Part Four: War of Attrition — Chapter 9 - The Barman of the Ritz

MAY 14, 1942

Frank glances at the menu for this evening’s reception: beef tenderloin in sauce financière, chicken Mireille, and bombe Coppélia for dessert.

Do they not realize that the people of Paris are starving?

It is ten o’clock, and those who attended the reception for Arno Breker are streaming into the restaurant.

Back in the bar, they can only wait for the motley hordes to descend for after-dinner drinks. There will be a lot of them, and they will already be very drunk. Frank feels as though he has aged ten years since the evening began.

Georges, on the other hand, is propping up the bar with a cigarette and a smile.

“You see? Pétain was right…” he says casually. “The grand old man kept his promise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things are fairer than they used to be. Pétain has made it possible for anyone to succeed. Every man in France can demonstrate their willingness to serve the country.”

“Are you joking?”

Georges walks over to Frank and adds more quietly:

“Just look at the reception tonight: all the people here have earned their place. They’re not here because they were born into some upper-class family, they’re here because they’ve proved their worth. They’re just like us, they acknowledge us—have you seen the tips they give? Bet you’ve never seen tips like that before, huh? They show their appreciation—not like your old-world bourgeois intellectuals…”

Frank raises an eyebrow. “Bourgeois”: this stubborn tendency to put people into distinct camps. He bites his tongue.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something? Come on, you have to admit the old world was rotten to the core. We have to rebuild France, my friend! And I’m sick to death of these moody silences of yours! I’m going out for a breath of fresh air.”

The atmosphere in the hotel is fraught. Elmiger popped in a few minutes ago for a glass of Saint-Raphaël. Ashen-faced, he leaned across the bar and in a hushed whisper told Frank that he felt the event was spiraling out of control. Tonight, the hotel is heaving with Nazi officers clicking their heels, shouting to each other across the room, hooting in German, French, and Italian. The Widow switches effortlessly between languages as she basks in her success. In her gown of ocher velvet, she moves from group to group like a lion, tossing her silvery mane. She pirouettes, she praises, but she is careful not to touch anyone, to keep her distance. All manner of curious specimens have flocked to this extravagant gala: wealthy racketeers in three-piece pinstripes chewing on cigars; elegant socialites hatted and perfumed by Lanvin; Nazi bigwigs in full dress uniform, sporting fake monocles; French politicians in formal evening dress with slicked-back hair; movie starlets whose diamond necklaces tinkle every time they laugh; colonels from the Wehrmacht flirting with prostitutes showing lots of cleavage; and, center stage, Arno Breker and his wife. A vast panoply of vice and corruption, the Third Reich at the height of its power, being celebrated at the Ritz.

In an ironic twist, the event is being held on a Thursday night. Frank thinks back to the Club des Élégants which used to meet here on Thursdays, where aesthetes were not only inspired by the spirit of the Ritz, but contributed to it with their erudition and wit. Those gathered here tonight loathe that highbrow spirit.

Your bourgeois intellectuals… Where are they?

Since 1940, even the bourgeois intellectuals have been seduced by the new regime. Some, out of a sense of decency and honor, shunned the temptations of the Vichy cesspit, but they are few, and live in seclusion or in exile. No one speaks of them anymore. The others, motivated by expediency and, more importantly, the fear of losing their privileges, have adapted to the exigencies of the times.

The French bourgeoisie has failed; it has crumbled.

Years ago, when he came back from the trenches, Frank believed, like Georges, that the upper classes had had nothing but contempt for the sacrifices made by those fighting on the front lines. They had exploited wartime conditions to get rich. Now, having spent twenty years behind this bar, Frank has learned to identify the subtle distinctions between the privileged elite. There are many different types of French bourgeois: the exile, who has lost his social standing; the Catholic, anxious to honor his duty to charity; the intellectual, guided by his guilty conscience; and the socialist, obsessed with an ideal of justice.

In the end, the French bourgeoisie were mostly fighting among themselves.

Now there is only the ceaseless racket of looters and scavengers. The vandals have destroyed everything. That was their goal: to establish a new order. Natural selection. Survival of the fittest.

But, over the past two years, what has the Vichy regime done to alleviate the suffering of the French people? Pétain pledged to have all French prisoners of war repatriated from Germany, but only a handful have returned.

If that were not enough, before the dinner, Frank found himself being personally congratulated for hosting the event by members of Pétain’s inner circle: Ambassador Brinon and even Pierre Laval. Close friends of Marie-Louise Ritz, needless to say. Claude and Blanche Auzello were seated between Bedaux and two French journalists who supported the Nazi cause. The Auzellos could not decline this invitation without offending the Widow and putting themselves at risk. Poor Blanche, Frank thinks, she must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. As for Claude…

“Monsieur,” Luciano calls from his post by the door, “there’s someone coming. I think it’s the new General von Stülpnagel.”

“Is he on his own?”

“Yes.”

The cousin is finally going to show his face.

“Guten Abend, Herr Meier.”

So, he knows my name.

“Good evening, General.”

“I had to get away from that interminable dinner. I hate it when these things drag on. So, I thought I would get a head start on the cognac.”

“You are clearly a keen strategist. Louis XIII or Rémy Martin?”

“I’ll leave it to you.”

Speidel was right, Frank thinks, as he selects a brandy glass. Carl-Heinrich von Stülpnagel is charming and much more affable than his cousin. He has a magnetic presence; his eyes are mesmerizing: dark green irises speckled with blue. Behind his blond mustache, he looks to be about the same age as Frank, perhaps a little younger. Certainly more athletic. Tucked into the belt of the general’s dress uniform, Frank sees a swordstick carved from African serpentine with a pommel of buffalo horn inset with an ivory cameo emblazoned with a coat of arms. A magnificent object.

“I should have come to see you sooner, my friend. Do you know that, in his letters, my cousin often wrote about your bar? I imagined something much bigger, but in fact it is very small.”

“Perhaps your cousin was being too generous, General.”

“It’s not the size of a church that matters, but the charisma of the priest and the way he celebrates the Eucharist.”

Frank smiles.

“Let’s just say the cocktail is my communion wine, my patrons my flock.”

“Then we shall forget about the cognac and you will show me what you do. Perform your sacred rite.”

The general is a little tipsy, but Frank can see a new glow has appeared behind his misty eyes. How long has it been since Frank felt so comfortable in his role as barman? Perhaps it is because he finally seems to have found a worthy congregant. He shakes himself—he must remember, this man is not his friend.

“Did you know that every officer in the Wehrmacht, regardless of where they have been posted, dreams of visiting your lair? How do you put it: a haven of peace, while war rages outside—”

He is interrupted by the ear-splitting wail of a siren. An air raid. Von Stülpnagel gives an irritable sigh.

“I’m sorry, General, but regulations require me to close the bar.”

“Damn the bloody British! Just pour me a cognac. I’ll drink it in the cellar.”

“With pleasure, sir. Here you are.”

“Good night, Monsieur Meier. I shall be back, I promise.”

Frank gives him a grateful nod and asks Luciano to accompany the general to the bomb shelter.

“You go too, Georges. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Georges gives Frank a slightly mocking smile.

“What a pity, and just when you were getting on so well with the new general.”

“Give it a rest, Georges. Now hurry and get down to the cellars.”

“Yes, sir!”

Standing behind the bar, Frank listens to the cries of panic echoing around the hotel. He closes his eyes for a moment. There are people running through the hallways and down the staircases. Those who came for the reception are desperate to leave, since there is not room for everyone in the cellar. Frank hears angry cries, terrified screams, orders barked in German. Over the wail of the sirens comes the distant rumbling of Spitfires.

Not quite the fireworks the Widow had planned as the evening’s finale.

When Blanche enters the bar, Frank, for a moment, forgets the chaos around him.

She is wearing a black dress and long satin gloves. Her face is covered by a veil, as though tonight she has decided to mourn the world she once loved. She looks paler than usual.

“You wouldn’t believe what’s happening there in the lobby!” she says in a rush. “The hideous faces that appear when the masks slip. Coco Chanel is running around like a headless chicken with her personal maid, who has to carry her gas mask on a velvet cushion. It’s surreal.”

“I can’t say I am surprised. But shouldn’t you be down in the shelter, it’s not—”

“Could you pour me a drink?” she interrupts.

There is an intensity in Blanche’s eyes that Frank has not seen for a long time.

“I… I have to close the bar, madame.”

“You could decide not to,” she says daringly. “Are you afraid, Monsieur Meier?”

“No,” says the barman without taking his eyes off her.

“So, what would you say to drinking a glass of champagne with me while the bombs rain down?”

In that moment, Frank is aware of the power Blanche wields over him. The sense of danger only magnifies his desire for her. Just the two of them, alone, as the whole world crumbles.

The bar is lit only by the dim glow from under it. In the half-light, Frank stares at Blanche, who seems more beautiful and more unsettling than ever.

“Have you mislaid your husband?”

“Claude is down in the shelter.”

“He never comes to the bar. I never see him anymore. How is he?”

“It varies from day to day. He feels cooped up here—he’s been champing at the bit.”

“Someone said that he has been put in charge of supplies?”

“He is utterly devoted to fruit and vegetables,” Blanche says acidly. “Claude spends all his time on the telephone making orders. The Widow is very grateful. Yesterday, she even invited him to her apartments for tea. Can you believe it?”

“With Madame Ritz, you never know what to expect. She always manages to catch people off guard.”

“She knows how to wield power; it is her one great talent. She constantly contradicts herself, that way no one knows what she really means, so they are always on guard. It’s the basis of her authority.”

“You are absolutely right. A glass of Pol Roger?” Frank is already reaching for the champagne and the glasses.

“Perfect, thank you, Frank. To your good health.”

“And yours, madame,” he says, placing the fizzing coupe before her.

He watches as Blanche presses her carmine lips to the rim of the glass.

What’s been stopping me from telling her how I feel all this time? Is it humility, or too much self-esteem? It is more likely to be fear of disappointment. But tonight… Alone with her in the empty bar, as British bombs fall on the streets of Paris, he feels a newfound courage.

“I have something important to ask, Frank.” Blanche is suddenly serious and Frank realizes he has made a mistake once again.

He wonders if she will ever come to visit when she does not need a favor?

“I’ve been hiding a British pilot up in the attic,” she announces, as though she is informing Frank that the bubbles in her champagne are flat.

Frank is silent, trying to make sense of what she is saying.

“A pilot? In the attic of the Ritz?” he manages, finally.

“His plane was shot down near Asnières, and the poor man suffered a terrible wound to his leg. He found his way to Lily somehow and she came to me in a terrible panic and asked if I would take him in. We smuggled him in by the entrance on the Rue Cambon… What else could I do? Abandon my friend and this poor man to the tender mercies of the Nazis?”

“No, instead you decided to hide him here among them!” Frank has regained some of his composure, but his outrage is evident.

“Please, Frank, don’t be angry. The pilot is much better now, we just need to help him get out of Paris. I need some fake papers.” Blanche averts her eyes from Frank’s and drains her glass.

“Oh, madame…”

There is an awkward silence. Frank cannot believe what he has just heard.

“Pour me another glass, I’m a little on edge.”

“So, he’s up there right now?” Frank doesn’t pour her another glass. He is incapable of movement.

“Yes, in a crawl space above a false ceiling in one of the maid’s rooms. Please, Frank, help me!”

Blanche slides a gloved hand towards Frank’s, but he subtly recoils.

“Who knows about this?”

“Only Lily and me. And now you.”

“God almighty.” Frank swipes a hand across his brow.

This woman is going to kill me.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Blanche reaches for the bottle of Pol Roger herself and tops up her glass.

Frank thinks for a moment. He knows only too well that he can refuse Blanche nothing.

“Give me a couple of days.” Frank sighs heavily. “But, let me be clear, this is the last time I help you. If anyone finds out about this, you’ll face the firing squad. And I’ll be there beside you.”

At the very least, Frank wants her to understand the enormity of the risk she is taking. She wants to play the hero, but in a hotel like this everyone knows everything. How long before the chambermaids realize they’re sleeping next to a British pilot? And how much longer before one of them turns him in?

“We need to work very quickly, madame. Do you have a photograph?” Now that he has decided to help, he gets down to business.

“Yes, of course. Here you are.” She draws a small photograph from where it is tucked in her handbag. “He had it with him.”

“Does he speak any French?”

“No, not a word.”

“I’ll get him a Swedish passport. Most of the Swedes speak fluent English. Come back to see me on Sunday night. Now, don’t say another word. I can hear people coming.”

And indeed, there is a faint murmur. Like a heart beginning to beat again, the Ritz is coming back to life. Luciano pops his head around the door.

“It was a false alarm, Monsieur Meier. I couldn’t find you down in the cellar, so I came to let you know. The people from the reception are all leaving through the doors on the Place Vendôme, it’s complete chaos. Madame Ritz has retired to her apartments. I think you can probably go home to bed.”

“Thank you, Luciano. You get to bed too. See you in the morning.”

The boy closes the door. Blanche, who ducked behind the bar when she heard Luciano coming, gets to her feet and starts to giggle. She takes a liberal gulp of champagne and slams her glass down on the counter before turning on her heel, leaving Frank in the echoing silence of the bar.