Part One: The Siege — Chapter 4 - The Barman of the Ritz

JUNE 23, 1940

In less than a week, Paris is a city of the Reich.

Yesterday, Pétain signed the armistice. Although much of France is now occupied by the Germans and many have fallen, Frank is thankful that the brutal fighting between the French and German forces is over.

I hope they let the old maréchal operate freely.

Even time has been brought under German rule, put forward an hour to bring France into line with Berlin. And so tonight, the sun will set at 11:30 p.m., more than two hours after curfew. By the time the stars appear, the swastika will already be fluttering from every monument.

Paris, Frankreich.

There is no sense of victory, only a bitter defeat. Parisians are in a state of shock at how quickly and brutally the army was routed and the city occupied. And although the armistice promises a precarious peace and has spared Paris the devastating blitzkrieg visited on so many cities, it has left the country divided. In the north and west, almost half of France now falls within the Occupied Zone, under the harsh rule of the German military administration, while the other half, the Free Zone, is controlled by the new Vichy government led by Philippe Pétain. And while, to some, Pétain remains a hero who has spared them untold suffering, there are others who consider him a traitor.

This morning, Hans Elmiger, the interim general manager of the Hôtel Ritz while Claude is in Nice, announced the hotel’s new rules and regulations. The rather insipid Swiss nephew of Baron Pfyffer, the lover of César Ritz’s widow, is perfect for the job: he is utterly neutral. The hotel has been divided into two separate wings: the Place Vendôme is reserved for senior officers of the Wehrmacht and officials of the Third Reich, while the side that opens onto the Rue Cambon remains open to the public and will continue to provide accommodation to civilians, who will have unrestricted access to the restaurant and the bar. Elmiger has instructed that a handsome wooden chest be installed in the grand lobby hall so that our “military guests,” as he refers to them, have somewhere to store their Lugers.

The Nazis feel quickly at home at the hotel. “Why wouldn’t they?” Georges remarks at the slightest opportunity. “They’re all called Fritz, which rhymes with Ritz.”

In the Petit Bar, a teenage boy comes running to find Frank.

“Monsieur Meier! Four German officers incoming, including Lieutenant-Colonel Soehring.” Soehring is an officer of the German air force, the Luftwaffe, responsible for dominating the skies and bringing France to her knees.

This voice, with its soft Piedmont accent, is that of Luciano, the young apprentice Frank has posted as a lookout. Though not yet seventeen, he has adapted rapidly to the situation. Frank feels an affection for the boy that he finds surprising. At first, Frank played the lofty role of a tutor to the boy out of friendship for his mother Sofia, whom he knew in one of his former lives in New York. Have they grown closer because of the secret they share, a secret that troubles them but also makes them more skilled at flirting with danger? Luciano’s birth certificate bears the name Levi. Worse still, he has been circumcised, making him more vulnerable to being discovered. The son of wealthy merchants who sent him to France to escape Mussolini’s racial laws, Luciano arrived in Paris two years earlier to learn the trade. In his innocence he told the whole story to Frank, whom he idolizes, thereby placing himself under the barman’s protection. Frank insists that the boy was born in Lugano, in Ticino, rather than Livorno, where it would be easier to trace him.

The kid’s memorized the names of all the Krauts, and when the Wehrmacht officers turn up, he greets every one by name and never makes a mistake.

To Frank, Luciano is the light of the Ritz—more precious than all the costly bottles behind the bar. Tall and slim, in his white jacket and black tie in a Windsor knot, he charms everyone with his roguish manner. And for the past few days, Frank thinks with a smile, he has even been styling his hair like Frank’s: parted in the center and slicked back on both sides. While the other hotel workers have succumbed to resentment, Luciano seems to relish the sense of danger. He likes to take risks; he is something of a gambler and he has a passion for horse racing, having spent much of his adolescence living near a racecourse in Turin, and working as apprentice to a groom. Frank has been promising to take him to the Sunday races at Auteuil but has never found the time, and now it is too late: the Nazis have banned the sport. Which is a serious headache, since Frank used to take a few bets at the bar; just enough to augment his lavish lifestyle.

I’ll have to come up with another way to make money. But what?

He will think of something eventually—he always does. For now, Frank is refusing to sell his Bentley Blower to the Huns; the car is his pride and joy.

It is six o’clock, the white onyx clock chimes. Time for another night on the front lines of this proxy war. Georges straightens his jacket and plasters on a smile before going to open the doors.

“A smile and a courtesy, the spirit of Paris!”

That’s it, Georges, hold that line.

But for how long?