The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  The three women at once burst into more laughter at this, although why it was so hilarious this time Polly didn’t quite see.

  Still laughing, Lana Mae dabbed at her eye. ‘And thank God for it, baby, because without it we wouldn’t have come here.’

  The new group of uniformed men tipped their caps as well.

  ‘You are beautiful, Madame,’ called out one of them.

  ‘Who’s beautiful, puss?’ Zita cracked. ‘There are four of us here.’

  The soldier who’d called consulted with a companion. ‘You are beautiful, Mesdames,’ he corrected, grinning, using the French plural.

  Zita fluffed her hair. ‘That’s more like it. Now, next time tell us something we don’t know.’

  They continued down the rue Cambon.

  ‘But doesn’t Paris have snobs?’ Polly wondered, apparently innocently, continuing the conversation from before.

  This only produced fresh hoots of laughter.

  ‘Oh baby, Parisians are the very worst,’ said Lana Mae, ‘but here no one kids themselves that any Americans have pedigrees, let alone hicks like me. And besides,’ she added, ‘generous hands with a ginormous fortune made up nicely for an oversight of ancestry.’ She sighed, suddenly sad. ‘But then Horace T’s ticker gave out.’

  Zita and Alexandrine looked at Lana Mae sympathetically. There was no denying it: their American friend had loved her late husband dearly.

  ‘Widowhood didn’t dampen the Mrs Huckstepp sensation any,’ Alexandrine told Polly, ‘quite the reverse.’

  ‘I started throwing little dinner parties just like we did in New York,’ said Lana Mae, brightening again, ‘but this time I did it big time. Real big. Well, it was only what Horace T. would have wanted. And here in Paris, it worked.’

  They had reached the end of the rue Cambon. ‘This is where I go see my banker,’ said Lana Mae, ‘I’m running out of cash, and that slimy worm is gonna open his goddamn safe for me.’

  ‘You’re the living end,’ said Zita, ‘We can’t fit one more stinking frock in the room as it is.’

  Lana Mae looked levelly at her. ‘It’s not to buy clothes,’ she said. There was a new self-respect in her face. ‘And maybe when you find out what I’m gonna do with it, you’ll think better of me.’

  Zita tucked her arm through Lana Mae’s. ‘Whatever you say. I’ll still be your date at the bank.’

  But Lana Mae was uncharacteristically serious. ‘I’m really gonna surprise you, honey, just wait and see.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Zita patted her hand.

  Alexandrine and Polly kissed them both.

  ‘You two go then,’ said Alexandrine. ‘I shall take Polly to see her Gendarme Teissier, and from there we shall visit Suzette.’

  Zita and Lana Mae continued to walk, planning a route that would allow them to pass the black and red Wehrmacht sentry boxes that had sprung up everywhere. Long queues stretched from all of them, as Parisians submitted to the Occupiers’ endless identification checks.

  Polly and Alexandrine decided to take the Metro to get to the 8th Police Prefecture, and took the turn towards Madeleine station.

  Exiting the Metro at Opéra, Polly and Alexandrine passed a line of frustrated people queueing outside a bakery. ‘Why don’t we have to line up for our food?’ Polly asked Alexandrine. ‘And why do our ration tickets seem to give us rather more than other people’s?’

  ‘Because we are paying for it,’ Alexandrine whispered, looking around.

  Polly wasn’t happy with this answer. It didn’t seem to her to be in the spirit of France.

  * * *

  At the police prefecture, in a reception thronging with people coming and going, they were required to wait until Polly’s name was called by the officer in charge of the Foreigners Register. This was the cheerily pleasant Gendarme Teissier, to whom Polly was obliged to report daily, and whose goal, he would have observers believe, was only to make the unwelcome requirement less irksome where he could. It seemingly pained him that the realities of the busy police station often gave him no option but to keep foreigners waiting while more pressing matters were dealt with. This morning, after ten minutes of waiting, Alexandrine found she had need of a lavatory. Because the police prefecture provided no such amenity for women, she was obliged to seek out another one.

  ‘But I’ll be breaking our rule if I leave you alone here,’ said Alexandrine, conflicted, although badly in need.

  ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. Please go, Alexandrine.’

  The Comtesse did, providing Polly with the first opportunity she had to read the tiny folded piece of paper Tommy had slipped into her sleeve. She hadn’t dared take it out earlier, for fear it would be snatched by one of her guardians and read out aloud. Whatever Tommy’s words, they were meant only for her.

  The paper was thin, unusually so, and therefore fragile, but once unfolded it proved larger than she had thought it would be.

  She hadn’t known what to expect from Tommy’s words but with the ghost of his fingers brushing at her wrist she had allowed herself to expect all the same. Yet now that she had the note open before her, she didn’t think they were Tommy’s words at all. The sheet was crudely printed, and the ink was purple, the result of a mimeograph stencil.

  Tips for the Occupied

  Don’t be fooled, they are not tourists, they are conquerors. Be polite to them, but do not exceed this correct behaviour to be friendly. Don’t hurry to accommodate them. In the end, they will not reciprocate.

  If one of them addresses you in German, act confused and continue on your journey. If he addresses you in French, you are not obliged to show him the way. He is not your travelling companion.

  If, in the café or restaurant, he tries to start a conversation, make him understand, politely, that what he has to say does not interest you. If he asks you for a light, offer your cigarette. Never in human history has one refused a light, even to the most traditional enemy . . .

  The guy you buy your suspenders from has decided to put a sign on his shop: MAN SPRICHT DEUTSCH (we speak German). Go to another shop.

  You complain because they order you to be home by 22:00 hrs on the dot. You are so naive; you didn’t realise that it’s so you can listen to English radio?

  You won’t find copies of these tips at your local bookshop. Most likely, you only have a single copy and want to keep it. So, make copies for your friends, who will make copies, too. This will be a good occupation for the Occupied.

  Continue to show an elegant indifference, but don’t let your anger diminish. It will eventually come in handy . . .

  Polly was transfixed.

  She had allowed herself to expect something playful, something personal from Tommy, but what he’d given her was far more significant. Someone, somewhere, had written this list of tips, that, while being ostensibly ironic, betrayed an underlying defiance. These words were an act of resistance.

  The writer and the people who had distributed the sheets, and the other people again with other mimeograph machines who had made more copies and distributed them further, these people had all done something, however small, to fight back against the Germans.

  Tommy was one of them.

  Perhaps he had wanted the means to make amends for patronising her.

  If so, he had found it. Tommy had let Polly glimpse a grown-up’s life that had nothing to do with fashion, or fine living, or the insulating effect of money.

  It was a grown-up’s life with purpose.

  ‘Mademoiselle Hartford?’

  Polly looked up. The friendly, flabby face of Gendarme Teissier was craning from the reception counter to smile at her. ‘Yes, Monsieur Gendarme?’

  ‘It is your turn to sign, my girl – would you like to come forward?’

  The mimeographed sheet burned hot in her hands. She scrunched it into a ball, stuffing it inside the Hermès handbag, and it was then that something registered as being profoundly, shockingly wrong.

  ‘Mademoiselle Hartford?’


  Battling disbelief, Polly tried to process what she had just discovered.

  The gendarme was in danger of becoming less polite.

  ‘Good morning, Gendarme Teissier,’ Polly greeted him brightly as she hurried to the counter.

  ‘Good morning, Polly.’ He smiled at her. ‘You look so very sweet today.’

  ‘Thank you. It is such a nice summer’s day, isn’t it?’

  ‘If already very warm,’ he said, sighing.

  As Polly went to sign the register book, the gendarme moved it from her reach before she could put the pen to it. Already thrown, Polly was slow to comprehend. She went to move the book where she could sign it again.

  Teissier held it from her grasp. ‘This is an awkward matter,’ he said, ‘but you are to be interviewed today. It is just a formality. Will you come inside for a moment?’

  Teissier pressed an unseen button beneath the counter and a little door unclicked, giving access to the rooms beyond. Polly felt her heartbeat race and looked around in the hope Alexandrine had returned. ‘But why?’ She fought to keep her cool. ‘Is something wrong today?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, ‘it is just a formality, my girl, nothing more.’ He smiled expansively. Polly guessed that this statement – and his smile – was not so much for her benefit as for those eavesdropping. He mopped his jowls with a handkerchief. ‘It’s what they expect, you know.’

  ‘They?’

  Teissier lowered his voice. ‘All we have to do is let them believe we’re listening to them.’

  He meant the Germans. ‘Of course,’ said Polly.

  He nodded at the door. ‘Let’s keep them happy. It’s always better in the end.’

  Polly did as she was told just as the Comtesse returned. Polly tried to convey her a look that told Alexandrine not to worry, even though Polly herself was desperately worried as the door clicked shut behind her.

  * * *

  Polly found herself in an interview room with no windows. The only light was from a harsh, bare bulb. The heat was stifling.

  ‘This is a very depressing room, I apologise for it,’ said Teissier, shutting the door behind them. ‘I wish there was a better one, but we will rise above it. Take a seat, my girl.’

  There was only one to be had: a hard, wooden stool. Polly sat uncomfortably on it while the gendarme remained standing.

  ‘Please, can’t I sign the register, Monsieur?’ she asked, clutching the Hermès.

  He was a picture of apology. ‘I’m afraid I cannot – or rather, I cannot for now. This is very unpleasant.’ He mopped at his brow. ‘Would you open your bag for me?’

  Polly’s tongue felt dead in her mouth. ‘My handbag is private.’

  He gave her an indulgent look. ‘Ordinarily, I would not ask something so importunate of a young woman. But nothing is ordinary nowadays.’ He scraped his handkerchief across the flesh of his throat again. ‘Please give me the bag. I saw that you tried to hide something in there.’

  Polly was robbed of words. She gave him her bag. Teissier opened it wide at the catch. The screwed-up sheet inside was obvious. What was also obvious to Polly alone was what the bag did not contain: Aunt Marjorie’s gun. Someone had taken it.

  ‘Ah.’ Teissier looked saddened. ‘And what is that?’ he asked, nodding at the screwed-up sheet.

  Her mind was molasses. She struggled to make words. ‘I – I don’t really know, Monsieur. I found it.’

  ‘Will you show me it, please.’

  Polly reached forward and took the crumbled ball, smoothing it out to show him, all the while thinking only of the missing gun. When had it gone? Who had known it was there to take it?

  ‘Ah.’ The gendarme already knew exactly what the sheet of paper was. ‘It is as I feared. This is awkward indeed. You say you found this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly lied. ‘On the Metro. It was left on my seat.’

  ‘And why did you pick it up?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Polly, ‘I just did.’

  ‘And why did you keep it?’

  ‘I – I don’t know, Monsieur le Gendarme.’

  ‘You just did?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘The writer of that leaflet has committed treason under French law, do you understand that?’ he asked her.

  Polly opened her mouth to reply but couldn’t say anything. Her heart thumped dully in her chest.

  ‘When he is discovered,’ Teissier went on, ‘which he will be, he’ll find himself imprisoned for it – or worse. Do you see how things are, my girl?’

  Polly managed to nod.

  ‘These are changed times.’ Teissier shook his head. ‘I have seen the most respectable of British men placed behind barbed wire fences – and their respectable British women placed with them. They have all been interned, and we, the gendarmerie, are powerless to free them. So many of these fine people lived in Paris for years – for decades, some of them – leading the most blameless of lives. You live at the Hôtel Ritz, my girl, so you would have seen who is gone from your home. The Canadian Doctor Mandel, for instance, I’m sure you knew him. A respected man. But orders must be followed. I arrested the doctor myself, you see.’ He stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket. ‘If your aunt were still with us, she would have been among the first to go herself.’

  Polly swallowed.

  ‘Still, I find it helps to remember things as they were before this war,’ said Teissier. ‘You’re far too young to have taken notice, so let me tell you how it was. The government couldn’t run itself. France was a shambles.’ He took a breath, contemplating the memory of it. ‘There are those who don’t much like the Germans for turning up as they did, but I say this: the Germans have got things running properly again, so perhaps they deserve some credit for it?’

  Teissier took the flimsy sheet from Polly and neatly folded it. Then he returned her bag. ‘So, please understand me, my girl, you can only remain free at my discretion.’

  Polly nodded but could no longer hear him. How could any Frenchman find the actions of the Occupiers acceptable, she asked herself. How could any Frenchman equate what Hitler offered with liberty, equality and fraternity?

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ Teissier asked her, sharply.

  Polly snapped out of her thoughts. ‘Of course, Monsieur.’

  ‘Presently, a teenaged girl like yourself is not seen as a threat to anyone, however non-French she might be.’

  ‘Or non-German?’

  He looked at her blankly. ‘I stress presently,’ he said. ‘That could change at any time. Please do nothing more that would provoke such a change.’

  Polly bowed her head. ‘I won’t, Monsieur le Gendarme.’

  * * *

  Ushered from her banker’s office, Lana Mae had a sudden need to steady herself against the wall. The sweep of stairs that led down to the atrium of the opulent Société Génerale building loomed before her, stretching and receding.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Huckstepp?’ the silver-haired banker, Monsieur Lacaze, asked her, concerned.

  ‘Yes . . .’ She feared she might be sick. ‘No . . .’

  ‘I appreciate it’s been an unpleasant shock. Do you require a brandy?’

  Lana Mae stared at him until she remembered her anger. ‘Promise me you’ll tell no one about this, Lacaze.’

  ‘Mrs Huckstepp?’

  ‘No one. Say it.’

  ‘At this bank we stake our reputation upon discretion.’

  ‘Just say it, you goddamn eel.’

  The banker maintained his dignity. ‘No one will hear of your predicament from me, Mrs Huckstepp, or from anyone else at the Société Génerale.’

  ‘How many know already?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I am the only one here who knows anything of what has happened, because only I handle your funds.’

  Lana Mae felt her heart snap in two. She was devastated. ‘I was gonna do something with my money, for once, do you understand me, Lacaze?’

  ‘You planned a new fas
hion purchase?’ he asked, sympathetically.

  She bit back the sting of the reminder of how everyone, without exception, thought about the way she lived. ‘I’ve got enough damn frocks.’

  ‘A purchase of jewellery then?’ said Lacaze. ‘I am very sorry for the disappointment, Mrs Huckstepp. The Société Génerale is distressed to see any longstanding client such as yourself unable to enjoy the rights of their wealth.’

  She felt like choking at his words. ‘What about the rights of those who don’t have any wealth?’ she challenged him. ‘Do the wealthy have a right to look out for them?’

  He didn’t seem to comprehend this notion. ‘Mrs Huckstepp?’

  She could see no more point to the conversation and began to tackle the stairs. ‘Good day to you, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur Lacaze bowed after her, embarrassed.

  When Lana Mae reached the bank’s vast lobby she found to her dismay that Zita had been joined by the last person either of them wished to see: Coco Chanel.

  ‘Look, who it is!’ purred the designer, her legs crossed elegantly in a club chair. ‘Our dear Mrs Truckstop.’

  Lana Mae shot a murderous look to Zita who cast a look of matching fury back. She’d been suffering Coco’s company for some time.

  ‘Mademoiselle Chanel, how charming,’ said Lana Mae, grimacing.

  The designer turned to Zita. ‘Did you know our dear Herr Metzingen gave Lana Mae that naughty name?’

  Zita went still at mention of Metzingen.

  ‘They shared luncheon together on his very first day at the Ritz,’ said Coco.

  ‘He did not, and we did not,’ said Lana Mae, rewriting the unpleasant recent past.

  Zita narrowed her eyes at Coco. ‘The krauts are “dear” now, are they? That’s patriotic.’

  ‘We must all try harder to get along,’ said Coco. ‘The Germans are not at all as we feared. The Oberstleutnant is perfectly decent to talk to should you ever dare show yourself at l’Espadon again.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I show myself?’ said Lana Mae.

  ‘Well,’ Coco flinched regretfully, ‘that little “Truckstop” name.’