Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 9 - The Barman of the Ritz

OCTOBER 1, 1940

While Göring may have replaced Churchill at the Ritz, in Frank’s apartment building on the Rue Henri-Rochefort, life has almost returned to normal. The concierge has even found time to polish the dark oak staircase. The sweet smell of Sapoli wax evokes a bygone world. On the third floor, Mademoiselle Le Trocquer has taken up the piano again. Tonight, she is practising Schumann. The young woman has perfectly mastered “Träumerei.”

Not everything about the Krauts is bad.

Sitting on the sofa in his living room, Frank is in a cheerful mood. Unexpectedly, he has received word from Jean-Jacques. His son has written to say he is safe and sound, not even a prisoner. To celebrate, Frank has treated himself to two glasses of Côte de Nuits. The first interzone map, defining the limits of the Occupied and Free zones, arrived this morning, and Frank is now poring over it for the umpteenth time, studying the demarcation line. Jean-Jacques escaped the draft because of his myopia. Frank feels a little ashamed that he’d forgotten his son was shortsighted. Did he ever know? It doesn’t matter, his son is still in Nice and has just got a job in the accounts department of the Hotel le Negresco. He is, he writes, “serene.”

It is quiet tonight on the Rue Henri-Rochefort; Frank knows many of the previous residents have left the building, but these days he is less quick to judge those who have fled. His heart goes out to the Birenbaum family, who used to live upstairs. They are not likely to return anytime soon. He remembers the morning they handed him the keys to their top-floor apartment before leaving for Spain and asked him to make sure that looters did not break in. Every Jew in France should do what they were doing, Jean Birenbaum whispered as the two men stood on the pavement. “The wolves are already at the door.” And Frank had the curious feeling that his neighbor was making some insinuation. Could this be a warning? Impossible!

I’ve been French these past twenty years, I’m a war veteran, I fought at Verdun under the command of Maréchal Pétain, I’m not at risk.

Frank pours himself a third glass of wine; he will go to bed drunk, which is probably for the best.

Diary of Frank Meier

Every time I hear Schumann’s “Träumerei,” it pierces my very soul. I don’t try to fight it. The melody sweeps me back to memories of my youth in Manhattan. At the Hoffman House bar, Ewald, a languorous pianist from Düsseldorf, would regularly play the piece at closing time. The few straggling customers loved the melancholy air that seemed to sweeten the night. As did I. As Ewald’s fingers moved over the keyboard of the Steinway, they soothed the sorrows of those in exile, and “Träumerei” gave me a fleeting sense of immortality. Before I finished my shift, as I was polishing the copper edge of the bar, I would sometimes ask Ewald to play it again, just for me. Sometimes he would play “Träumerei” six times in a row and it seemed as though he might never stop. There were nights when, rather than going home to bed, I would settle myself in one of the padauk chairs, all alone in Mahoney’s bar, and gaze out the picture window to the left, immersing myself in nocturnal New York. A spellbinding city, shimmering with electricity. Out on the streets, everything was illuminated and brought to life by the procession of car headlights. The electric signs above the theaters, the music halls, and the grand hotels blazed all night long. There were no longer any shadows; the twentieth century looked set to be one of magic and enchantment. It was a sweet dream.