Part Three: The Growing Conflict — Chapter 3 - The Barman of the Ritz

MAY 17, 1941

There are customers who come early, and then there are those who—and he dislikes both equally—show up just as the bar is about to close. Faces Frank has never seen before in the Ritz, French citizens with Ausweis passes that allow them to venture out after curfew and take all manner of liberties.

“Did you have a good evening, Frankie?”

“Excellent, Monsieur Joanovici.”

Six months ago, Joseph Joanovici was a scrap metal merchant in Clichy. He can barely read and write, but ever since he began selling iron and steel to the Germans, the new wads of cash lining his pockets serve to reinforce his now swaggering ego. He comes to the bar at the Ritz demanding to know all the gossip, just as he might at his local pub.

“I heard a rumor that Coco Chanel is having an affair with one of the German officers, does that ring a bell? A handsome chap, apparently.”

According to the chambermaid, Gabrielle Chanel has been sharing her bed with two lovers, both of them Prussian.

“I’m afraid I have no idea who you could be talking about, monsieur.”

“Oh, my wife will be disappointed. She loves gossip.”

Frank gives a small nod.

“Don’t worry. Here, this is for you.” Joanovici presses a wad of notes into Frank’s palm.

“Thank you very much, monsieur.”

“And close up as soon as I leave, I like to be the last customer.”

“I shall do just that, Monsieur Joanovici. Have a good night.”

“Thanks, Frankie, you too.”

When he is finally alone, exhausted and infuriated by this boorish oaf, Frank sets about cleaning the bar. He opens the door again because the place stinks of tobacco smoke.

As he wipes down the bar, Frank thinks how glad he is that Georges has gone to spend a few days with his mother. Frank knows how easily Georges could get caught up in the schemes of a shark like Joanovici. So far, Georges has kept a wary distance—a man who has been twenty years in the business does not change in the space of six months. But there may come a day when he feels tempted.

“Good evening, Frank.”

Frank starts. That husky voice could only belong to Blanche Auzello.

“Good evening, madame.”

Dressed all in black and delicately made up, she is spellbinding, fiercer and prouder than ever, with eyes like an Abyssinian cat.

“I need a dry Martini,” she says.

“Come in and lock the door behind you.”

Blanche walks up to the bar and perches elegantly on a high stool.

“I’ve been in a complete panic, Frank… Did you hear the news?”

She takes off her gloves.

“They’ve been rounding up Jews, herding them onto trains like cattle and sending them to God knows where.” She looks at him, but Frank cannot bear to meet her eyes and busies himself with making the cocktail.

“What makes it worse,” Blanche continues, “is hearing people say: ‘Oh, it’s the Nazis,’ but that’s not true: the raids were carried out by French police. From what I understand, so far, they’ve only rounded up men, but who knows how long until that changes. Do you know where they’ve been sent?”

“To an internment camp in Pithiviers, south of Paris,” Frank says, sliding a coaster across the bar. “There were more than three thousand, apparently. Maybe as many as five thousand.”

“But that’s the population of a whole village! How are they supposed to live? What will happen to them? And nobody says a thing! They all bite their tongues and kneel before the Nazi jackboots.”

Frank nods but does not look up. He’s read the editorials in Le Matin mocking the conditions of the foreign Jews in the camps: “They can hardly complain: free soup for everyone and a game of belote before bed! They are better treated than many French prisoners of war in Germany.”

“What does your husband say?” Frank asks, pouring a measure of gin and a dash of vermouth into a chilled glass filled with ice.

“Oh, Claude is convinced that Pétain will never allow them to round up the French Jews. And he says I’m safe because we’re married.”

Frank stirs the liquid, then strains it into a Martini glass and garnishes it with two olives on a cocktail stick.

“And he’s right.”

“No, he’s not! As far as Hitler is concerned, a Jew is a Jew, regardless of nationality! That is the truth! And your maréchal sees France through those eyes.”

It is pointless to try to persuade Blanche that Maréchal Pétain is a man of sound morals.

Frank gently sets the glass in front of her.

“There you go, one dry Martini.”

“Thank you.” Blanche sighs, staring into the middle distance. Then, slowly, she smiles. A sad smile that Frank knows only too well.

“On Friday night, Claude insisted we go to the cinema. We saw some German musical about the life of Tchaikovsky, complete rubbish. But I watched the German newsreels they showed before the film. Ridiculous propaganda, and because it was dark in the cinema, Claude started laughing, and I did the same. Not very loudly, just enough to cheer ourselves up. And everyone in the audience was sniggering along with us. I would happily go to the cinema again just to hear that!”

“That sounds just like Monsieur Auzello,” says Frank, and he smiles.

“Today, he taught me this expression that is circulating in Paris: ‘the brown plague.’ It’s the perfect way to describe it, the city is awash in brown shirts. We’re faced with a pandemic. The infection is running rampant. But I’m panicking, Frank.”

Frank pours himself a Martini.

“Of all the things I have here in the bar, a Martini is still the remedy for fear.”

“You’re right. Let’s drink.”

Finally, Frank steels himself to meet Blanche’s gaze. Every time he looks into those eyes, he feels the dizzy thrill of a boy who has fallen in love for the first time. But while he is soothing Blanche’s fears, people like Joanovici and Süss are advancing their pawns. In this deadly game, he must be constantly vigilant, and mistrust even those closest to him. How long will he be able to keep Blanche, Luciano, and himself safe? And how long can he carry on lying without sullying his soul?