The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

‘The French Government has this morning left Paris for Tours. The people of the capital are advised to make all arrangements necessary in the face of a rapid enemy advance. It is expected that the forces of Hitler’s Germany will enter the city within days.’

  ‘No!’ Polly stopped dead.

  ‘Watch out, don’t fall again.’ Tommy held her up by the arm.

  But it was too great a shock. ‘There – there has been no word of this before now,’ she stammered, staring at him. She felt sick with it. ‘No hint of this at all. The newspapers said the war was going well.’

  She remembered then what Tommy had told her in the Cambon bar of soldiers wearing carpet slippers.

  ‘I don’t think the newspapers have been telling us the truth for months,’ said Tommy. ‘I don’t think anyone has.’

  Her face had gone white. ‘What will happen when they come?’

  He looked at the rushing people around them. ‘Panicking doesn’t help anyone.’

  She was struck by how calm he seemed. ‘You’d already heard the announcement, hadn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me back there?’

  She had embarrassed him. ‘I didn’t know what you’d do. You were already upset.’

  This made her see red. ‘Because I’d fallen down and hurt my knee, Tommy. I still would have appreciated being told what you knew.’

  ‘Come on, let’s cross the square.’

  But she shook loose from his hand. ‘I thought you were honest with me?’

  Caught, he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You say panicking never helps anyone – well, I’m not panicking, am I? Being cosseted and mollycoddled doesn’t help a person, but I’m not doing that either – you are. To me.’

  He tried to take her arm again. ‘I have a duty to get you to safety.’

  ‘What duty?’

  ‘As an employee of the Ritz.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, we’re not in the Ritz now, and you’re not even on duty. I can look after my own safety perfectly well, thank you, Tommy.’

  She made to limp directly across the square to the hotel before she looked at the traffic and thought better of it, instead taking to the periphery to go the long way around.

  ‘Wait!’ he called out.

  She turned and glared at him.

  Tommy walked to where she stood. He lowered his voice so that only she might hear it. ‘You think you’re so brave walking around Paris with a gun in your purse?’

  Polly gasped.

  ‘Yes, I saw it. And if someone else sees it, they might not be so respectful of your stupidity.’

  Polly held the leather tight against her chest. ‘What I choose to carry in my handbag is my business.’

  He tossed his head with contempt. ‘You’re just a silly little rich girl playing kids’ games.’

  She drew herself up straight. ‘Tell me then, if you hadn’t so manfully saved my bag from the cars, do you think you would have guessed what’s inside it?’

  He didn’t have a reply.

  She smiled with disdain. ‘No,’ she answered for him. ‘So, you can call me a “little rich girl” all you like, but when the Germans come, which of us will be better prepared to stop them?’ She turned on her heel.

  Tommy watched her go, angry now, too. ‘Leave Paris!’ he called after her.

  Polly looked over her shoulder at him.

  ‘Please leave Paris,’ he implored her.

  She stopped again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because neither of us knows what they’ll do.’

  Each looked long into the other’s eyes. Polly thought then of how he’d written to his grandmother, promising he wouldn’t take risks. She felt ashamed anew for reading what he’d said. ‘I’m sorry –’ she called back to him, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Tommy – I’m so sorry for what I did.’

  He was still looking at her, and Polly wondered, had he actually understood what she’d meant?

  Tommy turned without a further word between them and fought through the rushing crowd.

  * * *

  With her sprained knee now bandaged by the hotel nurse, it felt indescribably unreal to Polly to be sitting down to late luncheon at l’Espadon. Seated with her at the central table in the beautiful mirrored dining room were Alexandrine, Lana Mae and Zita. They were joined by two others: Mimi Ritz, who had entered the room spectacularly hatted, gloved, and parasoled, while every man in the room rose from his chair to nod at her; and a middle-aged gentleman, Doctor Paul Mandel, a respected Canadian surgeon. He was wearing a rumpled coat with his grey hair uncombed, looking sleepless and distracted, and saying little.

  Mimi was leading a conversation on the l’Espadon cuisine that to Polly’s ear seemed almost insane in the face of all that had happened. And yet, she felt stunned into silence, unable to speak of what was so obvious outside the Ritz walls.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mimi was saying, ‘it is essential to avoid a too-rich cuisine. A meal ought to be transparent, one must not mask the ingredients.’

  ‘Like haute couture,’ said Zita, sparking another cigarette while she ate. She alternated between bites and puffs at every meal.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mimi. ‘As with a fine gown, when it is kept simple, one can see the beauty so clearly.’

  ‘And when it’s stuffed full of ruffles you can hide the horrors underneath,’ said Lana Mae, through a mouthful of fish. She winked at Doctor Mandel, who didn’t respond.

  Polly kept trying to catch Alexandrine’s eye, but the Comtesse, who was rather pale, seemed to be avoiding her looks.

  Polly fell to staring at the other tables in dismay. All the luncheon regulars seemed to be there, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The eccentric Mr Wall was at his table facing the garden, dining with his chow dog, Pepe, who was wearing a canine tuxedo specially made by Charvet. Monsieur Guitry, the flamboyant playwright, was at his usual table; as was Serge Lifar, the Russian ballet star; and Monsieur Cocteau, the fashionable poet, said to dabble in drugs. The dining room’s chilly sommelier, Monsieur Lefèvre, was in place, striding to the table of a gentleman who had risen in his chair, making to remove his jacket.

  ‘But it’s too warm,’ the man tried to explain.

  ‘Not here, Monsieur,’ said Lefèvre, remaining by the man’s chair until he sat down with his jacket secured again.

  In the far corner there was the wife of the French industrialist who had once sent a Ritz footman to London to retrieve a forgotten key. Near another of the windows was the portly Arab gentleman who told the same anecdote about how he once requested a meal of elephant foot from the Ritz kitchen, and they duly purchased a beast from the Jardin des Plantes and served up one of its roasted feet for his delectation.

  Polly snapped, slamming her knife on the table. ‘We have all been played for fools!’ she announced to the room, angry.

  Her companions paused from eating but made no immediate response.

  ‘Well, we have,’ said Polly, ‘For weeks we’ve all been taking comfort from patriotic idiocy. When the Germans invaded the Netherlands, we were told that France would hold fast should our turn come next. When the Luftwaffe bombed the Maginot Line, we were told that our safety was secure in the hands of the glorious French Army.’ She looked around the table. ‘Why aren’t you all as furious about these lies as I am? Or as worried about what is coming next? The French Government has fled!’

  ‘Polly,’ said Alexandrine, sternly, dabbing her lips with a napkin, ‘there are ways of expressing anxiety that are better favoured by persons of breeding and poise.’

  This only made Polly angrier. ‘You would have had me believe these terrible things would never happen,’ said Polly. ‘Were you just lying to me like Aunt Marjorie lied about her illness?’

  She saw the sharp stab of guilt this struck in Alexandrine, Zita and Lana Mae equally.

  Alexandrine met her eye at last. ‘There are ways of making accusations that are better favoured by persons of breeding, too.’

  But Polly could see the Com
tesse was fearful and ashamed. Polly turned to Mimi. ‘You told me lies, as well. Everyone did! Well, almost everyone.’ She thought of Tommy and felt guilty that she’d lost her temper with him, even though he’d discovered the gun.

  ‘That’s no way to speak to Mimi, baby,’ Lana Mae rebuked her.

  ‘Please, Lana Mae,’ Polly implored, ‘I was just on the Champs-Élysées and people started panicking when they learned the government had gone. And now here we are having a lovely late luncheon as if nothing has changed.’

  Mimi, seated next to Polly, placed a hand on her wrist. ‘My dear girl, everything has changed and of course we are aware of it. And if you feel I somehow misled you in my opinions upon this war, then I apologise. But remember this: nothing can change so much as to preclude us enjoying fine cuisine.’

  Polly wanted to scream.

  ‘Plans have already been made for you, puss,’ said Zita. ‘Eat your slops and calm down.’

  ‘What plans? Why don’t I know anything about them?’ Polly demanded.

  Seated on her other side, Alexandrine deliberately resumed eating.

  ‘Alexandrine called up that old bitch Suzette,’ said Zita, taking a long drag of her cigarette. ‘She’s meeting us at the Cambon doors with a car.’

  Polly turned to the Comtesse in bewilderment. ‘But who is Suzette?’

  ‘Suzette is my husband’s housekeeper,’ said Alexandrine, as if it explained everything.

  Polly was incredulous. ‘You’re married?’

  ‘I am quite sure that I told you I am.’ Alexandrine placed her fork on the plate. ‘And Suzette is Eduarde’s old retainer, wonderfully capable. Now, please stop speaking to me in that highly accusing tone, Polly. I have said I am sorry.’

  Fury raged anew. ‘No, you haven’t. Only Mimi did, and it wasn’t much of an apology at all.’

  ‘Puss,’ said Zita, warningly.

  ‘But what will there be in this car?’ Polly went on.

  ‘Us, honey,’ said Lana Mae, ‘we’re going on a picnic to the seaside.’ She winked at Doctor Mandel again.

  ‘To Brittany,’ said Alexandrine, ‘Monsieur Auzello has made reservations for us at a lovely hotel in Saint-Malo.’

  Polly’s hands clenched into fists. ‘This is crazy – we’ve got to fight!’

  Doctor Mandel cleared his throat. ‘My dear young woman, if you would cease your interruptions for one moment you would see that your guardians have made an excellent provision for you. You’re being taken to safety.’

  ‘Just until it’s all sorted out, baby,’ said Lana Mae. ‘No one wants to be away from things for too long.’

  Polly pushed her chair back from the table and looked at each of them coldly. ‘So, we’re going to run like cowards?’

  Doctor Mandel turned to Alexandrine. ‘I see there was indeed little point informing the girl in advance of these measures.’

  Alexandrine shook her head.

  ‘She is prone to hysterics?’

  ‘She is still so very young, Doctor,’ said Alexandrine, apologetically. ‘We must remember how it is at her age.’

  ‘What disgusting hypocrisy!’ Polly exploded at that. ‘What happened to being treated as a woman at the age of sixteen?’

  Alexandrine blanched. ‘Polly!’

  ‘No. I’m telling you right now that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to fight. Along with everyone else who still has a shred of courage.’

  The Comtesse stood and slapped Polly hard in the face. ‘You’ll find it very hard to fight when you’re busy being raped.’

  In the awful silence that followed, Polly could do nothing more than sit down again.

  Mimi picked up the threads of conversation. ‘Doctor Mandel has been so very helpful in his advice to me,’ she told them.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Lana Mae.

  He smiled at her.

  ‘Before we came down to luncheon I asked him whether I, along with my fellow investors, should strive to keep the hotel doors open with the Germans so likely to be imminent,’ said Mimi.

  Zita looked appalled. ‘You mean you’re thinking of closing? Christ, it’s not the end of the world. So what if we have a few krauts in the lobby? They’ll still want a cocktail like the rest of us, won’t they?’

  Mimi was reassuring. ‘In business one must always be pragmatic, Zita, despite the ties of family. However, Doctor Mandel has convinced me that closing the doors would not be in our best interests.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Zita.

  ‘If Mimi closes the hotel, it will only be requisitioned by the Reich,’ said Doctor Mandel.

  ‘You mean they’ll just take it?’ said Lana Mae, shocked.

  Mandel wrinkled his brow. ‘Why wouldn’t they? They’ll be the victors, and the Ritz is internationally celebrated.’

  ‘But this is horrifying!’

  ‘You mustn’t concern yourself. As an American citizen you have your neutrality, Mrs Huckstepp. Your own property will be safe – as will Madame Mimi’s.’

  ‘The dear doctor has reminded me,’ Mimi told them, ‘that I, along with my fellow investors, are citizens of Switzerland, and likewise neutral in this war. This means the Ritz is also neutral. The Germans will not take the Ritz from us because they cannot under international treaties. And so, we have no reason to close.’

  The others at the table considered this for a moment.

  ‘As you always tell us, Mimi,’ said Alexandrine, ‘nothing changes at the Ritz.’

  But Mimi looked uncomfortably at her plate.

  ‘Make no mistake, Madame Comtesse,’ said Mandel, sipping from his glass of wine, ‘the hotel will most certainly be occupied by the Germans, once they arrive.’

  ‘Like I said before, puss,’ Zita chimed in, ‘so what if there’s a few krauts in the lobby?’ But she looked uneasy now.

  ‘They better not be asking for the Imperial Suite,’ said Lana Mae, with a look of warning to Mimi.

  The Ritz owner resumed eating. ‘The Germans will be accorded the same white-glove service extended to all our guests . . .’

  * * *

  Her cheek still stinging from where Alexandrine had slapped it, her bandaged knee still sore from the fall, Polly hurled random items of clothing into a suitcase, not caring to fold them, not caring how they might be ruined or crushed. She didn’t care what she left behind either. None of it meant anything to her now, all of it was false. Her hatred for her guardian aunts throbbed in her head like a migraine. She’d already been sick with it, meaning her lunch had been wasted. Her eyes were red from the tears she’d shed, alone, well away from the women whose controlling two-facedness would only see them accuse her of being a child for crying.

  Polly’s eyes fell on Aunt Marjorie’s old issue of L’Officiel and her useless fury found its focus in the woman who had willed everything upon her.

  ‘I hate you for not telling me you were sick!’

  She kicked the magazine.

  ‘I hate you for leaving me with them!’

  The issue flew across the floor, where Polly now stamped on it, twisting her soles so that the glossy cover ripped apart, and the lying, doe-eyed model was left as belittled and powerless as Polly felt.

  Something flew out of one of the pages: a scrap of white paper, with a message in English written in Marjorie’s unmistakable hand.

  Polly stopped and stared.

  She stooped to pick it up.

  It was just a note; scrawled words meant as a personal reminder perhaps – or an affirmation of something Marjorie profoundly believed.

  We are women when the world is men’s. To live through their wars, we concede – and we compromise

  If you do not forgive her, then the cost of being female is unbearable for all of us

  Wouldn’t you like to think you’d do anything for Polly?

  Polly read and re-read what it said. When had Marjorie written this? The magazine had been new when Marjorie had purchased it on the train, which meant she could only have written the message
on the train, too. Polly tried to think of when Marjorie might have done so and could only conclude it had happened while Polly had been in the powder room. Alexandrine had visited her aunt in those same short minutes. Had Marjorie written it before or after she’d come?

  Whatever Polly’s aunt had intended by the words, the meaning seemed hopelessly lost now. Yet was it? The words remained, untethered to context, wanting only to attach themselves where they might fit.

  Concede. Compromise. Forgive.

  Polly folded the piece of paper and looked again at what she had thrown into her suitcase. She took everything out and folded each item of clothing with care, mindful of what it had cost, and of the respect that should be due accordingly.

  The last item she packed was Marjorie’s medal box. Polly opened the case and ran her finger along the satin lining.

  She knew it for certain then: her aunt had understood her all along. It was she, Polly, who owed understanding to her aunt.

  * * *

  The rue Cambon was more chaotic than Polly had seen it. To the metallic accompaniment of iron shutters being pulled down on shopfronts and cafés along every street, Parisians were endeavouring to leave the city by whatever means were available. It felt to Polly, stepping through the hotel’s glass doors and onto the pavement to be met by a clamour that was deafening even by Paris standards, that every last citizen had chosen the rue Cambon as their escape route.

  Impossibly, amidst the sea of honking, fuming, barely moving cars, the elderly and deeply wrinkled Suzette was standing by the door of an enormous black Mercedes, which she had driven all the way from the Comte’s grand home near the Parc Monceau. She wore an ancient pair of driving goggles, as if the car was open to the elements. The housekeeper had mounted the vehicle halfway onto the curb, at a forty-five-degree angle, creating an additional hazard for the cars trying to squeeze past on the narrow street.

  A man rolled down his car window to abuse Suzette directly for this lack of consideration. The tiny, wizened old woman answered him with an obscene hand gesture.

  ‘Suzette, darling, you’re perfectly on time,’ said Alexandrine, gliding through the hotel doors to kiss the servant.