Part Six: Operation Overlord — Chapter 7 - The Barman of the Ritz

APRIL 27, 1944

“Vive Pétain! Vive le maréchal!”

Paris has not seen such a commotion in years. Yesterday, for the first time since June 1940, Maréchal Philippe Pétain visited the capital with prime minister Pierre Laval. The two came from Vichy to Notre-Dame cathedral to attend a funeral mass in memory of the victims of the latest bombings. More than a thousand dead in a few short days. The Allied bombers targeted the railway depot at La Chapelle, turning the surrounding streets into heaps of rubble. Never have death and destruction come so close to the heart of Paris. Everyone is terrified; no one knows what might happen. And so, yesterday, the whole city turned out for the maréchal.

People are scared stiff of what might happen should they not appear for this grim procession; that’s the only reason they’ve come out to cheer the maréchal.

Twenty-four hours later, Frank is summoned to the Widow’s office.

Elmiger is there. He looks utterly exhausted by the increasingly perky Marie-Louise Ritz. The office is thick with the scent of lilies, which Madame Ritz adores but makes Frank want to sneeze. Although the Paris outside the Ritz continues to slip deeper into poverty, the Widow still has fresh flowers brought in every day to fill her vast collection of porcelain vases.

“Dear Monsieur Meier, congratulations, your birthday was a great success! All those people, all the people in Paris who matter, here in our bar! It gave me a little idea.”

Frank suppresses the urge to sneeze. He waits for what comes next.

“I thought perhaps we might organize a similar party for the birthday of Mademoiselle Arletty on May 15. What do you say?”

Who can think about planning another party after the death and destruction of the past few days?

“And, naturally, you would get a share of the takings.”

To his right Frank can tell that Elmiger is seething. With a sidelong glance, the hotel manager pleads with him to prevaricate.

“Oh!” Marie-Louise says. “I would not count on your getting the support of Monsieur Elmiger, he heartily disapproves. I want your opinion, Frank.”

“Well… things are changing, madame.”

“Not at all! Did you see the maréchal’s triumph yesterday? The people of this country do not want a British or American France. All their bombs do is murder innocent civilians. They are the monsters!”

The Widow’s cheeks are flushed. Elmiger leans forward.

“If I may, madame: we need to think about the future of the Ritz.”

“The future?” Marie-Louise snorts. “And what future is that, Monsieur Elmiger?”

“I am afraid I would not be able to say, madame. No one can. But given the uncertainty, I firmly believe we must remain neutral. Swiss neutrality has been our greatest asset in this war and may be our only chance of preserving the hotel. If German forces are driven out of Paris in the coming months, we will need to be able to prove to their successors that we were victims of the Nazis, that we suffered under the Occupation. If not, believe me, the Ritz could be taken away.”

“Over my dead body!”

“Then perhaps it would be wiser not to throw a party for someone who has been notoriously sympathetic to the occupying forces… I should add that rumors of an Allied landing are spreading among the German officers. You have heard as much in the bar, haven’t you, Monsieur Meier?”

Frank nods. Marie-Louise Ritz flutters her hands in front of her face as though to dispel a bad thought.

“You are both exasperating,” she says. “You seem determined to ruin my fun. Very well, no party for Arletty. But my orders remain for you to continue to treat our guests with the utmost courtesy! Regardless of our future, our present, gentlemen, is with the Germans.”

Elmiger is right, Frank thinks as he leaves the Widow’s office. When the Germans are gone, they will have to do everything they can to rid the Ritz of the stench of evil. And bouquets of lilies will not be enough.

He is stifling another sneeze when he bumps into Blanche Auzello, whom he has not seen since his birthday.

For the past three weeks, he’s been carrying Fersen’s forged papers in his jacket pocket, waiting for the chance to give them to her.

“Good morning, madame,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “How are you—”

Blanche immediately interrupts.

“Oh, Frank, I never came back to talk to you about the papers I asked you to get so I could go to America. When I was released from prison, I felt so weak. I don’t know why I thought about running away. What would I do in America on my own? My life is here in Paris. I belong here.”

Frank stands, frozen, for a moment. Never has he felt more like a puppet, his strings yanked about whenever he can be useful, and dropped just as easily.

“I’m so happy, madame,” he manages to say.

“Really? From that long face of yours, I almost thought you wanted me to go. But I’m not afraid anymore. America is coming to me, Frank. Chin up!”

She lays a hand on his shoulder, then hurries down the corridor towards the front door.

When Frank Meier eventually heads back to his bar, he avoids looking in the mirrors of the Galerie des Merveilles. He doesn’t want to look into the eyes of Blanche’s plaything. It was no small favor he did for her, but she shrugged him off so easily. And he can’t blame her. Not at all. He has come running whenever she has needed him, for papers, for morphine, and, yes, for friendship.

He takes a deep breath to pull himself together before entering the bar and fixes a smile to his face. Before long, he is once again lost in the bustle of mixing cocktails for Nazis.