Part Four: War of Attrition — Chapter 6 - The Barman of the Ritz

APRIL 6, 1942

Yesterday, British bombers destroyed the rubber factories at Asnières. How many people died? No one knows. The newspapers are gloating about Soviet losses on the Eastern Front, predicting bumper harvests during the summer, and celebrating the victory of French cyclist Émile Idée at the Vélodrome d’Hiver. The smartly dressed newsagent manning the kiosk near the Place de l’Étoile looks sad. Weary and starving, the people of Paris watch German soldiers on leave dragging handcarts piled high with gifts for their families on the far bank of the Rhine.

It is Frank’s day off, and he is heading to Bagatelle to dine with Speidel. With his Ausweis in his pocket and job at the Ritz, he has no real worries, but he still has a conscience, which begins to nag at him as he passes the Porte Dauphine and sees the haggard faces of those with empty bellies.

In their shoes, I would despise a man like me, he thinks, as the sky darkens. Sometimes I despise myself. But he earned his position at the Ritz. His privileges have been hard won. Still, a nagging guilt continues to dog him.

Has Speidel really nothing better to do than to invite the Ritz barman to dinner? All right, he promised to invite me back in 1940, but is this the kind of promise you keep when bombs are raining down every night?

The maître d’hôtel greets Frank warmly. The restaurant is already crowded and Speidel is sitting in an alcove at the back. Bagatelle is the meeting place for the glittering stars and directors of French cinema. Unlike at the Ritz, the customers here are almost all French—one could almost forget the Occupation were it not for the large table of Wehrmacht officers quaffing magnums of Pommery. When Speidel sees him come in, he gets to his feet.

“Frank! How are you?”

As always, Speidel greets him in a pristine uniform, with a firm handshake and a polite smile. Frank notes the lack of a five o’clock shadow; Speidel obviously paid a second visit to the barber early this evening. And yet, beneath this polished veneer the colonel seems preoccupied.

“Would a simple champagne suit you, Frank?”

“Of course.”

Solemnly, the colonel orders a bottle of Krug 1911. Frank gets the message. The virtue of a vintage is that it can betray emotions. And 1911 is a great year.

“Did you see that double rainbow when the rain stopped just now?” says Speidel. “It was magnificent. Here, smell this.”

From an envelope he had in his pocket, the colonel takes out a flower.

“A crocus from my garden back in Mannheim. It has been traveling in this envelope for the past six days, and it still exudes the perfume of spring.”

Frank brings the crocus to his nose.

The colonel is right, there is magic in that lingering scent.

“My wife posted it to me. Perhaps spending time with Captain Jünger has rubbed off on me; I find myself paying attention to the smell of lilacs, I am sensitive even to the whisper of the wind in the linden trees at the Ritz.”

The bottle of Krug 1911 arrives. What will he want to drink to? Frank has to admit that, in the two years he has been in Paris, Speidel has made his life considerably easier. He has oiled the wheels, charmed the Widow, and restored a certain dignity to the bar. It is to Speidel that Frank owes his safe-conduct pass. He has become a sort of protector—and he has never asked for anything in return.

“Your good health, Frank!”

“Prost!”

Speidel orders a croustade of oysters followed by côte de boeuf with artichokes in a cider and pepper sauce. Frank decides on poached eggs comtesse followed by crab pilaf with curry sauce. As the German officers become increasingly raucous, the table of French film stars feign amusement and raise their glasses. The general uproar fosters a propitious atmosphere for secrets, since no one can overhear. The colonel picks up his glass but does not raise it to his lips.

“My friend, I won’t beat about the bush, as the saying goes. I shall be leaving Paris on Wednesday. I’ve been transferred to the Eastern Front.”

So that is why he invited me.

Frank no longer has the slightest desire to drink his Krug. What he feels is not joy or sadness, but an all-consuming rush of fear. Back in the trenches, any increase in soldiers’ rations invariably came before a fresh assault, making it impossible to enjoy the extra slice of bacon without thinking of the coming slaughter. He should have known the vintage bottle of Krug was a bad omen.

The Nazi officers have now launched into a rousing chorus; this is the perfect moment. Frank takes the plunge.

“What are you really thinking, Colonel?”

“Berlin plans to increase the number of civilian executions in France. You know how I feel about that, as does the High Command. It is probably the reason I’m being transferred to Russia.”

“Do you think things will be any different on the Eastern Front?”

“I’ve come to see my time here as a means of confronting the real goal of this war. We have to destroy the Judeo-Bolshevik front, my friend, it is the mission of the twentieth century.”

Does he really believe that?

Frank simply nods.

“I have some regrets about leaving Paris, but I am glad to be able to go to the Eastern Front to see what war is really like. To experience the heat of battle again, to give meaning to these stripes I wear. To be counted among the liberators.”

“That is the true vocation of every soldier,” says Frank. “Tell me something, Colonel, have you heard any rumors from the Eastern Front?”

“Rumors… Are you talking about the vast so-called ‘slaughterhouses’?”

“In the bar of any great hotel, you hear all sorts of things.”

Speidel stiffens, suddenly ill at ease.

“It’s complete nonsense. How could anyone believe our glorious leaders would condone such atrocities?”

Frank glances over, but the colonel avoids meeting his eye.

Which of us is he trying to convince?