grown apart.

But still, he is my son, and he needs my help—and I am proud to have a home to offer him. Yes, Jean-Jacques has made little effort to reach out to me other than those times he has needed money, or, as now, a place to live, but I take full responsibility for our strained relationship. And I now have a chance to make up for all the years of silence.

My niece Pauline kissed me and thanked me over and over. She had brought some Turkish delight, a tiny box. Heaven only knows how she got hold of it, but it was a touching gift.

“You have finer sweets at the Ritz, no doubt, Papa,” said Jean-Jacques with a smirk. Was he goading me?

“But Turkish delight is the finest, son,” I said.

“Tell me, Papa, how many Nazis do you serve in a typical evening?”

Jean-Jacques clearly did not like me working at the Ritz and I could not blame him. While Resistance fighters pushed back against our invaders, I was making them cocktails.

“Have you seen your mother?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

“I have. She is well and sends her good wishes.” I didn’t believe that. Maria and I had parted on bad terms, disgusted as she was by my fraternization with the bourgeoisie, and it seemed that my son had adopted some of her distaste.

How much greater would Jean-Jacques’s aversion to my work be if he were to learn of his Jewish origins? I have never told him I was born a Jew, believing myself so distanced from my heritage that it had no impact on him. But now, having a Jewish father would put him in danger with the Gestapo. It is up to me to keep this secret, for both of us. I thank God I have never shared my secret with anyone, including my own son.

The evening got better after we opened a bottle of wine and shared the Turkish delight. My son’s job at the casino provided almost as many amusing anecdotes as mine at the bar and soon we were laughing as if there were no war outside this apartment.

It was gone 2 a.m. when I showed them upstairs to the Birenbaum family’s now empty apartment, where they would live. Would the Birenbaums mind that I had requisitioned their home for my son? They had trusted me to take care of it, and I reasoned putting my family there would ensure that no other occupants could invade their space.

I fell asleep that night a little dizzy from the wine, a little jumpy from the sugar, but all the same happy that my son was sleeping under my own roof for the first time in years.