Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 12 - The Barman of the Ritz

NOVEMBER 5, 1940

Sitting on a bench in the Tuileries gardens, Frank glances up from his newspaper and sees a starving man desperately trying to catch a pigeon with a net. In this war that people are now calling peace, the newspapers insist that life is returning to normal, but Frank has only to look around to know that this is a lie. He finds himself caught between two worlds that exist side by side yet never meet: the world of the Ritz, with its pomp, its opulence, and its predators, and the outside world where people are struggling. Since the occupying forces imposed strict rations on fuel and groceries, ordinary Parisians have been struggling to survive the cold and the food shortages.

As usual, the newspaper is filled with articles about “The Jewish Question.” The Vichy government recently passed a “Law Regarding the Status of Jews,” banning French Jews from working in public service. Now, everywhere he goes, Frank sees posters plastered over shop windows: JÜDISCHES GESCHÄFT. Jewish Business.

How could the maréchal allow such a thing to happen? Maybe he had no choice but to go and shake hands with Hitler when he agreed to the armistice at Montoire.

Last night, as he was closing up the bar, Frank stumbled on a guide issued by the Wehrmacht to soldiers on leave. What he read made his blood boil: “Avoid the areas of Paris that are teeming with Jews from all over the world. You will be overcome by the foul stench. You will see lice-ridden children black with filth wandering through dark alleys.”

Now, every time someone mentions the word “Jew” in the bar, Frank is brutally reminded that his old friend Georges holds the fate of Luciano in the palm of his hand, and, by extension, Frank’s too, as a willing accomplice to the deception.

All Frank can do is cling to the hope that Pétain may be able to turn the tide. But that glimmer of hope is fading.

At the Ritz, much is changed, much is in flux—plus ça change. Colonel Speidel abruptly moved out and is now based at the Royal Monceau hotel. The official story is that he was simply giving his suite at the Ritz to a more senior officer, Generalleutnant Otto von Stülpnagel, recently promoted to the highest rank in the Wehrmacht and appointed Head of the Occupying Forces and Military Commander of France. Born to a noble Prussian family, he is tall and thin, simultaneously stubborn and delicate. He sports a monocle and wears gold buttons on his uniform. No one yet knows what to make of this serious, unsmiling man. Frank suspects that Speidel is trying to put some distance between himself and Göring—who could blame him? Sacha Guitry, always hoping for a chance to ruffle the Germans’ feathers with his antagonistic wit, is the only person disappointed not to see the Great Huntsman every time he comes to the Ritz.

The only man whose nerve has impressed the new German general is Claude Auzello. The former manager was in the lobby when Otto von Stülpnagel arrived and, when Elmiger tried to introduce the two men, Auzello bowed his head but pointedly refused to shake his hand. Elmiger visibly wilted and Marie-Louise almost choked, but the general did not flinch and carried on walking. Frank felt like bursting into applause.

That night, General von Stülpnagel came to the bar with Colonel Speidel. The Prussian nobleman ordered a glass of Pol Roger and asked Frank what he thought of the presence of the German officers at the Ritz.

“And you, Herr General, what do you think of the absence of French officers at the Savoy Hotel in Berlin?”

Frank was terrified that he had gone too far, but Speidel immediately burst out laughing and Stülpnagel gave a simulacrum of a smile.

It irritates Frank when he hears the elderly newsreader on Radio-Paris blithely say that life has returned to “normal.” There is no normal anymore; there is no truth. Radio-Paris lies to the French, the French lie to the Germans, everyone lies to everyone else. The important thing is not to lie to ourselves, Frank thinks as he looks through the newspaper for something that might distract him, but it is futile. Even the sports section of Le Matin has a statement from Göring vowing that there will be no end to the blitzkrieg on Britain. The only human-interest story is about a mechanic on the Boulevard de Sébastopol who cut the throat of his wife’s lover. And, right next to it, under the headline “BRUSSELS TO CRACK DOWN ON JEWS,” a brief update: “Reliable sources have advised us that in Belgium, a new law has been passed to resolve the Jewish question.”

Frank folds up his paper and leaves the Tuileries gardens. There is no point in looking for distraction in the news. Poor Luciano is at risk, as is Frank himself, and Blanche. What of Blanche, he wonders as he heads for home. Locked away and sick in her rooms. He aches for a brief exchange with her, the chance to mix her a Bijou and watch the colors slide from the glass into her mouth. All the way home Frank hears the mournful howling of a dog in the distance.