Part Four: War of Attrition — Chapter 4 - The Barman of the Ritz

MARCH 10, 1942

In the waiting room outside the Widow’s office, Frank, seated in a fine rococo armchair, is leafing through the American newspapers on the glass coffee table. Is there a war going on? It is hard to parse, here in Marie-Louise’s lamplit antechamber, with its soothing tones of ocher and red. Regardless, he must open the bar in half an hour and hopes that the Widow won’t keep him.

There is an article in the New York Times giving a detailed account of the trial currently taking place in Riom, south of Vichy. “Maréchal Philippe Pétain seeks to convict those responsible for France’s defeat.” The defendants before the supreme court include Édouard Daladier, General Maurice Gamelin, and former prime minister Léon Blum. Pétain argues that the French military collapse was due to the previous government’s incompetence and negligence. That they entered France into a war unprepared and ill-equipped. But, according to the article, Blum so dazzled the judges that he managed to turn those in the public gallery of the court against the Vichy regime. In a speech of extraordinary eloquence and heartfelt patriotism, the former President of the Council condemned the political choices of Maréchal Pétain.

Frank’s reading is interrupted when the Widow appears to say that she is ready to speak to him. Somewhat disconcerted by the American reporter’s admiration for Blum, he gets up and joins her in her study.

“Sit down, Frank. Would you care for a chocolate?”

“No, thank you, madame.”

“You should try one, they are excellent. I have to say, you look a little off.”

Since this war of attrition began, what Frank has found most exhausting is the uncertainty. He expected the Widow to summon him to her office the day after the much talked about visit from Lily Kharmayeff, but for a whole week nothing happened. Then today, just before the bar was due to open, she sent for him and greeted him with a cordiality she had not shown him since the summer of 1936.

I have to admit, the Widow can keep you on your toes better than Churchill.

Frank immediately broaches the subject of Kharmayeff’s visit to make it clear that he is not playing the fool. The Widow waves away his excuses.

“I am well aware of what happened, Meier. I ask only that you be vigilant; I trust your judgment.”

She looks at him shrewdly; there is a hint of contempt in her tone.

What the hell is going on?

“This afternoon, Fernand de Brinon informed me that the German High Command has decided to host a reception here at the Ritz to mark the opening of the Breker exhibition in mid-May. Are you familiar with the work of Herr Breker?”

“Is he a painter…?”

“Come, come, Meier, you really should get out more! Arno Breker is a brilliant sculptor, an extraordinary stone carver. His exhibition will be the talk of Paris this spring! You will meet him in the bar shortly; he has been staying with us for the past three days. I would like you to come up with a signature cocktail, one of your dazzling creations, to be served at the reception. An exquisite cocktail that will be as striking and memorable as Breker’s art.”

The Widow shows him the exhibition catalog. Colossal statues of modern men in the ancient classical style. They have the proud look of little boys, and the flat stomachs and bulging biceps of libertines.

“My husband César used to say that if you wish to make an impression, you cannot overlook a single detail. So I would like you to come up with two or three new cocktails for me to sample, and I will choose your best. Let us just say this will be an opportunity for you to play your part and make amends for your leniency towards certain customers.”

The Widow rubs her hands: she is thrilled to be hosting this important reception, and happy to have taken Frank down a peg or two.

“Speaking of our guests,” she says, “have you heard that Coco Chanel has finally managed to secure the release of her nephew, André?”

Everyone in the hotel has heard the news, but Frank cannot bring himself to spoil the Widow’s fun and feigns a look of surprise.

“She was so happy she wept tears of joy—a joy I hope to turn to my advantage by persuading her to launch her new collection with a fashion show here at the Ritz. Do you think perhaps you might have a quiet word with your friend Monsieur Guitry? I am sure he could persuade her to take up her scissors and her measuring tape again…”

The brazen opportunism of this woman knows no bounds—and that’s her great strength.

Frank knows he has no choice but to have a word with Guitry. He also knows that Guitry will laugh in his face.

“I wonder what Chanel could possibly have given to the Germans to secure the release of her nephew…”

Over the past few days, Frank overheard some of the Wehrmacht officers in the bar saying that, on a recent trip to Berlin, Coco Chanel had done a very special favor for some high-ranking Nazi officer. There have been no more details but, like the Widow, Frank suspects that André Palasse’s return to Paris has involved some quid pro quo. Marie-Louise Ritz cannot help but lay it on thick.

“Perhaps those same social skills will help her snatch her perfume company back from the Wertheimers?”

In spite of himself, Frank chuckles at the Widow’s sheer malice.

Marie-Louise flashes him a beaming smile.

“A laugh from Frank Meier? Well, well… and to think I’ve already managed to make Claude Auzello smile this morning. This is definitely a red-letter day. Would you believe it? My erstwhile manager has proved very useful. I have put him in charge of supplying the kitchens. He’s been drawing on his personal contacts with farmers, fishmongers, and winemakers! The whole of France is working to make sure that the Ritz lacks for nothing.”

Frank realizes why the Widow has been so uncharacteristically forgiving about Lily Kharmayeff’s visit.

As he walks back through the Galerie des Merveilles towards the Petit Bar, Frank lights a cigarette. He is forever worrying that he smokes too much—it affects his sense of taste and smell, it could ruin his livelihood—but he feels that if he did not smoke, he would go mad. Thankfully, here at the Ritz he can buy all the cigarettes he likes. He cannot help but wonder how other people have coped since tobacco rationing started two years ago.

And the price of a pack of Caporal has gone up again…