Part Five: Outright War — Chapter 3 - The Barman of the Ritz

APRIL 1, 1943

Finally, a night off! Frank invited Jean-Jacques and Pauline to dinner in his apartment. He cooked a leg of lamb with beans and, from the chef at the Ritz, he got a free Camembert and the remains of a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin that had been opened the night before. Waste not, want not. There is enough for each of them to have at least one glass—the perks of working at the Ritz. But such luxuries come at a price, and it is one Frank is finding increasingly difficult to pay. This afternoon, as he was walking home along the Boulevard des Capucines, he spotted an old man in a suit fishing a cigarette butt out of the gutter. Their eyes met and the man looked away, ashamed. Frank considered offering him a cigarette, but immediately felt self-conscious at the thought of being seen to flaunt his privileges. So he decided not to. Like a coward.

Tonight, the newsreader on Radio-Paris announced that Léon Blum, “former President of the Council responsible for the defeat of France,” had been transferred to Buchenwald prison in Germany as a political hostage.

Handing Blum over to the Nazis? Is that how low we’ve sunk? We should be ashamed!

The clock has just chimed the half-hour and there is still no sign of Jean-Jacques and Pauline, who said they would be here at seven fifteen. Frank is beginning to panic; these days, whenever anyone is late, you cannot help but worry, especially since the introduction of the Compulsory Work Service. Jean-Jacques has been at risk ever since the decree that all men born between 1920 and 1922, regardless of profession, could be enlisted for forced labor. If that weren’t bad enough, the police and militiamen track down those who refuse to comply and mount raids outside Metro stations. Frank has given Jean-Jacques a fake work permit, but he’s so scatterbrained he’s probably forgotten it. People say that any young man who is stopped and unable to prove his status is immediately posted to Germany, without even being allowed to go home to pack a bag. If that were to happen, Frank could always use his connections at the Ritz to protect his son, but he would prefer to keep his powder dry.

When they finally arrive at a quarter to eight, Jean-Jacques does not even apologize.

“We went to the cinema, but the show dragged on. We saw The Murderer Lives at Number 21. It was amazing.”

“You know Suzy Delair, the actress who plays Mila Malou, don’t you?” Pauline says to Frank.

“Not really. She sometimes comes to the bar. She’s a little stuck-up.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that!” says Pauline. “In the movie, she’s honest and happy-go-lucky.”

Honest and happy-go-lucky, as Blanche used to be.

“Come on, let’s eat. Otherwise, everything will be overcooked.”

As he carves the leg of lamb, Frank thinks about Pauline’s thirtieth birthday at the end of the month. The children deserve something. Like a good black-market dinner. And a little money. But Jean-Jacques sees things differently.

“As we were walking home along the Rue Cardinet, we saw ‘1918’ and ‘Stalingrad’ chalked everywhere on the walls. The tide is turning. You need to think about the future, Papa.”

Frank puts down his fork.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you need to save your money. And try to keep your distance from the Nazis.”

“Working at the Ritz makes that a little complicated, I think you’ll agree.”

Frank realizes that Jean-Jacques has been brooding over this for some time. It warms his heart to know his son has been worrying about him.

“Be careful, Papa. If things were to change, you could be in a very sticky position.”

“I know, son. I get through every day as best I can. It’s impossible to sacrifice the present for the future; that’s how it has been these past three years. You have to be wary of everyone.”

“Yes, even your own wife,” says Pauline.

Frank turns to her, bewildered.

“During my shift at Vuitton today I heard a terrible story,” she says. “The secretary of one of the bosses, a woman whose husband is a POW, heard that he was finally going to be released, so she sent one last food parcel to Germany. But the husband was released earlier than expected and when he turned up at Batignolles, he found his wife in bed with some curly-haired guy. Meanwhile, back in Germany, his former prison mates were sharing the picnic basket. Four of them died: the secretary had put arsenic in the butter.”

Frank thinks for a moment, then turns to his son.

“One thing is certain: if the Nazis are forced to flee, Pairs will be full of people hungry for revenge.”

“That’s why you have to watch your back, Papa.”

Right now, Frank does not see what he can do. But he promises Jean-Jacques that he will think about it.

Who knows what will happen?

How could I possibly leave the Ritz? Abandon Blanche?

Frank has barely seen Blanche Auzello since that night in July, and when he has, they have exchanged nothing but politeness and pleasantries, the kind that make his heart ache. But he’s seen the sheen on her skin, and heard the rumor circulating that Blanche is drunk, crabby, and depressed, and once again holed up in her apartments.

Morphine.

Is Claude Auzello blind, or is he just a great actor?

Frank watches his son and niece cut up the Camembert, and is moved by their mere presence. Their company has been good for him. He is sleeping better. Blanche is not so lucky; for her there are no distractions other than alcohol and morphine. She has betrayed the number one rule of the nouveaux riches: to climb the social ladder, one must have an iron will.