Part Seven: Winds of Change — Chapter 5 - The Barman of the Ritz

AUGUST 22, 1944

In Paris, all the shops are shuttered, the newspapers have stopped printing, and even the most basic supplies and services have been suspended. For the past three days, the sound of gunfire has surrounded the Ritz. Frank no longer even notices the stutter of machine guns. Early this morning, Monsieur Elmiger had to go to the Ritz warehouse on the Rue Lecourbe. What can he have been looking for there? He did not say. But when he came back, he was visibly shaken; he clearly thought he might be killed. As soon as he got back, he told Frank about the uprising of the people of Paris against the German Army and the French military collaborators: one France against the other France. The city is full of barricades. There are snipers crouching behind sandbags, aiming at anything and anyone. The streets are littered with corpses, a gang of urchins has attacked a panzer brigade with Molotov cocktails, and many war veterans have rooted out their old rifles. Resistance fighters are occupying the police headquarters, while plastered on every wall is an invitation to take revenge: “Every man gets his own Kraut.” The populace fears the Germans’ murderous retaliation. No one was surprised when Elmiger issued an order stating that no one could enter or leave the hotel. The grand finale has begun, and it will be played out behind closed doors.

In all this confusion, Frank is still behind his bar serving the hotel’s only two guests, who are drowning their sorrows with vodka and apple juice. For the first time in an age, they have come down for an aperitif. Barbara Hutton, in a long dress, fishnet stockings, and stilettos, puffs on her mother-of-pearl cigarette holder. Coco Chanel, for her part, is wearing her traditional summer outfit: a cream trouser suit, a white blouse, a six-strand pearl necklace, and a straw hat, with a cigarette dangling from her lips. They sit at the bar, pretending not to notice that the gramophone is playing Chopin’s “Funeral March.” For almost an hour, they have been forcing themselves to smile and banter, keenly aware that, at any moment, American troops may break into the Ritz.

Coco Chanel has a plan to cover her back: a sign reading “Free for liberators” is ready to adorn her boutique on the Place Vendôme, where she intends to offer bottles of Chanel N^o 5 to American soldiers.

“You’ll see,” she says, “they’ll all line up outside the shop and they’ll protect me.”

“But in the meantime, aren’t you scared?” says Barbara Hutton, with a quiver in her voice.

“Of what?”

“That the Americans will get here too late! That we’ll end up in the hands of the Resistance. If those savages get in here, they’ll shave your head like a whore, and mine too. And it could be much worse…”

Frank agrees with her. If the French Forces of the Interior decide to take over the Ritz, who knows what will happen to any of them? He can imagine himself being gunned down on the spot, and, all things considered, he thinks perhaps he might deserve it.

Where is he, the guy who signed up to fight in 1914? Here I am, serving cocktails when I should be tossing Molotov cocktails at the Germans fleeing the city. No, I am not part of the liberation of Paris. Instead, I am a prisoner of the Ritz and of my own inaction.

Despondent, with little to do, Frank can only wait to see what fate has in store for him. He wishes that he were braver. That Jean-Jacques could be proud of him when he comes back to Paris. Frank wishes he could fight, but he can’t—and not just because, after the Great War, he vowed never to pick up a gun again. Although he will not admit it out loud, the truth is he is scared.

“If we were captured by Resistance fighters, do you think we would have the courage of Madame Auzello?” Chanel asks provocatively.

“Talk about bravery, Coco!” spits the Woolworth heiress. “She defied the Nazis, and now she’s probably dead or dying in a cellar in Gestapo headquarters on the Rue des Saussaies…”

“Oh, no,” Chanel says with a haughty smile, “she is very much alive.”

“How would you know?” asks Barbara Hutton.

Chanel pauses for dramatic effect before she answers. The “Funeral March” is drawing to a close.

“I know because she arrived back today.”

“Back where? To the Ritz?”

“Yes.”

“Goodness gracious!” says Barbara Hutton.

Frank barely registers the rest of their conversation. He is finding it difficult to maintain his composure. What if Elmiger was lying? What if he wasn’t going to the Rue Lecourbe but somewhere south of Paris to pick up Blanche?

“They released her at dawn,” Coco Chanel says.

“What sort of state is she in?”

“I have no idea, Barbara. No one was prepared to confide in me.”

“Whatever she’s been through, she had it coming,” Barbara Hutton says spitefully.

The two women carry on talking. They loathe Blanche as much as the Widow does. Her disrespect for the codes of high society is intolerable. Coco Chanel especially hates her; while Coco embraced the constraints of the bourgeoisie, Blanche never stopped trying to break them apart. Her defiance is a personal affront.

Meanwhile, Frank’s facade is cracking. His nerves are shattered. Fat tears are rolling down his cheeks. To hell with dignity, with his code as a barman. Coco Chanel at least has the decency to turn away, but Barbara Hutton stares at him as though he were a freak in the circus. Yes, I’m crying, and fuck you.

Blanche is alive, nothing else matters.

Frank is furiously wiping down the counter when, all of a sudden, the telephone rings.

God, I can’t take the ringing anymore.

It is Claude Auzello with a message for Frank: Blanche would like to see him as soon as possible and has asked that he come to their apartments at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.