Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 11 - The Barman of the Ritz

OCTOBER 3, 1940

Marie-Louise Ritz slips on a mink stole. Tonight, the Petit Bar at the Ritz will recapture its former glory, relaunch the grandes soirées of the inter-war years when everyone who was anyone in Paris came to mingle with the greatest writers and artists in the country. Frank cannot tell which brings the Widow more satisfaction: the joy of reviving the spirit of the old Ritz, or her relief at meeting the demands of her new masters—although the German authorities swiftly and emphatically dismissed Marie-Louise’s proclamation that the bar should be closed to women. She seems almost to have forgotten that she despises Arletty as much as she does Sacha Guitry. Monsieur Süss is by her side. He has already ordered the Widow her favorite tipple: a glass of Guignolet liqueur, no ice, adorned with a macerated cherry.

Marie-Louise Ritz spent much of the afternoon with Laura Corrigan, a well-heeled guest from Cleveland whom she considers unutterably stupid but who, people say, is now Göring’s lover. Fact or merely rumor? The wealthy American keeps her cards close to her chest. Süss promises to undertake a discreet investigation—he is scheduled to meet Göring’s personal art dealer, Karl Haberstock, tomorrow night.

“It seems,” Süss explains, “that I am to introduce this man Haberstock to some of our former guests.”

“Former guests?”

“Our erstwhile Israelite guests.”

Frank sees Marie-Louise flinch. Frank sometimes reads the German newspapers the officers leave lying around the bar, and he knows that, for the past two months, audiences have been flocking to German cinemas to watch a film called The Jew Süss. Is it possible that she thinks Süss is a Jew? Could Elmiger have been cunning enough to hire a Jew as his deputy?

When the Widow asks Süss whether he knows why Göring requested his help specifically, he merely shrugs. This is the unspoken rule of luxury hotels: every employee has a diverse network of connections, and as long as business is booming, no one is expected to answer questions.

Frank is briefly distracted by the arrival of a dozen German officers, but not before hearing Süss tell the Widow that “the matter of the Auzellos” has been settled by Baron Pfyffer personally. For weeks now, the Widow has been obsessed with the idea of renting an apartment in Paris for the Auzellos, keeping them at arm’s length from the Ritz. The Swiss hotelier Hans Pfyffer has been president of the Hôtel Ritz since 1925, and is the majority shareholder of Ritz-Carlton. But Pfyffer is not merely a businessman, he is also a politician and a shrewd diplomat. Like his countrymen, he favors neutrality. He is not willing to jeopardize the future of the business: if circumstances should change, Claude Auzello may prove a very valuable ally.

“For goodness’ sake!” mutters Marie-Louise. “What future is he talking about? He and I will be long dead.”

“Or perhaps not,” says Süss with a smile. “And besides, as the baron rightly says, the Ritz will outlive us all.”

The Widow gives an exasperated sigh.

“Meier, pour me another Guignolet.”

Half an hour later, the bar is almost full. Georges and Luciano have discreetly organized a perfect demarcation line: the French on one side, the Germans on the other, and the diplomats in the center. At the back of the room, to the left of the bar, a few Prussian officers are sharing a Moselle Cup, a fruit punch made with fresh fruit, Bénédictine, and a sparkling Moselle.

True to his word, Sacha Guitry has put in an appearance. He strides into the bar with Arletty on his arm, flanked by the artist Jean Cocteau and the great ballet dancer Serge Lifar. The Widow is exuberant; Frank feels a surge of pride tinged with melancholy, but he gratefully shakes the hands of his favorite customers. Immediately, he seats them at a table near the door, at the request of Guitry, who wants to watch the comings and goings. Arletty would have preferred to sit somewhere more private, but Frank points out that here she can easily slip away if she so desires. The Swiss ambassador comes over to greet Marie-Louise; a couple of voluble Americans are chatting to the Irish consul, while the minister of Romania is engrossed in conversation with Fersen, the Scandinavian consul who has been in Paris since 1936. Both are veteran members of the Thursday evening Club des Élégants.

At every table, guests sip champagne and study the new menu: tonight, the Ritz invites everyone to discover its new cocktails. The diplomats venture to try an “Alexandra”—brandy, cream, and anisette—or “Frank’s Special”: vermouth, gin, and a dash of peach schnapps. Guitry, who is sorry to note that Göring is not present for him to antagonize, drolly suggests the latter be renamed the “FrankReich Special.” Colonel Speidel, with his habitual Golden Clipper, wanders through the crowd, welcoming various guests, and delights Marie-Louise by kissing her hand. Charles Bedaux, the businessman, not knowing where to sit, ends up at the bar next to Süss and the Widow.

As the evening wears on, Frank feels the tension drain from him: his gestures become more graceful, he charms, he smiles, he makes suggestions. For the first time in many months, he feels like himself again. A phonograph record of Bach plays at a subdued volume; the hubbub in the bar is gradually rising, the conversation is flowing, cocktails are served, and people are beginning to mingle.

By eight o’clock, most of the guests are on their feet, wandering from group to group as they did in the old days. Fersen and Cocteau are talking about the theater; one of Arletty’s friends is flirting with a young German major. Many of those present have dinner reservations elsewhere in the city. A delighted Marie-Louise invites all of the others to dine at the Ritz.

Frank is, despite the Krauts, elated by this revival of the old world. Almost everyone who he is used to seeing in his bar has come back. Only Blanche is missing. Perhaps, he thinks, that is for the best.