Part Three: The Growing Conflict — Chapter 7 - The Barman of the Ritz

JUNE 21, 1941

Blanche received Frank’s note in time. When, with the Widow’s approval, Süss summoned Blanche to his office, she confirmed that she was the daughter of a church deacon. Marie Sénéchal came back and told Frank she had delivered the message.

General von Stülpnagel pulled through, and the Ritz lost two of its linden trees but regained some of its tranquility with the departure of Göring, the powdered ogre, who returned to Berlin. Frank’s greatest challenge in the bar now is how to rein in Lafont, his stooges, and his floozies. Frank can tell that Georges is seduced by Lafont’s manly swagger and his flashy suits, but a deep-seated respect for the Ritz still holds him back. Tonight, there was even a small victory. Coming from a meeting in one of the hotel lounges, Henri Lafont and Joseph Joanovici popped their heads around the door of the bar and stood there for a moment, hesitating about whether to go in, an instinctive reflex of their social insecurity.

Frank and Luciano were preparing an order and, stoically, did not even look up. Although he felt self-conscious, Georges did not say anything either and the bar guests carried on their conversation as though nothing had happened. The two racketeers sneered and retreated.

At closing time, Frank is whistling at the thought of Marie-Louise Ritz being forced to offer a groveling apology to the Auzellos after Claude sent an angry message to Baron Pfyffer yesterday morning denouncing the “odious investigation” Süss has been conducting into his wife. According to the report by Marie Sénéchal, Süss and the Widow almost came to blows, which delighted Frank no end. But when Monsieur Süss turns up shortly after midnight, stony-faced, Frank immediately realizes that the good times have come to an end.

Süss sits at the far end of the bar; he has not come to drink.

“I’m sure we can come to some agreement, Herr Meier,” he says by way of greeting.

Frank says nothing.

“Herr Meier”—he talks to me like the Nazis.

“As I’m sure you’ve already heard,” Süss says, “I’ve been reprimanded by Claude Auzello. The idiot ranted and raved and waved his marriage certificate in my face as though it were proof of anything. A very plausible document as it happens—almost beyond reproach, I would say. Miss Blanche Ross, born in Cleveland, Ohio. But there was one detail that immediately caught my attention. Why on earth is their marriage certificate dated 1931, when they were married in 1925?”

Frank’s jaw tightens.

“Needless to say, I was intrigued. So, yesterday morning I asked to see Madame Auzello’s passport on the pretext that the Gestapo now requires an identity document for all guests staying at the Ritz. And, can you imagine? Her passport is also dated 1931. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Of course, I made sure to note the name of the American consul who signed the marriage certificate.”

Süss pauses for a moment. Frank waits to hear what is coming next, though he already knows that all is lost. Süss slowly relates his story, reveling in the details of his investigation. He explains how he managed to get hold of the Texas-born diplomat, “now redeployed to London.” How he learned that the man was crippled with gambling debts. And how, for almost nothing, and without even having to set foot outside the Ritz, he was able to get all the information he needed from the man. “A little quid pro quo.” Süss now knows everything: that Blanche is Jewish, that Claude lied, and that Frank was involved.

“I should point out that I have not yet said anything about this to Madame Ritz,” Süss continues. “I have nothing against Madame Auzello personally, believe me. Let us just say that I would prefer to keep the information as an insurance policy and negotiate a deal that will give every one of us some peace of mind.”

The blood drains from Frank’s face as he takes it all in. Süss goes on to explain that, last winter, on the advice of Karl Haberstock, he met with an elderly Jewish surgeon, an art lover with one of the finest private collections in Paris.

“A very important meeting, one that provided me with contacts for notable Jewish families.”

Those contacts are critical to his mission: Göring, now returned to Berlin, has tasked Süss with tracking down art from Jewish artists to satisfy the appetite of German art dealers, a service the Widow believes is critical to the Ritz continuing to stay open and in favor.

But there is a hitch. “Göring’s greed is insatiable,” Süss says in a confidential tone. “He may no longer be here in Paris, but he left strict orders. He hoards, he loots, he pillages… You know, I believe I will have one of your cocktails after all. Could you make me a Pompadour?”

Frank is distraught, and he still cannot work out what Süss is driving at. While he mixes the cocktail, he is careful not to miss a word. The Nazis are plundering Jewish families of anything of value: paintings, sculptures, tapestries, instruments, clocks. And the pace has been increasing over the past month, ever since Haberstock’s surgeon introduced Süss to his solicitor, who is now acting as a middleman.

“The sort of individual you would never allow in your bar, Frank. Flabby and overweight, with bushy eyebrows and terrible facial tics. He’s filthy and he sweats like a pig. But every Tuesday I have to go to see him in a musty apartment where this disgusting individual breeds rabbits among the Renoir drawings and the Frans Hals studies. And it’s impossible to bypass him.”

As a middleman, the solicitor takes a ten percent commission on every sale. If only Süss could find a way to circumvent the solicitor, he and the Jewish families could share the commission without a word to the Germans. But this has proved impossible: the Jewish families have all insisted on dealing with him through the solicitor, even though he is not a Jew himself. Now, Süss has finally found out why.

“In addition to acting as a middleman, the solicitor also manages to acquire excellent fake passports for these Jewish families, allowing them to travel to Marseille or Lisbon, and from there to America. They sell their art exclusively through him, and he helps them escape.”

Frank says nothing, but hands the Pompadour to Süss, who raises the glass in a gesture of appreciation. The deputy manager takes a sip and carries on.

“So, what I was thinking, Frank, is that if I keep quiet about Blanche Auzello’s Jewish origins, you might be able to get me forged passports, safe-conduct passes, or birth certificates—to persuade the Jews to sell to me directly. Since you seem to have made some useful contacts in this matter. Or am I mistaken?”

For a moment, Frank is careful not to nod.

How much does Süss know about his diplomatic network? Does he know that, before the war, Frank was the official barman at all the grand balls hosted by the American embassy on the Avenue Gabriel? Does he know the Portuguese consul invited him to his daughter’s wedding at his home in Estoril? Does he know Frank taught the rudiments of the art of the cocktail to the military attaché of the Romanian delegation?

Whatever the case, Süss seems confident. He has thought this through.

“And as you are already in the habit of discreetly passing betting slips over the bar, the Germans will notice nothing.”

Süss clearly has spies everywhere.

Shaken, Frank pours himself a whisky and takes a quick gulp. Between them floats the possibility of a deal.

“You know what?” says Süss after a moment’s silence. “Göring would pay a king’s ransom for a sketch by Cranach the Elder, one of his favorite artists. The one who, and I quote, ‘best represents German genius.’ Oh, from time to time, he will buy a Picasso or a Monet, but only in the hope that he might later exchange them for a painting by a great sixteenth-century master. He stores them in the Jeu de Paume and calls them his ‘hostages.’ ”

Cranach versus Picasso, classical versus contemporary, this is the other battlefield in this war in which Süss is an unscrupulous mercenary. His eyes unmoving, he murmurs that he does not question orders, he prefers to lie in wait.

“I cover for you about Blanche Auzello, you get me some forged papers, and I pay you a commission. You have two days to decide. Good night, Frank.”

The barman is in shock. Can he trust Süss?

Do I really have a choice?

Alone with the enormity of this conversation, Frank isn’t sure. How does Süss know about the betting slips? His thoughts are racing, but it feels futile: the answers will not come. He closes the bar and slowly wanders home through the dark deserted city. At home, he paces his apartment, desperately trying to think of a plan, a strategy, but there is none. By the time he goes to bed, the sun is already over the horizon.