Part Seven: Winds of Change — Chapter 3 - The Barman of the Ritz

AUGUST 9, 1944

The Widow summoned all the hotel staff for a meeting at noon. They’ve gathered in the Salon de Gramont. How many of us are left? Frank wonders. No more than twenty. This is all that remains of the Ritz. Five chambermaids with bags under their eyes, a weary head housekeeper with an unraveled chignon, the restaurant chef and his second in command in their stained aprons, the old commis chef, a washed-out maître d’hôtel, two pale bellboys, an anxious concierge now almost completely bald, a night porter who doubles as a barber, and a gloomy barman. The remnants.

The women are huddled together, whispering in hushed tones next to the French doors that overlook the large garden bathed in the midday sun. Frank can easily imagine what they are saying: they would happily desert the ship, but they’re terrified of what will happen when the Allies arrive. What will they be like? Will they want to exact revenge on the hotel for the role it played in the Occupation? Everyone is hoping that the hotel will close and grant them a few weeks off.

Sleep, and wait for peace to return.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you all for coming,” says Marie-Louise. She is flanked by Elmiger and Claude Auzello, who simply nod.

The manager, in his three-piece suit, looks grim. He stands up straight, hands clasped behind his back. Claude stands next to him, and the staff can’t conceal their stares: he hasn’t been seen for weeks and is almost unrecognizable. His face is sunken, his cheekbones protrude. His shirt collar looks too big, as does his blazer. He must have lost more than twenty pounds. He is a shadow of his former self. He is clearly nervous, and he bears the scars of his despair. He stares out of the window to avoid looking anyone in the eye.

He loves Blanche so much…

What sort of state must she be in?

They have to close the hotel. Stop all this. Put an end to the charade.

Marie-Louise Ritz, dressed all in black, still wears her customary white gloves. She gives the women on her right a simpering smile and clears her throat.

“We are about to enter a period of great uncertainty,” says the Widow, “but we must never forget that we are a family. The great family of the Ritz. We must stick together. Hans Elmiger and I have sought the advice of Claude Auzello and the three of us have charted a course for the future…”

The great Ritz family—what a joke!

“We have decided to remain open, whatever the cost.”

There is a ripple through the assembled staff. The great salon bristles with protests. The head housekeeper, Madame Bourhis, is on the verge of tears. The disappointed chef nods and sighs. Marie-Louise Ritz bites her lip, which, Frank Meier knows, is a sign of mute rage at their reactions.

“Wait a minute! Just a moment, please. Listen to me! We coped with the Germans when they arrived, so surely we’ll be able to deal with the Allies too, won’t we?”

No one can think of anything to say. The Widow is quick to take their resignation as a sign of approval.

“Excellent,” she says. “In the meantime, three minor details.”

Here we go again…

“First, I need to inform you that, as of yesterday, General von Choltitz is staying with us. He is the new military governor of Paris and the new face of German authority in France. Please, I implore you, treat him with respect. We have a reputation to uphold.”

Silence.

Does she really think anyone here would spit in the face of a German general?

“Second, I have to say that I have been outraged by the unscrupulous greed of a number of our guests. I learned yesterday that, on Monday evening, a truckload of our priceless furniture left for Germany. After all our warmth and hospitality! It’s a disgrace! Consequently, I would be grateful if you could inform us of any signs of looting. Monsieur Elmiger will raise the matter directly with General von Choltitz. It is vital that we protect our heritage.”

Elmiger does not bat an eyelid. But Frank knows he is keeping his own counsel. How can the Widow ask him to complain to Choltitz when she knows full well that the order to strip the hotel came from Göring himself? The spoils are headed to his country house at Carinhall.

“Finally, having given some thought to the impending changes, I expect all vacant rooms to be spotlessly clean and ready to accommodate American officers. We must have sufficient supplies to serve them an elegant dinner. Be sure we are equipped to provide them with a haircut and a shave. Please check the supplies of eau de cologne. Make sure the bar is stocked with the spirits they like. You are familiar with American culture, Monsieur Meier. Could you discreetly set aside anything you believe they would particularly like?”

She turns towards Frank, who doesn’t bother to nod.

“The transition with the Allied Forces must be smooth, graceful, and effortless. I am relying on all of you!”

The Widow’s allegiances have turned.

I wonder if it was Claude Auzello who persuaded her?

Elmiger now steps forward.

“I would just like to add that Madame Ritz has generously offered to give each and every one of you a bonus of two thousand francs, payable at the end of each week until further notice, in recognition of your courage and your loyalty.”

A few thousand francs for everyone, but for her there are millions at stake. Frank thinks he hears someone hissing: Fuck you! In the deafening silence that follows, the hotel staff prepare to go back to their posts when Claude Auzello raises a trembling finger.

“Forgive me, Monsieur Elmiger, but might I add something?”

Elmiger takes a step back and gives an awkward wave. This clearly was not part of the plan.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Claude begins. “I see familiar faces out there and it warms my heart. Hans Elmiger is quite right. If the spirit of this noble hotel has survived, it is thanks to your courage and tenacity.”

His voice quavering, the former manager is clearly overwhelmed. Although visibly weak, he stands there solemn amid the reverential silence. Elmiger holds his breath; he can tell that something is about to happen.

“I know each and every one of you. I personally recruited most of you. I shall always admire your loyalty to the hotel and your resilience in the face of such… challenges.”

People are nodding. They have lumps in their throats.

“In all of you I have seen a sense of duty and a willingness to work. A spirit of sacrifice and courage. Truth be told, you are the true heirs of César Ritz. He would be very proud of you, believe me! Please be patient. Soon we will be free again. We can already sense it, can’t we? We can feel it! The wolves have only three legs now. They are limping. Long live free France!”

There is a brief hush.

Then the room explodes. Even the Widow pretends to applaud.

“Bravo, monsieur!” roars an ecstatic André Brun, the maître d’hôtel. “Bravo, and thank you!”

Bloody Marie-Louise, Frank thinks. You’ll have to knuckle under, but you’ll come through this unscathed, thanks to Claude. Baron Pfyffer was right: keeping Claude Auzello was a safeguard for the future.

A future that now feels close enough to touch.