Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 14 - The Barman of the Ritz

JULY 23, 1944

It has been four days and three nights since Frank last left his bar. He has made it into a makeshift encampment; his shirt is creased, his hair is greasy, his stubble like sandpaper. He rations his cigarettes as though hunkering down for a long siege, washes his face in the sink down in the cellar, and rinses with Cointreau to mask his bad breath. This bar was his church; now it is his prison. The doors are closed and he is alone, isolated from the world. No one has come looking for him. Have the SS forgotten he exists? On the second night, in a dream, he saw himself as Christ crucified, but it seems that martyrdom has been denied him. He was expecting Judas to arrive, flanked by Nazi legionaries, but so far, nothing has gone according to plan. His ordeal has been deferred—or is he living through it now, a willing prisoner in an empty jail?

For the past two days, there’s been no sign of Elmiger, Claude Auzello, or even the Widow, and he hasn’t heard a single sound. Have they shut down the Ritz? If they had, the Widow Ritz would have denounced him a thousand times over. Frank lives in a twilight world, lit by the glow of a lone candle. His whole body aches. To ward off loneliness in the gloomy silence, he sometimes reads the book of Goethe’s poems that Inga Haag gave him: “Why, my eye, art downward turning? Golden dreams, are ye returning? Dream, though gold, I thee repel; Love and life here also dwell.” Every night, Frank tries to conjure the laughter and the wit of the Élégants at his Thursday Club. They are fading, but he can still hear the faint, distant echo of a bygone age.

It is almost six o’clock. To stop himself from going mad, Frank clings to his nightly ritual: he runs his face under the tap and slips on his white jacket, as though he’s expecting customers. He has not eaten for three days, except for some olives and a few fruit garnishes, and he is hungry and light-headed. He has not left the bar for fear of running into the Gestapo in the hotel corridors. Everyone seems to have forgotten about him, which, Frank decides, is a good thing. As he hunkers down, he remembers doing the same in the trenches, in the Great War, waiting for an enemy attack. A strange parallel to draw but fitting, Frank feels. He is safe here, in this moment of crushing despair.

He holds the candle up to the portrait of F. Scott Fitzgerald. He has done this many times, as though trying to decode the secrets behind that affable expression. Why do I find this picture so reassuring? It was taken in the spring of 1936—a thousand years ago. Since then, the world has crumbled. What would Fitzgerald have written about this carnage? Young Nick Carraway would probably have died on the beaches at Normandy… the American dream dying under Nazi gunfire.

Then, suddenly, he hears a voice.

“Frank? Are you in there?”

There is someone on the other side of the door. A man, whispering. Frank does not recognize his voice. He blows out the candle and hides behind the bar. Animal instinct.

“Frank,” the voice comes again, “it’s Captain Jünger. I know you’re in there.”

Jünger! Could he be the Judas who has come to throw me to the wolves?

Or is he a savior?

“I’ve just come to say goodbye. If you’re there, open up.”

“Just a moment, Captain!”

Instinctively, Frank decides to officiate one last time behind the bar. He relights the candle, lights two more, tidies the counter and heads for the door.

“Good evening, Herr Jünger.”

“Herr Meier! I was sure you would be here, faithful to your post. May I?”

“Of course. It is after six o’clock. Welcome.”

Jünger is dressed in a poorly pressed beige suit. He would look almost unremarkable were it not for his magnetic gaze. Even in the darkest of times, he seems to carry a certain unspoken charisma.

“It’s rather dark in here. Are you holding a wake?”

“Let’s just say I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Ah,” says Jünger, as though this were completely normal. “Are you in hiding?”

“Yes and no. I’m waiting.”

Jünger silently studies the barman.

“What would you suggest for a man in your position?”

“Hmm… Calvados, I think.”

“I should have thought of that. Would you be so kind as to pour two glasses and we can toast our farewell?”

“Gladly. Would you be willing to crush some ice, Captain?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Come around this side, the ice pick is at the other end of the bar.”

Jünger does not need to be asked twice.

“So, now I’m your second in command,” the captain says. “That’s a funny twist of fate.”

Jünger stands behind the bar, where Luciano used to work. The boy would be amazed if he could see the captain doing his job. Jünger takes hold of the ice pick.

“I haven’t left this bar for four days,” Frank confesses as he opens his last bottle of Calvados de Pays d’Auge. “Have they closed the hotel?”

“Not that I know of, but there are no guests left. As I was coming here, it felt like I was walking down the aisle of a deserted cathedral. Strange times.”

Jünger attacks the block of ice with remarkable skill.

“If you’ve been in here, then I assume you don’t know what’s been happening?”

“Stülpnagel’s failed assassination plot? Yes, it was on the radio.”

“Have you heard what he did the day before yesterday?”

“No.”

“When the attempt failed, Stülpnagel was summoned to Berlin. He was instructed to take a plane but decided to go by car. As they were passing Fort Vaux, where he and his men fought so bitterly in 1916, he asked his driver to stop. He wandered away from the car, and suddenly two shots rang out.”

“My God!”

“Two bullets to the head, but the bloody fool missed.”

“Where is he now?”

“He was taken to the hospital in Verdun. Our doctors are doing everything they can to save him. They’re terrified of what might happen if he dies.”

“Why?”

“Because Hitler demanded that he be brought back alive and handed over to the Gestapo to be tortured.”

“That’s monstrous.”

Jünger nods silently and takes a sip of Calvados.

“Stülpnagel and I were due to have dinner the day before yesterday. Just before he left Paris, the general was thoughtful enough to telephone and cancel. Can you imagine? Even on his way to be executed, an aristocrat like Stülpnagel had courtesy and good manners.”

Frank simply nods. The barman cannot find it in himself to feel sorry for Stülpnagel: he is still angry at the young general for using him, and for spilling so much blood during his time in Paris. But Frank worries for Speidel.

What will happen if the SS catch him? An agonizing death, probably.

As though reading his thoughts, Jünger gives an apologetic laugh.

“Did you know anything about the plot?”

“Of course not, how could I? Stülpnagel and I got along well, and it’s no secret Speidel loved my bar. But I was their barman, nothing more.”

Jünger delicately raises an eyebrow.

“Your glass is empty. Would you like another Calvados, Frank?”

“I’d love one.”

“I’ll make some more crushed ice. How wonderful to be working by candlelight. It reminds me of my childhood, when I used to spend all night reading by candlelight. In the morning, I would be exhausted and unable to concentrate at school. I was a dunce!”

“I’m afraid I can’t believe that, Herr Jünger.”

“You’re wrong. I loathed school. I much preferred to wander in the great outdoors with my brother. We would study insects, collect pebbles or strange grasses. It was a wonderful life. It was so long ago… After that, I knew war before I ever knew a woman. I cheated death. Fourteen times, I was wounded. I found it exhilarating.”

Frank pours two more glasses of Calvados. Jünger swirls the liquid in his glass hesitantly, as if weighing his thoughts.

“And now, I’m plagued by doubt,” he says. “If I’m honest, Frank, I don’t believe in anything anymore. Not in good and evil, not in God, not even in mankind. For a long time, I thought that, behind the senseless chaos of war, there was an invisible order, something we could not grasp. But I was wrong. When this war is over, if I am still alive, I think I’ll disappear, leave this all behind. I see no other future for me.”

“Your health, Herr Jünger.”

“Prost, Herr Meier.”

They down their drinks in one, slam their glasses on the bar. They may never see each other again, but in this moment, a bond has been forged between the two men.

“I must leave you now, Herr Meier, and complete my farewell tour. Tell me, have you ever stayed here at the Ritz?”

“Oh no,” says Frank. “The rooms aren’t available to staff.”

Ernst Jünger points a benevolent finger at the barman.

“Well, if I were you, I’d make the most of it now. The whole hotel is empty. Go upstairs, find yourself a magnificent suite and have a long soak in the bath.”

“You make me laugh.”

“I am being perfectly serious. You’ve survived this far. Through all that Sturm und Drang, you’ve proved yourself resourceful. That’s quite an achievement, Frank.”

“I’ll think about it…”

“Please do. Give yourself a little treat. Auf wiedersehen, Herr Meier.”

“Goodbye, Herr Jünger.”

This war has been one long series of goodbyes.

Commandeer a hotel suite? Why not? A little touch of elegance. Glory be to Ernst Jünger!

Frank wonders if it is possible to be strong and, at the same time, vulnerable. He is tired of hiding himself, physically and emotionally. Tonight, he wants to fall asleep in a luxurious suite and wake up when the war is over.