Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 10 - The Barman of the Ritz
By Philippe Collin
JULY 10, 1944
Claude Auzello also no longer leaves his apartments. The chambermaids say he is as a broken man: he no longer washes, shaves, or even gets dressed. He wanders about in his wife’s dressing gown, he drinks from morning to night and doesn’t say a word. Elmiger fears that he may take his own life. What with the Widow’s sciatica, Coco Chanel’s own morphine addiction, and Barbara Hutton’s alcoholism, the Ritz feels like it’s filled with ghosts, all crying out in anguish.
Who will be next to fall? Will it be me?
Frank longs to release the pent-up tears, but his eyes remain dry. He has walled himself up inside, built a dam against the floodwaters of despair. He knows that if he should succumb, the torrent that would burst from his heart would drown him. Last winter, Blanche reappeared like a miracle, and now she has disappeared again. Like Luciano. Like Süss.
After years of trying to destroy herself, Blanche Auzello, née Rubenstein, may finally have succeeded.
It has been a month since her last arrest, and there has been no news. No one knows what has become of her, not even Claude, though he has moved heaven and earth. Blanche and Lily have disappeared completely.
Are they in some prison here in Paris?
Have they been deported to somewhere in Central Europe? Maybe they are already dead…
“Papa!”
“Yes?”
“So, what do you think?”
“I’m sorry, son, I wasn’t listening…”
Jean-Jacques shakes his head.
“We’ve got to get out of here, I’m telling you! When the Allies finally liberate Paris, you’ll be in serious trouble.”
“We’ve already talked about this, Jean-Jacques. I have done nothing to be ashamed of.”
Jean-Jacques doesn’t need to know how willingly I have fraternized with the enemy, the money I have made by helping my own people escape the Nazis’ wrath. What good would that do now?
“That’s not the point, Papa. You suffered much less than other people, you’ll have to answer for that.”
He’s not wrong.
Frank has to admit that the Ritz has been a cushy post for the war, despite the Nazi officers. He’s always had enough to eat; he’s never felt the cold—he’s even managed to save a sizable amount of money. But who could ever understand the losses, the secrets, and the risks he’s suffered during the war? He has been forced to hide his identity, he’s lost Blanche, Luciano, and what little remained of his illusions… Every day, he pays the price in grief.
“So, are you coming to Toulouse with us?”
“No,” Frank says. “I belong here.”
Despite the war, the Ritz is the only home I have. My life changed the moment I stepped behind the Petit Bar. The war changed very little for me, and now that it is almost over, why should I leave?
I belong here. Exactly what Blanche had said.
“So what the hell are you going to tell the Allies?” snaps Jean-Jacques. “That you worked as a lackey for the fucking Nazis?”
Frank feels a simmering rage inside him. He resents the war, he resents his son for not understanding what he cannot put into words. He blames himself for keeping his boxes always packed and ready to go, and for being unable to go now that Jean-Jacques and Pauline are doing what he would have done at their age.
“Uncle,” Pauline says in a pleading tone, “think about it. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow, please come with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere because I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I’ve done the opposite. I never said anything because I needed to protect you and Jean-Jacques, but I’ve helped people, and I can prove it.”
Pauline nods, but Jean-Jacques still seems to be spoiling for an argument.
“Prove what, Papa? That you brought home roast turkey for dinner because you were Göring’s favorite bartender?”
“Shut up! Who do you think you are?”
“Forget it,” Jean-Jacques says with a sneer. “You’ve been hanging out with Jünger and Guitry for so long you don’t see the poverty and suffering in Paris. You’ve become blind and selfish just like them. I’m going to bed.”
Frank gets to his feet, incensed.
“What about you? What exactly did you do to save France?”
In his anger, his words outrun his thoughts. “You sat around and waited, that’s what you did! All talk and no action. And you think you’re a hero? You should be ashamed of yourself, Jean-Jacques.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think. My conscience is clear. At least I’ve warned you.”
“That’s right,” Frank splutters as Jean-Jacques walks out and slams the door behind him. “Good riddance!”
Frank hates himself for not being more patient with Jean-Jacques. He is worse than his own father was. Instead of insulting his son, he should tell him how he feels. He would like to find the strength to apologize, if only to Pauline who is now looking at him with a twisted expression on her face, sad and scared. But he is just as stubborn as his son and saying sorry is too hard.
Tomorrow, Frank will be back behind the bar. He has always been this way: proud and obstinate. He can always say that he chose to risk his life by acting as a messenger for people plotting against the Führer. Two measures of duplicity, a dash of luck, and a healthy dose of cynicism: the Nazi Occupation cocktail.
After all, I’m still the head barman at the Ritz, I fought at Verdun, and I am an Ashkenazi Jew. A little Jew who has managed to hide from everyone, and whom no one will believe should he decide to tell his story after the Germans have left Paris.