Part Four: War of Attrition — Chapter 8 - The Barman of the Ritz

MAY 6, 1942

Süss let him know he would be arriving late. “A little business to attend to,” he explained. The bar is closed and, while he is waiting, Frank flicks through the latest edition of Paris-soir. The Japanese Army seems to be winning the war in the Pacific, the Luftwaffe is once again bombing the English coastline, Hitler and Mussolini have been meeting in Salzburg to reaffirm the solidarity of the Axis powers. There are advertisements for “beauty powders” to tackle pale complexions, “anti-anemics,” and sugary supplements intended for children. Frank turns to the sports page.

Ah, at last, Süss has arrived.

He is wearing an elegant, tailored, beige trench coat, though it is covered in dust and cobwebs. His patent-leather shoes are scuffed. Frank has never seen him in such a state. Süss slips off his coat and tries to dust it down but quickly realizes it is futile.

Where on earth has he just come from?

Frank asks no questions.

Süss hangs the coat on one of the brass hooks under the bar.

“How was your little party with Madame Ritz?” he says mischievously.

Earlier that afternoon, Frank held a tasting so that the Widow could sample the three cocktails he has devised for the opening of the Breker exhibition. Frank had carefully prepared his drinks. The first of the three is a little daring, the second an absolute classic, while the third, “the Siegfried,” is a delicate balance: aquavit, lemon juice, cane sugar, and a dash of Cointreau. The Widow would have chosen it for the name alone. She tried to persuade Elmiger to take a sip, but he demurred: “I never touch alcohol while I’m on duty.” The dowager shrugged, rolled her eyes heavenward, and sighed contemptuously.

Although not invited, Bedaux gleefully crashed the event, unable to contain his excitement at recent changes in the Vichy government. Since Maréchal Pétain reappointed Pierre Laval as prime minister, Bedaux has been convinced that his long-coveted ministerial role is within reach and now spends his time parroting the government’s insidious propaganda. “Let us move forward hand in hand with Hitler; it is the future of France,” he babbled after one cocktail like a trained parrot. It is the same refrain Frank has read in the newspapers, whose editors insist that France’s salvation lies within “the New Europe,” the Europe of the Krauts.

“Madame Ritz appreciated the cocktails. Her favorite was the Siegfried.” Frank allows himself a small smile, which Süss returns.

“And what does Monsieur Elmiger think about the forthcoming celebration of Herr Breker?” says Süss.

“I leave that to your imagination…”

Both men are well aware that the hotel manager deeply disapproves of this event. The tradition of the Ritz is one of discretion, whereas this reception is the height of ostentation.

The growing friendship between Süss and Frank fills the void that Frank must admit has been left by Speidel’s and Jünger’s departures. Setting down his glass of cognac, Süss slips a hand into his inside pocket and produces a well-stuffed envelope: Frank’s commission for the past few weeks. He holds it across the bar, but when Frank tries to take it, Süss does not let go and looks the barman in the eye.

“They are about to pass a law requiring Jews to wear the yellow star. There has been talk about the idea for a while now. This time, I know it is true because the SS has placed an order for the fabric. This will put serious pressure on our business. We need to be ready to speed things up.”

Frank nods.

“All the great Jewish families are desperate to get out of the Occupied Zone before the end of the month. And they are prepared to spend a fortune to get forged papers. Have you heard of a man called Carl Oberg?”

“The name rings a bell.”

“He is the Higher SS and Police Leader, and he’s come to Paris to track down the Resistance networks. And the Jews. He has been sent here on the orders of Himmler’s chief lieutenant, Reinhard Heydrich, who has spearheaded the persecution of the Jews since Kristallnacht. You will meet them both in a couple of weeks at the reception for Breker. Believe me, Frank, compared to Oberg and Heydrich, that old ogre Göring looks like a charming windbag. The Jews need to get out of France, and quickly.”

Frank feels a shiver run down his spine. It occurs to him that, since the departure of General von Stülpnagel, the Ritz bar is no longer a place where secrets are shared. Although the cousin who replaced the elder von Stülpnagel has been in his post for two months, he has not set foot in the bar. Göring has not been back either, although, from Süss, Frank knows that he has returned from the Eastern Front.

Süss pauses for a moment.

“Would you believe me if I told you that a tunnel links the basement of the Ritz to the galleries of the Jeu de Paume?”

Surely secret passageways are the stuff of adventure novels? Though it would explain the dust on his trench coat and the scuffed shoes.

“This underground passage dates back to when the gallery was built in the Tuileries gardens,” Süss explains.

“How did you find out about it?”

Süss leans closer, as though afraid of being overheard.

“Spending so much time in the gallery on Göring’s behalf, I struck up a friendship with one of the museum’s curators. She told me that, in the nineteenth century, when Napoleon III was emperor, he wanted to be able to discreetly visit his mistress, the Countess of Castiglione, who lived at the Hôtel de Gramont, which stood where the Ritz now stands. So, he ordered that a tunnel be dug beneath the Rue de Rivoli, from the Jeu de Paume all the way to the Place Vendôme. Tonight, when they were closing up the gallery, I had one of the staff lock me inside.”

“So where does the tunnel come out?” asks Frank.

“In one of the cellars, the one we use to store suitcases and trunks for long-term guests. You can access it via an oak door behind a stone column fitted with a tiny spiral staircase. It’s dank and fetid because the Seine is so close, but it’s still quite passable. I came across a few rats, but, armed with an oil lamp, I got through without any problems. In an emergency, you can escape through the tunnel, Frank.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Who knows—in wartime there are lots of emergencies… Listen, over the years, many people have helped me. Now it’s my turn to help others.”

The stark sincerity is heart-wrenching. Süss seems exhausted as much by loneliness as fear. Frank longs to ask the question but is terrified that Süss will ask him in return.

No one can know, that’s the golden rule.

A silence falls over the bar.

“Do you know that Lafont wants to be Oberg’s assistant?” Süss says after a moment, “Only yesterday I heard that lowlife crook offered his services to the SS to help track down Jews, in exchange for a share of the spoils. With a lunatic like Lafont prowling around, no one is safe. That’s why I’m telling you about this tunnel.”

Frank wonders whether it would be safer to put an end to their scheme, but he knows it’s too late.