Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 12 - The Barman of the Ritz

JULY 20, 1944

Frank Meier opens his bar at six o’clock, just as he always does. There is nothing else he can do. This morning, all alone in his apartment, he listened attentively to the radio but heard nothing about a possible attempt on Hitler’s life. He found the two incriminating notes in his desk drawer and burned them in the kitchen sink. What next? The idea of sitting around moping in his apartment was unbearable. So, he shaved, dressed his head wound, put on a starched white shirt, a black tie, patent-leather shoes, and headed for the Ritz, as he has done every day for the past twenty-three years.

The Ritz is just about all I have left.

Shortly after opening, he sees Colonel Speidel, grim and flustered, coming towards the bar. Frank puts on the white jacket he has carefully hung on the stool next to him and braces himself.

“Could I have a double vodka?”

“Coming up.”

“It’s very quiet tonight,” Speidel says.

“You’re my first customer.”

“The calm before the storm.”

Frank doesn’t dare say more, especially since Speidel has just knocked back his vodka faster than a fighter jet in a nosedive.

“Dutch courage… for tonight.”

Why is Speidel here tonight of all nights?

“Maybe you and I will soon be able to drink a toast to Germany’s recovery, Frank.”

Does he know I know about the plot? He must.

With a jerk of his chin, Speidel orders another. Frank pours him his vodka, but only a single this time, then pours himself a glass of cold water. Suddenly, the telephone rings. The colonel does not react. Nor does Frank. Speidel stares at the palm of his hand. It rings again. Speidel looks up intently, studies Frank, who holds his gaze. Time has stopped. The telephone rings a third time; Frank answers.

“Hello?”

A German voice, calm, grave and distant, asks to speak to Colonel Speidel. Frank nods and slowly hands over the receiver. Speidel feverishly seizes the phone, takes a deep breath, murmurs, “Hallo, Speidel,” then listens without saying another word. In the deathly silence, the seconds tick by. The colonel is expressionless; he is staring into the distance. Frank scans his face for some clue. Nothing. Speidel wordlessly hands back the receiver.

“It failed,” he says, his face ashen. “We failed, Frank. Hitler survived the attempt.”

A ringing fills Frank’s ears and he hangs on to the bar to keep from falling. Speidel gets to his feet.

“Dear God, what a disaster, Frank. Stülpnagel was so sure that Hitler would be killed that tonight he had more than a thousand of the SS officers in Paris arrested, including Knochen and Oberg. It was sheer madness. If I don’t disappear right now, by tomorrow morning I’ll be strung up with piano wire.”

Frank pours himself a shot of vodka and knocks it back. Speidel has recovered a little of his authority.

“Whatever you do, don’t abandon the bar. If you do, you’ll be signing your own death warrant.”

“You think so?”

“Plead ignorance, trust me. They’ll have other people to hunt down before they think of you.”

Frank grabs a bottle of Russian vodka from the shelf.

“Here, take this.”

Speidel slips the bottle into his knapsack, his eyes shining with gratitude. The two men stand face to face, two veterans of the Great War, and shake hands.

“Time to say goodbye.”

“See you soon, Colonel.”

“Your style never ceases to amaze me, Frank.”

Speidel leaves the bar without turning back and creeps out of the Ritz onto the Rue Cambon before disappearing into the darkness. Paralyzed by fear, Frank cannot help but wonder whether he too might be strung up with piano wire—the standard punishment for traitors.

What went wrong?

Down in the cellar, Frank turns on his radio. Radio-Paris is broadcasting a message by Adolf Hitler to the German people: “I do not know how many times an attempt on my life has been planned and carried out. I am speaking to you today to reassure you I am unscathed. A very small group of ambitious, unscrupulous, and criminally stupid officers plotted to eliminate me and to overthrow the National Socialist Party. They will be called to account in the way to which we are accustomed. Es lebe Deutschland!”

Once the bar has closed, Frank feels too weak and shaken to walk home. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, rolls out the mattress, and curls up under the bar. His throat is dry, his mind is racing. His white jacket feels like a shroud.