Part Four: War of Attrition — Chapter 7 - The Barman of the Ritz

APRIL 8, 1942

Where the devil has Luciano got to?

It’s been a quiet night at the bar and Frank has been looking for the boy to ask him to wash some glasses and wipe down the bar before they close. Eventually he finds him in the cellar, sitting on the same oak barrel, concentrating hard. When he sees Frank, the startled boy does his best to palm the cork in his left hand and slip the penknife under his leg.

“What are you making?”

“I’m not making anything.”

“Then what are you hiding?”

“Nothing, I told you.”

“That’s enough, Luciano! Open your hand.”

Sheepishly, the young man splays his fingers. Frank picks up the champagne cork and, in the dim glow of the bare bulb, he is astonished to see a caricature of Speidel carved into it. Luciano has given the colonel the face of an owl and even used the wire from the cork to make the tiny pair of round glasses perched on his beak.

“Do you really think we need pranks like this in the bar? Are you trying to get us killed? Show me what you have in your locker.”

As Frank suspected, his apprentice has a whole collection of caricatures stashed away. Otto von Stülpnagel as a buffalo, Ernst Jünger as a cricket, Lieutenant-Colonel Soehring as a horned antelope and Günther von Dincklage as a sparrow. He can’t believe his eyes, though he has to admit that the parody of Captain Jünger is very true to life: the face of the little cricket masks a slightly supercilious aesthete. Frank slips the entire menagerie into his jacket pocket.

“I’m going to throw these away. How could you be so stupid?”

Then, moved by the misery on the boy’s face, he softens.

“Who knows what might happen if one of those German officers discovered what you’ve been up to? You have a real gift, but you’re playing with fire!”

Luciano bursts into tears but manages to stammer his gratitude. Frank puts a tender arm around the boy’s shoulders and suggests they go and close up.

As he’s wiping down the surface of the bar, Luciano plucks up courage. “Monsieur Meier? I never dared ask before, but…”

“But what, lad?”

“Why do you keep me on? You and Georges could easily run the bar without me, and it would save the hotel money…”

Frank masks his embarrassment by stacking empty bottles in a crate. Luciano stares at him.

“Well. You know I’ve known your mother for a very long time. We met when we were young, working in a hotel in New York. An Austrian boy and an Italian girl, we were both a little lost, a little homesick. We comforted each other as best we could, and Sofia became very dear to me.” Frank remembers their kiss, 1904, at the New Year’s Eve Ball. Sofia’s dazzling smile. “After we came back to Europe,” he continues, “we wrote to each other every Christmas. She told me she was marrying your father in Livorno. It was a good marriage. She was able to stop working. Then she wrote to tell me that she was expecting you.” He glances around to make sure they are truly alone and drops his voice. “When Mussolini passed the racial laws three years ago, Sofia sensed that things would get worse, so she asked if I would take you on as an apprentice here at the Ritz. I keep you on now because I made a promise to your mother, Luciano, and because I have grown very fond of you.”

Luciano, who has been hanging on Frank’s every word, dares to ask another question.

“What about you, Monsieur Meier, are you Jewish?”

“No.”

“Do you think I’m in danger?”

“As long as you’re with me, no. Don’t forget that you are protected by your passport. You are a Swiss citizen, like César Ritz himself. Do you understand?”

As Frank watches Luciano empty the ashtrays, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, he thinks of Jean-Jacques, and the love he was never able to give his son. From down the hall comes the sound of whistling.

Luciano goes over and peers into the hallway.

“Monsieur…”

“What is it, Luciano?”

“Captain Jünger is heading this way.”

“Good grief. Is he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Get back behind the bar.”

“Herr Meier, am I too late for a nightcap?” asks the captain.

“Not at all, Captain Jünger, it would be my pleasure.”

It would be much more than a pleasure—now that Colonel Speidel is leaving, it’s vital that I get myself into Jünger’s good books.

“I’ve just come from dining with Cocteau at Lapérouse. I had a little too much to eat and I’m feeling bloated. I am placing myself in your hands: what should I drink to aid my digestion and sleep like a log?”

“I know precisely what you need. A trou normand, a shot of Calavados over crushed ice—there is no better digestif.”

Frank Meier feels curiously intimidated by Jünger. The captain is one of the few people his barman’s instincts have failed to analyze. It occurs to him that he has only ever seen Jünger in the company of other officers. This is the first time he has spoken to him alone. He hands Luciano the ice pick, scans the shelves, chooses a Calvados from the Pays d’Auge, and tries to think of something to say.

“So,” he says, “how was good old Cocteau?”

“In a foul mood. He is furious that people have been sabotaging the performances of his plays. Someone let live rats loose in the stalls, creating absolute havoc, so now no one wants to come.”

“Poor Cocteau, Parisians are so ungrateful.”

“Why do people dislike him more than Guitry?” says Jünger.

“I have no idea, Captain. Every play by Guitry is a triumph, and no one has ever sabotaged a performance. He’s still very popular, which perhaps raises questions about his morals.”

Jünger picks up his glass, bites his lower lip, and turns towards Luciano. The boy is staring at him intently and toying with his Swiss Army knife. Frank glares at him: Stop imagining his face on a champagne cork!

Jünger senses something.

“Where did you get that magnificent penknife, son? The handle is ivory, if I’m not mistaken…”

“Yes, it was carved from the tusk of a warthog. My mother gave it to me, Captain.”

“And where does your mother live?”

Frank’s blood turns cold.

“In Switzerland, monsieur.”

Don’t panic, Luciano. Just focus. Think of it as a game.

“It seems everyone in this hotel is Swiss,” Jünger says with a laugh. “And what does your mother do?”

“She… works for a family as a maid,” Luciano says, and attempts a smile.

“So, you’re Swiss?”

“Yes, monsieur. I’m Swiss.”

The boy is doing well. Keep it up.

“And where does she live, in this beautiful country?” Jünger probes, his eyes fixed on Luciano.

“In Zurich, monsieur.”

“So you speak German, then?” Jünger raises an eyebrow.

“Very badly, I’m afraid. I was born and raised in Lugano. I speak Italian.”

“Lugano, quella città e tanto bella! And then you came to Paris?”

“Yes, Monsieur Meier took me on as an apprentice three years ago,” Luciano says with a flourish and a smile directed at Frank.

Jünger too smiles and, suddenly, the atmosphere is more relaxed. He takes another sip of his drink.

“You were lucky, it is a very prestigious job.”

“I do my best to live up to it every day,” the boy says bravely.

That’s the stuff, Luciano! You’re a credit to your fake passport!

“Be sure to keep that knife safe, young man,” says Jünger. “Your mother knows that one day it may save your life. I’m going back to Germany tomorrow to see my son. I will give him a penknife just like yours.”

Frank can’t contain himself.

“What? You’re leaving too?”

Jünger smiles.

“Only on a short furlough to spend some time with my family. I miss my wife.”

“You had me worried.”

“I will be back in three weeks. Now, I think perhaps I should get to bed, I am catching the first early train from the Gare de l’Est tomorrow morning.”

“Good night, Herr Jünger. And bon voyage.”

Captain Jünger has the sort of charm that infuses those around him, the way Darjeeling infuses hot water.

How would Fitzgerald describe him?

Does he even know who Fitzgerald is? He asked about his picture on the wall.

Did he instinctively pretend not to recognize him to avoid embarrassment? No, it’s not a matter of instinct, more a matter of strategy…

“Luciano… Could you find out Captain Jünger’s address in Germany? If you can get it quickly, we can have a bottle of Calvados delivered to him to enjoy while he is on leave. And, if you can, find out his date of birth, I’m interested in that too.”

“I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning, monsieur.”

Luciano puts down the Baccarat coupe he is polishing, gently setting it among the rest of the empty glasses behind the bar.

“Right, now get to bed, it’s late. Good night, Luciano.”

On an impulse he does not quite understand, Frank suddenly ruffles the hair of the sweet boy, a young man with everything it takes to become a great barman—and an honorable man, even when surrounded by Nazi soldiers.

Just hang in there, you’ll learn to swim with the sharks, he thinks as he watches Luciano pick up his jacket and head out the door. Frank feels a surge of pride.

It is almost eleven o’clock and Frank Meier is exhausted. He sighs at the prospect of the half-hour walk home. He has an appointment at the Café de la Paix at 7 a.m. tomorrow to pick up a batch of forged passports. So, he decides to sleep behind the bar. As he lays out a makeshift mattress, he thinks about Luciano, about the Jewish families he is helping to supply with papers. And about himself, and the money he will make from this deal. Since he and Süss started the scheme last year, Frank has managed to save a pretty penny. A small fortune which he has not even touched, but which reassures him.

If the day comes when I have to escape, I’ll need every centime.

Unlike Ernst Jünger, Frank’s knowledge of life doesn’t come from books, but he has learned at least one thing from crime novels: going on the run is an expensive business.