Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 3 - The Barman of the Ritz

MARCH 5, 1944

“Have you heard that Charles Bedaux is dead, Frank?”

Frank pours Elmiger a glass of gin.

I’m in no mood to make cocktails.

“No. What happened?”

Elmiger remains stone-faced, but his tone carries a hint of irony.

“The Americans transferred him from Algeria to Florida to be debriefed by US intelligence services before his trial. According to Stülpnagel, while in a cell in Miami, Bedaux conveniently committed suicide. A massive dose of phenobarbital. I have to say that I can’t really see a man like Bedaux, who’s convinced he’ll get away with anything, killing himself. I suspect he may have been helped along the way; his extensive files on upright American citizens clearly did not please everyone.”

Their discussion is brought to an abrupt halt by the wail of sirens. The air raid sirens have been endless lately. The bombing raids now come as soon as it gets dark. The strikes are still some distance from the Ritz, but they are getting closer. Since the sixth arrondissement was bombed last week, the atmosphere in the hotel has become darker and the revelries more subdued. The socialites have abandoned their affectations, their grooming and preening neglected.

The reign of elegance ushered in by César Ritz is ending in utter squalor.

Obeying the call of the sirens, Frank, Elmiger, and all the guests head down to the cellar, donning their gas masks. Coco Chanel, wearing an alpaca wrap, is complaining that Elmiger has refused to heat the bomb shelter to save money. Tired of her whining, her lover is vainly trying to start up an old gramophone player despite the inconsistent electrical supply. Elmiger spends his time angrily scribbling in his moleskine notebook, to keep himself from putting Mademoiselle Chanel in her place. The Auzellos sit on the Regency sofa without so much as acknowledging Marie-Louise Ritz. The two women have successfully kept their distance since Blanche’s release, but now they are squashed against each other. Claude is unshaven, and under his jacket his shirt is rumpled and he wears no tie. Blanche, in a terry cotton dressing gown, looks as frail as ever. When she came in, Frank immediately glanced at her, expecting a questioning look about the papers he promised, but he saw only an immense weariness. She does not know that he has finally been able to get in touch with Fersen. She dozes off shortly after sitting down, while Claude gently supports her neck.

The sight of a couple united in the face of adversity reminds Frank of his terrible loneliness. Blanche, who only days ago seemed closer to him than ever, is clinging to her husband, whimpering faintly with her eyes closed.

Last come Guitry and Jünger, impeccably polite, and as elegant as if they were in the bar.

Having been forced to come down to the shelter, the two men lean against the makeshift bar Elmiger has set up in the hope of making the bombing raids more bearable.

“I’m not feeling terribly well, Sacha,” Jünger confesses. “I’m positively fading away.”

“You’re not drinking enough champagne, my friend.”

“Are you joking? Our lifestyle will be the death of us. We spend all our time sitting around eating and drinking.”

Millions would like to be able to say the same, Frank thinks.

Captain Jünger has resolved to take long walks to keep himself fit. Guitry pretends to be horrified at the prospect but nonetheless allows Jünger to give him a detailed account of his latest trek, from Suresnes to Neuilly, among the fishermen, the birds, and the dilapidated suburban churches.

“Great heavens,” says Guitry, “just listening to you I’m exhausted enough for both of us…”

Eavesdropping without appearing to be listening is another vital trait among the world’s greatest bartenders. Frank takes comfort in listening to the guests’ conversations. Coco Chanel claims she almost passed out at the Comédie-Française during the eleven-hour performance of Paul Claudel’s The Satin Slipper. “Just as well it wasn’t a pair of slippers,” quips Guitry with a broad grin. Jünger has been to see Anouilh’s Antigone at the Théâtre de l’Atelier and was astonished that the censors allowed the play to be performed.

“The atmosphere in Paris is poisonous,” he says in a low voice. “Can you believe it, Sacha? Last night the military commander of the Wehrmacht here in Paris came to see me in my study. The moment he walked into the room, he disconnected the telephone. He seemed very uneasy, as though he thought people were spying on us…”

Frank manages to overhear a few snippets of Jünger’s story. There is mention of “the Fatherland in danger,” a “catastrophe” and of “Anglo-Americans.” From this he works out that certain officers in the Wehrmacht—did he hear Stülpnagel’s name?—want to negotiate with the Allies before they attempt a landing in France.

The first notes of a Beethoven sonata warble into the air—the gramophone player is finally working, though not smoothly.

“An assassination attempt?” Guitry whispers, his eyes wide.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Jünger growls.

Frank avoids looking at the two men lest they realize that he can hear.

My god, he thinks as he pours champagne into Coco Chanel’s glass, are the general and other officers planning to assassinate Hitler?

The gramophone record skips again, and Frank can only catch one last sentence.

“There are so many spies in Paris, even here at the Ritz, I’m sure Himmler will know what I’ve decided even before I do.”

As Georges walks over, Jünger gestures to Guitry, and the two men hurriedly change the subject. The whole conversation lasted barely a minute.

Frank serves Marie-Louise Ritz a Guignolet and keeps a watchful eye on Barbara Hutton. She is drunk, her hair is greasy, and she is lounging in a silk kimono, killing time filing her nails by candlelight, oblivious to any sense of propriety, though by this point no one is shocked.

How many among the Wehrmacht top brass are hoping for the Führer’s death?

As crazy as it may sound, Frank finds himself hoping.

What if there really is a conspiracy?

What if they were to succeed? What if Hitler were killed?

But, as a barman knows better than anyone, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.