The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  Jürgen shook his head. ‘I disagree. It is exceptional, Herr Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Metzingen, self-effacingly. He looked to Mimi again. ‘The word I meant was “occupy” – the Hôtel Ritz will be occupied by us.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mimi.

  ‘Only by the very highest-ranking officers of the Reich, you understand.’ He looked appreciatively around him at all the elements that comprised the Vendôme lobby décor. ‘There is no hotel more sumptuous and yet so discreet in Paris,’ he said. ‘Such exquisite taste, such – to use your good French word – chic, Frau Ritz.’ He turned to the Hauptmann. ‘You agree, Jürgen?’

  ‘Of course, Herr Oberstleutnant,’ said the younger man, ‘the Hôtel Ritz is quite peerless. There is no other hotel like it.’

  ‘No other,’ said Metzingen. ‘Even in Berlin.’

  Mimi hesitated. ‘Thank you, Herr Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘But of course, you thank us, for it is indeed a great honour.’

  Mimi said nothing, but her look was enough to voice the question on her lips.

  ‘Reichsmarschall Göring will be resident here,’ said Metzingen, as if she’d asked it.

  ‘Indeed?’ said Mimi. ‘Then, yes, we are honoured.’ She formed the words without meaning them.

  Metzingen now took the manila folder his subordinate carried and opened it, revealing documents and plans.

  Claude’s eyes widened at what was there, but he wouldn’t allow himself to react.

  ‘There,’ Metzingen indicated the area immediately outside the glass entrance doors, ‘and there,’ he pointed to the lobby just inside, ‘and there,’ he pointed to the base of the grand hotel stairs, ‘will be positioned soldiers ready to present arms to all military officers who enter and leave the hotel.’

  Claude acknowledged the directive. ‘Of course, Herr Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘The Ritz consists of two halves, does it not?’

  ‘That is so,’ said Claude.

  But the question was to Jürgen, who was consulting a blueprint. Claude bit back his rage. For the Germans to have such a detailed floor plan meant that the Ritz had been betrayed utterly. Who of the hotel family he so loved could have thrown them to Hitler’s wolves?

  ‘Two halves, that is correct, Herr Oberstleutnant,’ Jürgen said.

  ‘This side, I assume, is the Vendôme half?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Metzingen turned back to Claude. ‘Every suite, every room, every corridor on all five floors on the Vendôme side is now forbidden to civilians,’ he said. ‘Also forbidden for civilians to enter are the salons, the bars, and this,’ he looked around himself, appreciatively, ‘the Vendôme lobby. No civilian is to enter here, Herr Manager, or enter any of the spaces named on threat of death.’

  Claude’s mouth had gone dry. ‘By “civilians” you mean hotel staff?’

  ‘That would be impractical,’ said Metzingen. ‘For how would we clean those rooms? No, no, staff will be permitted – vetted staff. Hauptmann Jürgen will conduct the vetting process.’

  Jürgen nodded to Claude. Then he looked to Tommy, who throughout the exchange had stayed exactly where he was at Mimi’s vacated chair. ‘I doubt you’ll have any trouble, lad,’ Jürgen called to him in French, good-naturedly.

  ‘Why is that, Monsieur?’ Tommy managed to smile as he asked.

  ‘Aryan looks like yours, you must be German?’

  There was a palpable pause as they waited. ‘I am part Hungarian, Monsieur.’

  Jürgen didn’t believe him. ‘Mindful of the boss’s feelings, are we? Very smart, keep in his good books while you can. Your secret’s safe with us.’

  Mimi found her voice once more. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant,’ she said to Metzingen, ‘will the occupying forces of the Reich be paying for their rooms at the Ritz?’

  ‘My dear Madame Ritz, of course the rooms will be paid for,’ said Metzingen. ‘We are quite civilised, you know.’

  A wave of relief washed across Mimi.

  ‘We have prepared a list of appropriate room rates for your perusal.’ He turned to his subordinate again. ‘Is it here in the file, Jürgen?’

  It was. The Hauptmann produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Mimi. She read what was there.

  Claude watched as the poise she had regained now left her. ‘Madame –’

  She needed his arm to support her. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant . . .’ she faltered, ‘these rates – these rates represent a discount of more than ninety percent . . .’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ asked Metzingen, concerned.

  ‘Twenty-five francs a night for a room? It is not possible.’

  ‘You’ll find that it is,’ said Metzingen, reassuringly. ‘These figures have been precisely calculated. Each monthly bill must of course be sent to the Government of France. Our accommodation is at their expense, I’m sure you appreciate.’

  ‘Herr Oberstleutnant,’ said Claude, ‘there is no French Government. At least not in Paris.’

  ‘At least not anywhere!’ Metzingen laughed. Then he waved away the concerns. ‘It’ll all be sorted out. An interim French Government will be assembled. There’s a proper procedure to be observed here, you’ll see.’

  ‘And what of the Cambon side of the Ritz, Herr Oberstleutnant?’ Mimi asked, shaken.

  ‘Meine Dame?’

  ‘The Vendôme, you say, is for high-ranking Germans – what is to become of the Cambon half of the hotel?’

  ‘Well, that must be run quite normally, of course, we are not here to disrupt things. The rooms, the bar and your famous l’Espadon restaurant must remain open and available to the public – to the citizens of France and neutral countries. What reason could there be for closing such celebrated amenities?’

  Mimi’s reply was almost inaudible. ‘Thank you, Herr Oberstleutnant . . .’

  Profoundly satisfied, Metzingen drew a great gust of air into his lungs, as if savouring and retaining the very essence of the hotel. He seemed entirely nourished by it. ‘Ah, Frau Ritz,’ he sighed, ‘I do so look forward to meeting them all.’

  ‘Who, Herr Oberstleutnant?’

  He looked surprised she should ask. ‘Why, the denizens, meine Dame. The people your hotel is so rightly famous for. All the artists and playwrights, the film stars and millionaires. The entrepreneurs, the fashion designers, the girls – those famous, fashionable filles from the Ritz, meine Dame! So long I have wanted to come to the very heart of your establishment, and now that I have, what a pleasure it will be to spend time in their company.’ He glanced once more at Claude, before adding almost as an afterthought: ‘And perhaps we shall settle one or two old scores . . .’

  * * *

  It was only as Tommy tried to light a cigarette in the alley off the rue Cambon that he saw how badly his hands were shaking. For the life of him, he couldn’t strike the match against the book without dropping it. While he tried again, he heard the lines of a song he half-recognised:

  ‘Wait for me in this country of France

  I’ll be back soon, keep confident . . .’

  He looked to the top of the alley and saw who had sung: Blanche’s fifteen-year-old daughter was slouching there.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Tom? Forgotten how to smoke?’

  ‘Odile? Are you crazy? Come in here.’

  He went to pull the pouty girl in, but Odile pushed his hands off. ‘I can manhandle myself, thanks very much. Is there still something to sit on?’

  ‘There’s the crate.’

  Odile used the stick she carried to locate the crate. ‘Good.’ She sat down. ‘Been on my feet for hours.’

  Tommy fell next to her, stiff in his Ritz uniform.

  ‘Gimme the matchbook,’ said Odile.

  Odile struck a light in one go and Tommy put two cigarettes to it, giving one to her.

  ‘What are you doing walking around out there?’ The cigarette tasted awful, now that he’d lit it. He knew he should just give up on the habit.

  �
�What are you doing needing me to light your cig?’

  ‘Given you can’t see anything, I’ll give you a bit of news,’ said Tommy, ‘the krauts have turned up. It’s been a shock to people.’

  ‘Old news. When are you going back to school?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Are the schools even open?’

  ‘Not at present,’ said Odile, grinning. ‘I guess it’s a holiday. Answer my question.’

  Tommy was glad Odile couldn’t see his unease. ‘You already know the answer. School’s done for me. I work here at the Ritz now.’

  While Odile was highly, sometimes bizarrely capable for a girl who was going blind, her descent into sightlessness meant she’d lost touch with how transparent her features could be. Her disbelief in Tommy’s story was so plain that Tommy feared someone else seeing it.

  ‘I still don’t get you,’ said Odile, wrinkling her brow. ‘I heard you were top of your class in a snooty lycée. What was it again?’

  Tommy didn’t say.

  ‘Okay, keep it to yourself then, but why chuck in a bright future to come work here?’

  ‘At the best hotel in Paris?’

  ‘Don’t give me that, it’s just waiting on tables and pouring drinks. You could have been a doctor or something. And don’t you have some rich dad?’

  Tommy’s unease shot higher. ‘Did your mama tell you that?’

  Blanche hadn’t. ‘Maybe I was just fishing,’ Odile conceded. ‘But why should I have to? What’s the big secret with you?’

  Tommy didn’t answer that either. ‘Maybe I like working in hotels?’

  Odile’s expression of disbelief was unaltered.

  Tommy changed the subject. ‘There’s krauts out there with machine guns, you know.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Odile grinned. ‘I’ve been watching them for hours.’

  ‘Watching them?’

  ‘I still see more than fools like you will ever know,’ said Odile, contemptuously. ‘When the kraut tanks started rolling in this morning I thought I’d try an experiment while the olds were all losing their breakfast.’

  ‘An experiment?’ said Tommy, sceptical. ‘Like Madame Curie?’

  ‘Like the poor little blind girl walking the streets with her poor little blind girl’s stick and her shades on.’ Odile tapped the dark glasses she wore. ‘I played it up, Tom, swinging the stick like nobody’s business. “I’m blind! I’m so blind!” Krauts loved it.’

  Tommy blinked at her. ‘Sometimes I think you’re off your head, Odile.’

  ‘Krauts thought that, too.’ She laughed, while blowing a smoke ring. ‘Guess what? They left me clean alone. Didn’t touch a hair on me.’

  Tommy didn’t know whether to congratulate her or pity her.

  ‘For a girl who can’t see, I saw a lot of interesting stuff.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘They’ve put their own traffic cops at every big intersection and all the main squares.’

  ‘But there are no cars on the road.’

  ‘Sure, there are: theirs. Kraut army vehicles are everywhere. To help them out more, they’re even putting up their own street signs. I didn’t know that’s what they were – I just heard them banging in the nails – but a bum on the street told me. He said they’re all written in kraut language, with black borders around the edge. Think about it, Tom. They came here with all those signs ready-made. They’re organised.’

  Tommy thought about Hauptmann Jürgen’s bulging manila file with the detailed floor plans of the Ritz.

  ‘They’ve set up shop in all the government buildings,’ said Odile, ‘every building I passed had krauts going in and out of it. There are no more tricolour flags. Just swastikas.’

  Tommy gave up on his cigarette.

  ‘And get this,’ said Odile, ‘down at the Tuileries they’re setting up for a big brass band. They’re gonna march up the Champs-Élysées every day. I asked a kraut and he was excited about it!’

  ‘You really want to get shot!’

  ‘I told you,’ said Odile, ‘poor little blind girl. The kraut said the big brass band was for the entertainment of other krauts – and Parisians.’

  ‘Any Parisian would rather pull out their fingernails.’

  ‘That’s what I told him, too.’

  Tommy couldn’t believe her recklessness.

  She just laughed. ‘All right, I didn’t, but I sure as hell thought it.’

  Tommy’s hands had stopped shaking. ‘I’ve got to go back now, Odile.’ He stood up from the crate to leave.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Monsieur Auzello will be looking for me, there’re krauts in the hotel.’

  ‘I know,’ Odile said, sarcastically. ‘And I know Claude’s wetting himself.’

  ‘Why did you come here looking for me?’ Tommy asked, annoyed with her. ‘Go back upstairs to your mama or she’ll be crying for you.’

  Odile’s face was ever transparent. Tommy caught sight of such a sudden depth of emotion, he was thrown by it. He wondered then: did Odile have a crush on him? Whatever she felt, she now hid it beneath anger. ‘I’m not a kid anymore, and neither are you,’ she told him. ‘All the olds have gone placid and weak. They let the krauts walk right in here.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say about it?’

  ‘What else is there to say?’

  ‘How about: maybe it’s our turn to take charge?’

  Tommy stared at her, incredulous.

  ‘I don’t know how it was at your snooty school,’ she said, testing him, ‘but at mine all we talked about was the war. We talked about what was happening in the newspapers, and then we started to think that maybe those rags weren’t even telling us what was real.’

  Tommy remembered how he had come to the same conclusion with his own school friends, before he’d been forced to leave them behind.

  ‘Then we listened to the radio from England,’ said Odile, ‘and we knew as much as the best of them then – and yet where are the best of them now?’

  Her words stirred something. The anger Tommy had barely been able to hide in the lobby pulsed at the back of his head.

  He thought about the turns his life had taken. He thought about Blanche Auzello, Odile’s mother, and what she and Claude had done for him. He thought about what he had to hide.

  He kicked the crate in frustration. ‘What are you trying to say, Odile?’

  ‘Are you a Jew, Tom?’

  Tommy froze with the shock of the question.

  ‘I’ll make it easier for you then,’ said Odile. ‘So am I.’

  * * *

  ‘My dear Mrs Huckstepp, I must really insist that you admit me to your rooms.’ Claude’s plaintive voice came through the huge double doors to the Imperial Suite.

  Inside the suite, on the other side of the doors, Lana Mae was obdurate: ‘No.’

  ‘But it is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘More urgent than my throbbing skull?’ Lana Mae demanded. ‘More urgent than the fact I can’t get any goddamn breakfast today? Not even one lousy pain au chocolat? I’ll let you in when you remember the meaning of service, Auzello, and not before.’

  ‘Mrs Huckstepp, you really must let me in right now,’ said Claude.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I fear there’ll be consequences.’

  Lana Mae guffawed. ‘Like hell, baby. I’ll give you one: I go and check into the Hôtel Crillon.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Huckstepp is welcome to move to another hotel should she so choose.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ said Lana Mae. ‘Now beat it and leave me the hell alone.’

  Claude fell silent. Lana Mae strained to hear what was going on outside. There were muffled voices revealing that Auzello wasn’t alone.

  ‘Is Mimi out there? I wanna talk to her instead of you,’ Lana Mae spat through the door jamb.

  There was a pause. The conversation stopped. ‘Madame Ritz is not here,’ said Claude.


  Her bluster hiding fear, Lana Mae offered a straw. ‘Is Tommy out there? Put Tommy at the door, I’ll speak to him.’

  ‘Tommy is not here either, Mrs Huckstepp.’

  She heard a key being inserted in the keyhole.

  ‘Don’t you dare come in here!’

  Lana Mae looked for something to throw and landed on the Swiss clock. She pulled it from the wall just as the key turned in the lock.

  ‘You bastard!’ She hurled the clock and it struck the edge of the opening door, bouncing onto a side table and hitting the floor, where it landed face up, still keeping time, unbroken.

  A supremely athletic, well-groomed man with streaks of grey at his close-cropped temples, in the same shade of grey as his tailored Wehrmacht uniform, entered. ‘Ah, Frau Huckstepp, what an unlucky aim,’ the German said, pocketing the key and glancing down at the impervious time piece. ‘If I didn’t know better I would praise this clock as a fine example of German engineering.’ He picked it up. ‘Not a scratch on it.’ He shook it in his hands. ‘Nothing loose inside. Extraordinary.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Lana screamed, finding her lungs again.

  ‘Not God, merely his subordinate.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Oberstleutnant Hans Metzingen.’

  Lana Mae could only gape at him.

  ‘You, too?’ said Metzingen, withdrawing his unshaken hand. ‘That is disappointing.’

  Lana Mae saw Claude hovering behind the Oberstleutnant at the door. He looked like he’d aged ten years in a morning. ‘I am a citizen of the United States of America!’ she began.

  ‘That’s quite correct, meine Dame, we already have note of it in our file. There is no need to shout.’

  ‘That makes me neutral – neutral! Just like the goddamn Swiss!’

  ‘Again correct, which is why I had hoped for your courtesy. To shake another’s proffered hand is the sign of common civilisation and decency, is it not? Our nations are in no disagreement, after all.’

  Lana Mae felt herself deflating. ‘That’s right. You bet your patootie, we’re not. All this has got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Patootie,’ Metzingen echoed her, amused, ‘how charming.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Where are the plans, Hauptmann?’