Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

  “I am only ten years younger than you,” Claude snapped. “We are French, still. We must do something to remind ourselves of that.” Claude’s voice had risen, and German faces turned his way; he sipped his brandy and forced himself to calm down. “We cannot simply display our famous French hospitality to the Boche. We must not roll over like the Army did, the Navy—our so-called leaders living like moles underground in Vichy. Moles, blind to the light—that is not for us, we men, we leaders.”

  “I admire you, young man.” Dupré sounded sad, however, not admiring. “But I cannot agree with you. France is lost—mon Dieu, I never thought I would say that in my lifetime. The Germans are the victors. Now let us find a way to live as the defeated.”

  “I am sorry to hear this.” Claude had not truly known what he was seeking—was he looking for advice? Words of rebellion? Simply a confirmation that Frenchmen were still men? One thing was certain: He had not come looking for this. “Au revoir, François.”

  “Au revoir, Claude.”

  Claude left him to his sorrow—good God, the man’s very clothes reeked of despair and cowardice, and Claude almost held his nose as he proceeded to the other hotels, where he encountered the same despicable, vile-smelling odor of defeat, to a man. And he was finally reduced to walking along the Seine, sputtering to himself like an idiot, calling them all names he’d never imagined calling his fellow Frenchmen, most of whom had served, as had he, in the previous war. Idiots. Toads. Pigeons. Fools. Children.

  Cowards.

  He collapsed on a bench and caught his ragged breath; he was on the Left Bank, across from the Île Saint-Louis. Notre Dame took up its usual bulk of the evening sky. The bells had been silenced since the invasion, and many of the newly restored stained-glass windows had been removed and hidden somewhere, lest the Germans decide to treat them as souvenirs. It was shadowy in the twilight; the lights were out, as they were out all over Paris. The gargoyles were mere smudges, hard to discern. But shadowy or not, it was there; reassuring in its ancient history, dating back to the twelfth century when Paris was just a muddle of wooden huts and rickety buildings, when cows walked in the streets and people believed in saints and sorcerers, both.

  What did the saints think of them now? Looking down on Paris from their high perch; watching as first its citizens fled when the gray-green uniforms goose-stepped in, then came crawling back, heads cowed, spirits broken?

  And where were the sorcerers? Besides de Gaulle, Claude could think of no one who could break this spell of defeat and cowardice. And de Gaulle was on the other side of the Channel. He did not have to walk, as Claude must from now on, upon soil that was spongy with defeat.

  “Pardon.”

  Standing in front of Claude was a young man. He was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, pegged trousers, a silk scarf around his throat.

  “Oui?”

  “You are Monsieur Auzello of the Ritz.” This did not appear to be a question; indeed, the stranger seemed delighted with his perspicacity. He snorted a small laugh, took a last draw on a cigarette, threw it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.

  “Who are you?” Glancing around, Claude perceived that no one else was near, save a young couple nuzzling each other’s necks on the bridge nearby. Ah, some things did remain the same—Claude was unaccountably aroused, and he shifted his legs, embarrassed; there was one way, at least, in which he could feel like a Frenchman. He was surprised by the thought, but he did not dismiss it.

  “My name is Martin.” The man turned his back to Claude, appearing to study Notre Dame, watching a few shadows scurrying about its foundations. A boat putt-putted in the river on the other side; behind them, cafés and nightclubs emitted their usual music and laughter, muted because curfew was at nine o’clock and it was almost eight.

  “I do not wish to know your name,” Claude replied curtly, hoping the stranger would find him rude and leave. It was not the time to make new friends, not when they might be taken away in the middle of the night. For already there were rumors of people simply disappearing; stories of hearing cries behind closed doors, cries silenced by German voices.

  “That’s a pity.” Martin still didn’t turn to him. “Because I believe I have something to say that you would like to hear. Man to man—Frenchman to Frenchman.”

  Claude had been half-rising, but now he froze.

  “I also understand,” Martin continued, still so casually, “that you have a wife. An American.”

  Claude sat back down again.

  “I am very good with wives.” Martin chuckled. “Personally, unlike your friends, I am not interested in playing dead until this is all over. I see in you myself—a man, looking for adventure, for romance, women, eh? Perhaps even opportunity in treacherous times. Would you care for me to elaborate?”

  How did this stranger expect Claude to answer? Even if he hadn’t mentioned Blanche, Claude would have stayed. For here, at last, was a Frenchman.

  But since he did mention his wife—his American wife—Claude had no choice but to remain. And listen.

  Claude Auzello had listened well. He took notes. He made plans.

  * * *

  —

  AND NOW, HE IS a man again.

  A Frenchman.

  “Madame!”

  Blanche looks up, surprised to find herself back in the dim nightmare of the present instead of the rosy romance of her past—surprised, even, to find herself still holding the hatbox she’d taken from the apartment. She’s also disoriented; she’s no longer on the avenue Montaigne, but instead has turned down a side street. Slowly she recognizes it; it’s full of familiar little shops—a cheese shop, a wine shop, a patisserie. She used to spend time here, back—before.

  “Madame!”

  Someone is beckoning to her, head swiveling back and forth in a doorway, looking out for something. Or someone. It is an old man, standing in the doorway to a chocolate shop. In his hand, he holds a box of chocolates, wrapped in a pretty ribbon.

  “Madame, for you. Please. Come—a gift.”

  “What?”

  “Come—I give you a gift!”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “A gift! Of reunion!”

  She shouldn’t; she knows she shouldn’t. Hasn’t Claude told her that often enough? Hasn’t she heard the stories of people—ordinary citizens—snooping around where they didn’t belong, and then disappearing? But she can’t help herself; she decides to investigate. Glancing around to see if anyone else is watching, she follows the old man into his shop, where he thrusts the box of chocolates at her and says, excitedly, “You are American, I remember! We haven’t seen you in so long.”

  “Yes, well…” Blanche has no idea why he’s so damn happy to see her; it isn’t as if she’d been his most frequent patron. To tell the truth, she rarely bought chocolates here; there are better places nearer the Ritz.

  “Come, come.” He grabs her hatbox and hops—one leg seems stiffer than the other—toward the back of the shop, which appears to be empty. She follows—she has no idea why, except she’s curious. What an odd little fellow.

  “Here!” He opens a door—a storeroom, windowless—and shoves her inside. “Look,” he says, accusingly.

  There, seated at a table, is a young man in clothing far too big for him: a thick fisherman’s sweater, tweed pants, gaping boots. He’s pale, gaunt, reddish-blond hair sticking up all over his head. He blinks at Blanche, as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

  “Speak to him,” the old guy urges Blanche, and a younger man—introduced to her as the proprietor’s cousin—nods eagerly. “Talk to him in English. He doesn’t understand French.”

  “He showed up at my door,” the cousin says, rubbing his hand all over his face. “I cannot be responsible!”

  “Hello?” Blanche says in English to the boy, and he imme
diately bursts into tears. The other three look at one another in alarm.

  “Oh, Christ, I’m sorry!” The soldier wipes his eyes, shuddering. “It’s just been so bloody long since I’ve heard my native tongue.”

  “You’re British? What happened? Why are you here?” Sitting down, Blanche accepts a tumbler of red wine from the old man and wishes it was something stronger.

  “Got shot down months and months ago, and I’ve been hiding from the Krauts ever since. Passed along from place to place like a parcel, trying to get back home. Last night I missed my contact, or he missed me, and I knocked on this bloke’s door.” He points to the cousin, who shakes his head morosely at his bad luck. “I don’t think he’s happy about that.”

  “No.” Blanche glances at the other two, twitchy, agitated as oil in a hot skillet.

  “You will help? Take him?” the cousin asks her in French.

  “Now?” the old man adds, desperately.

  “What can I do?” She asks it twice, in both English and French, and no one has an answer in either language. So she stands, paces a bit, pausing to study the airman. He’s so boyish; even though he hasn’t shaved in days, there’s very little stubble on his thin cheeks that still have a babyish softness to them. He’s so young—

  He could have been her son.

  “OK,” Blanche says, taking charge; and once she makes the decision she realizes she’s excited, energized, despite the danger that surely lies ahead.

  Because finally, she’s contributing; finally, she’s acting. Not passing by the walking wounded, merely pressing money into their palms. Not plastered against a wall, a silent witness to a family being destroyed before her very eyes. This time, she’s doing something—something—

  And then she realizes. She really has no idea what to do. But she suspects she knows someone who does. “May I make a phone call?”

  “If you think it’s wise.” The old man shows her an old-fashioned stick phone on a wobbly end table. Dialing the Ritz, she identifies herself to the new switchboard operator—a German girl, naturally—and asks to be patched through to the bar. She’ll have to be very careful; Claude has warned her that the Germans listen to every conversation.

  “Frank? Frank, is that you?”

  “Blanche?” There’s a noisy din in the background, but it’s Frank Meier’s voice on the other end. Frank, who can provide.

  Anything.

  “Frank, I—I have an unexpected guest. You know how terrible the mail has been, he sent a letter, but it never arrived. The thing is, I don’t have—I don’t have room for him, and I thought you might know someone who does.”

  There is a pause; she hears the clink of glasses, the shaking of ice, the language of Nazis. Spatzy bellowing his hearty laugh in the background.

  “And where might this guest be?”

  “We’re buying some chocolates for him to take back home. Seven rue Clément-Marot?” Blanche looks at the old man, who nods, a broad smile of relief on his weathered face.

  “Sit tight,” Frank replies, hanging up.

  Plopping back down on her chair—nervous perspiration causing her blouse to stick to her chest so she airs it out and asks for another glass of wine—Blanche stares at the clock. For agonizingly long minutes, no one speaks; the young airman actually puts his head down on his arms and is soon snoring. The two Frenchmen gape at each other in astonishment, then a bell dings; the old guy leaps up, Blanche’s heart pounds, but as soon as he hops back up to the front of the store, she relaxes; it’s only a customer, a woman buying some candied orange peels with black market Reichsmarks. Blanche hears him wait on her and, finally, his uneven footsteps leading back to the storeroom.

  She jumps up, knocking her chair over in her relief. For it is Greep who is with him, Greep who looks at Blanche, then at the young man who has raised his head, sleep in his eyes, and nods.

  “Allons. We get to work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is a place. A barge, on the Seine. It is a contact point. If he gets there he’ll get home, God willing. I can take him there.”

  “You?” Blanche studies him; Greep looks like, well—Greep. She’s known him for close to twenty years, this small, gnarly magician; he’s one of Frank Meier’s “friends,” a specialist in the lost art—or so he says, with a sad shake of his head—of forgery, the last of his kind. Do you need a death certificate for an inconvenient body, but don’t wish to contact the authorities? Greep will provide. Do you need a marriage certificate in order to collect a widow’s pension that you haven’t legally earned? Greep will provide. Do you need a new passport, perhaps, one with a different name, a different country of origin, a different religion?

  Greep will provide. For a price.

  Greep smiles, jumpy as ever; he’s a caffeine addict, originally from Turkey, she thinks. Maybe? Like Lily, Greep is not one to talk much about the past and it occurs to Blanche, for the first time, that this is something she has in common with the mysterious, scrappy refugees she seems to be drawn to lately. Blanche notices the permanent ink stains on Greep’s right forefinger and thumb and can’t help but smile. But an expertise in forgery isn’t what’s required here, is it?

  “You’ve done this before?” Blanche asks, dubiously. “You’ve—helped in this way?”

  “I’ve done it once. With a friend.”

  “Where is that friend now?”

  “Ask the Boche. I haven’t seen him since they captured him.” Greep laughs, as if this is a colossal joke. He wipes his eyes—they are streaming tears of mirth—and says, only a trifle more seriously, “There are German sentries along the route, so we should go soon, while it’s light. They don’t stop as many people in the day.”

  “But what would you do if they did stop you?”

  Again an amused shrug. “Run!”

  The young airman, even though he speaks no French, looks alarmed at this; his eyes are big, bright, and terrified.

  “No.” Blanche decides in that moment. “No, I’ll do it.”

  “You?” It seems to her that all four men say it at the same time, in the same language.

  “Yes, me. I speak German. Does anybody else?”

  No one answers.

  “Right. That’s what I thought.” Surveying her clothing—plain, nothing special, just a skirt and a blouse and sensible shoes—she decides it will do. The boy—well, there’s no hope of getting a German soldier’s uniform for him, even as Blanche is fairly certain that Frank Meier could provide this, too. But in his current attire, which is hanging off his bony frame, the young Brit can pass for an invalid. He’s certainly pale enough; Blanche wonders when he last saw the sun.

  “He’s a convalescing German soldier, that’s what he is,” she explains to Greep and the other two. “And I’m taking him out for his daily walk. If the Boche ask any questions, I can answer; they’ll think I’m his German nurse. And he’s fair, too.” She appraises the young man, who looks at her with absolute trust in his eyes. Trust Blanche hasn’t yet earned and might not, of course—so many obstacles lie ahead she can’t bring herself to count them all—but she represents his only hope. He has no choice but to convince himself that she will succeed.

  She has no other choice, either.

  “Tell me where I’m taking him again?”

  “A barge. It’s a place for crippled pigeons—you’ll see. Beneath the Pont d’Austerlitz.”

  “All that way?” How long can Blanche keep this young man from crumbling beneath the strain? He’s already been through hell, and he doesn’t look as if he’ll be able to bluff his way out of any situation.

  Greep shrugs. “It is what it is.”

  “All right.” She beckons to the boy, explaining it all in English. “I’m your German nurse. You are a German soldier, sick, being taken out for his daily walk. If anyone talks to you, just say
Jawohl, do you hear me? Nothing else. Not a single word. You can nod, you can shake your head, you can sneeze or cough, you can say Jawohl. But I don’t care if anyone points a gun at you, I don’t care if you see me stand on my head or start speaking gibberish—you don’t run, do you hear me? And you don’t say a word of English.”

  “I don’t think I can do this,” he says softly. His eyes begin to fill with tears. Christ, he can only be about nineteen or twenty. What this fucking world is asking of boys like him fills Blanche with enough rage for the two of them.

  “You can. You were in an airplane shooting down at these bastards. You can walk right through them now. I’ll do all the talking.” She places a hand on his shoulder; he’s trembling. “Trust me.”

  And when she says it, she’s filled with an otherworldly calm—almost spiritual. Not based on anything she’s ever experienced before; if she were a different person she’d say it was the spirit of her ancestors, guiding her. Or maybe the spirit of Lily, somewhere.

  “OK.” It’s time to move; Greep’s right. They don’t want to be out when the sun starts to set. Blanche gathers up her young ward, nods to Greep and reminds him, “If I’m not back at the Ritz by midnight, tell Claude,” and waves farewell to the two Frenchmen, who are clutching each other and weeping with relief at seeing their burden taken from them so quickly.

  She’s almost out the door before she remembers something.

  “I’ll take those.” Sprinting back to the storeroom, Blanche retrieves the chocolates the old man had waved at her, ages ago now, but in reality, only forty-five minutes have passed since she left the apartment. “You gave them to me, after all. I’ll be back for the hatbox.”

  Tucking the chocolates in her handbag, she steers the young man out the door, and then they are walking. Walking out in the sunlight, he squints at it, his eyes tearing up at its radiance; he must have only known night, all these months. Yankee Blanche is walking through German-occupied Paris with a British pilot and they could both be shot, no questions asked, if they’re found out. But the sun is shining—it wasn’t, before; the trees are so beautiful with their reds and golds, leaves crunch beneath their feet, warm chestnuts are being sold on corners, children are playing in gardens. It’s such a pretty day, she almost remarks upon it—in English, and thank Christ she bites her tongue just in time. And Blanche tastes blood, and it reminds her that flesh is permeable, bones can be broken, veins slashed. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.