The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  ‘Which, in a roundabout way, is what gave me my fine idea,’ said Eduarde.

  ‘And what idea is that?’

  ‘That I would gift our Courcelles home to France.’

  Alexandrine didn’t allow a glimmer of alarm to show. ‘Gift it?’

  ‘As my present to the nation.’

  ‘Our present.’

  ‘Of course. We’ve given it to France together. Wasn’t that a nice idea?’

  ‘The whole house and everything.’

  ‘And everything. You recall it now.’ He touched her hand and left it there. Polly saw the tightness with which their fingers gripped and released each other. ‘Our magnificent gesture,’ said Eduarde. His eyes bore into his wife’s. ‘Our great act of largesse.’ He looked back to Metzingen. ‘Or perhaps, to use a term the Oberstleutnant might enjoy: our insurance payment.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ Metzingen clapped his hands, cigarette in his mouth. ‘That is good, I like that very much.’

  Alexandrine looked to the Renoir. There were tears in her eyes.

  Suzette entered the room, bearing a tray of rattling coffee things. Polly automatically stood to assist her, but the old woman shot her such an ugly look that Polly sat down. Suzette moved to a table, placing the tray, before she began to pour and distribute the coffee cups.

  ‘It is a sorry fact of modern life that still we must deal with Jews,’ said Metzingen, drawing on his cigarette.

  No one said anything.

  Suzette served Polly because she was nearest, but as Polly brought the cup to her lips, Suzette pressed her on the arm. Polly returned the cup to its saucer.

  ‘But still, this is the twentieth century and we are not monsters,’ Metzingen went on. ‘We are not Russians, God forbid, living at behest of the tsars. We are civilised people, here in a civilised place, living in so much more civilised times.’

  Suzette was before him. He accepted the proffered cup from her and sipped it.

  ‘Pogroms, imagine? What must it have been like?’ He shook his head. ‘No, no. We abhor such Slavic barbarism.’

  Suzette moved back to the table.

  ‘If our advanced civilisation has allowed us the evolution of anything,’ said Metzingen, ‘it is this modern idea: there are Jews and there are Jews.’ He sipped the coffee again, swirling the liquid around in his mouth. He regarded the cup with some interest for a moment, before returning it to its saucer.

  ‘Two types of Jews?’ said Alexandrine quietly from the sofa. ‘Perhaps you might explain it, Monsieur?’

  ‘With pleasure, meine Dame!’ He leant his elbow on the grand marble mantlepiece, his fingers idly brushing the Renoir’s damaged frame. ‘First there are Jews who are stubbornly unrepentant, unembarrassed by their crimes, and so happily unashamed of the conspiracies they have masterminded for centuries.’

  Nobody looked at each other. Nobody moved.

  ‘Then there are the other Jews,’ said Metzingen, ‘Paris Jews, dear Comtesse, and let’s make a paragon of them, shall we? These are Jews like the Rothschild family – such an elegant clan; such exquisite taste. Or the Ephrussis perhaps, I’m sure you must know them intimately, and then the Camondos, of course. All very sensible Jews. No wasted emotions there, no hysterical scenes. These are Jews who can recognise superiority, and negotiate in light of it, and in excellent faith.’

  Alexandrine looked at her husband. In the depths of his eyes, he was broken. He looked away. ‘And which Jews are we?’ she asked.

  ‘We?’ said Metzingen. ‘My dear Comtesse, since when are you a Jew?’

  Alexandrine slipped her hand inside her husband’s again. ‘I’m sure you know when.’

  Metzingen rejected this. ‘You mean your conversion? Do not trouble yourself with it. We know you didn’t mean it. You married the Comte for the money – and the title, such as it is. No one in authority imagines that you ever actually cared for this man’s faith.’

  Frozen in her chair, Polly remembered what Alexandrine had told her of her ‘bribed’ conversion for jewellery and clothes. The Comtesse’s version had seemed like a too-easy dismissal, the means of diverting attention from something rather more awkward and embarrassing – like the conversion had actually meant something profound to Alexandrine; profound because it was real.

  ‘That isn’t true,’ said Alexandrine.

  ‘Lecki . . .’ Eduarde pleaded with her softly. ‘Trust what I have done.’

  She ignored him. ‘I love my husband. I became a Jew happily. I am still a Jew.’

  ‘No. No,’ said Metzingen. ‘That is not how it is. You see, Comtesse, it’s all there in your file.’

  Polly saw Alexandrine flinch.

  ‘Our informant was most specific about that,’ said Metzingen. ‘They had no cause to lie.’

  ‘And who was this informant? Perhaps I know them.’

  To Polly, glued to this exchange, it felt as if Alexandrine was testing the water for something.

  Metzingen smiled at the Comtesse. ‘The informer’s identity is none of your concern.’

  Alexandrine sniffed. ‘A shame. Your informant is wrong. I might have recommended a more reliable one to you.’

  The German shook his head, pityingly. ‘Herr Comte, please remind your wife.’

  Eduarde remained holding Alexandrine’s hand. ‘You remember, darling. Your conversion was fraudulent.’

  A tear slipped from Alexandrine’s eye. ‘That’s not how it was,’ she whispered.

  ‘And all my family wanted was respectability,’ said Eduarde.

  ‘Your family was ten times more respectable than mine.’

  ‘No,’ said Eduarde. ‘My family were Jews.’

  ‘Are Jews,’ Metzingen reminded them. His fingers, still on the frame, began to pull at it. ‘How does this thing come down?’

  Alexandrine stood up. ‘Monsieur Metzingen –’

  ‘What is holding it to the wall?’

  Suzette stiffened at the table as Metzingen used both his hands to grip the painting.

  ‘Please, Monsieur, it is very fragile,’ said Alexandrine.

  Hauptmann Jürgen came into the room from the landing. ‘The car is ready for you, Herr Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘Good, good. Get this thing down.’

  Jürgen joined him at the mantle. The painting was snagged by its wire at the hook. They tried to twist it free. The frame creaked, the canvas crinkling. Plaster crumbled where the hook met the wall.

  ‘You’ll fucking wreck it!’ Suzette shouted.

  She rushed forward as the Renoir pulled free of the wall, escaping the Germans’ grip to fall forward into the room, where Suzette stopped it, her old, maimed hands catching expertly at the frame and not on the priceless canvas.

  Metzingen had dropped the cigarette from his mouth. He took a moment to steady himself, getting another from his uniform pocket. He couldn’t find his matchbook.

  Jürgen had one and lit the Oberstleutnant’s cigarette.

  Metzingen took a deep drag. Exhaling, he waved his hand at Suzette. ‘This insolent kike.’

  Jürgen delivered a blow that took Suzette to her knees. His second took her to the Comte’s Indian carpet.

  ‘Look there at her hand, Jürgen,’ said Metzingen, noting Suzette’s missing fingers. ‘And still she managed to catch the thing? Incredible really.’

  * * *

  Polly was at the window in time to see the Comte’s red Delage, a magnificent touring car, pull out into the Boulevard de Courcelles with Metzingen at the wheel, the roof open to the late-morning sunshine, the seats at the back and to the side of him crammed with the best of the Comte’s famous wine cellar. Immediately behind, in the Comte’s dashing town car, a yellow Simca coupe, was Jürgen, with more of the cellar’s best vintages.

  Bringing up the rear, in the Daimler-Benz driven by the Wehrmacht soldier, was the Renoir portrait of the pretty little girl in blonde ringlets, strapped to the lid of the trunk.

  Inside the morning room, Suzette had been helped into a chair. E
duarde held some chipped ice wrapped in linen to her face while Alexandrine tenderly wrapped her legs in a rug.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you let me drink my coffee, Suzette?’ Polly asked the old woman, gently.

  Suzette met her eye; her voice feather soft. ‘It was just for the krauts.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she urinated in it,’ said Eduarde. He stroked the old woman’s cheek with love. ‘You’re as predictable as night becomes day, aren’t you, Suzette?’

  Suzette kissed his hand.

  ‘You’ll be safe from them now,’ he whispered to her. ‘This agreement ensures it.’

  Alexandrine stood up. ‘You’re a coward,’ she spat at him.

  ‘Ah, here it comes then,’ said Eduarde, resigned, with a look to Suzette.

  ‘Coward,’ she repeated. ‘To have given them everything – everything – before they even asked.’

  ‘They don’t ask,’ said Eduarde.

  ‘Not even a fight from you then?’ said Alexandrine.

  ‘But why would you have expected something so courageous from me, Lecki?’ he wondered, standing up to face her. ‘With my pathetic track record? No, I thought I’d roll over first like a cur.’

  Alexandrine was cold. ‘What about your precious thoroughbreds? Are the Boches taking those?’

  ‘Every last one,’ said Eduarde, lightly. ‘As insurance premiums go, this one has proved dear.’ The love that had shone in his eyes for Suzette was just as clear in the look he gave his wife. ‘And it was worth every franc.’

  ‘Tell me what this “insurance” has bought you exactly,’ Alexandrine demanded.

  ‘Safety,’ said Eduarde. ‘For you and Suzette.’

  ‘You heard what he said – I am not even a Jew!’

  ‘You were until I paid for it.’

  She flung out her hand, striking his face.

  ‘Don’t!’ Polly cried out.

  Eduarde smiled at Polly, kindly. ‘Mustn’t worry, kitten, this is well overdue.’

  Alexandrine struck him again and again.

  Suzette tried to rise from the chair. ‘Madame, please –’ she said, distressed.

  A gesture from Eduarde made her stay where she was. ‘Lecki must do this,’ he said.

  Alexandrine kept striking him until she started to weep, and her arms fell limp by her side. Polly went to her, holding her close.

  ‘And what about your bastard, Eduarde?’ Alexandrine spat out the word.

  There was a brief silence. ‘As informants go, they are rather ill-informed,’ Eduarde told her at last. He adjusted his silk robe. ‘It would seem there is nothing of the child in their file.’

  Alexandrine looked at him searchingly. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘What child?’ Polly asked, startled.

  They didn’t answer her.

  ‘To the Germans the child doesn’t even exist,’ said Eduarde.

  ‘That’s very nice,’ croaked Suzette from her chair. ‘The child has never existed for Madame either.’

  Alexandrine turned on her, eyes blazing.

  ‘That’s the way,’ said Suzette, ‘why don’t you hit me where the kraut got a punch in?’

  But Polly saw the tears in the old woman’s eyes. Suzette was heartbroken.

  ‘Shut up, Suzette!’ Alexandrine shot at her. She turned to her husband. ‘I’ve done everything you asked of me.’

  ‘I know you have.’ Eduarde moved towards a bureau at the far end of the room. ‘And you know I am grateful for it. The child is hidden and safe, and that is all that I hoped for. If I didn’t know that, I could never have been certain of what I must do.’

  ‘Who is this child you are talking about?’ said Polly. She looked to Alexandrine in bewilderment.

  The Comtesse gave her a fierce look.

  Only Polly saw Eduarde now take something from the bureau and slip it into his robe.

  ‘Why don’t you and the kid pop along now, Lecki? It must be well past luncheon at the Ritz.’ The Comte cast a longing look around the room. ‘You know I’m very sorry about your mother’s portrait. Take something else to make up for it, before they return. Something small, perhaps, that you can hide in your bag?’

  ‘I’m not taking another thing from you,’ said Alexandrine. She bent down to kiss Suzette on the cheek. ‘I’ll send a car for you, darling,’ she told the old servant. ‘I’ll arrange a room at the Ritz.’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Suzette. ‘I’m not moving, Madame.’

  ‘You have to now, don’t be a fool.’

  Suzette shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘I bought Suzette a little retirement apartment years ago,’ said Eduarde, ‘she’ll take herself there when I ask her.’ He winked at the old woman in the chair. Then he opened a door that led from the morning room to a study. ‘Now please run along, Lecki, there’s a good thing. Best you’re not here when they come back to do the itemising. They might think you’re part of the furniture.’

  Alexandrine could only stare at him, her face streaked with fury at his betrayal. ‘We’re through this time, Eduarde. Do you hear me? I never want to see you again.’

  He shrugged. ‘I understand.’ Love for her was blazing in his eyes. Eduarde went into his study and closed the door.

  On their way down the long flight of marble stairs, Polly wordlessly tried to comfort Alexandrine. She did not ask anything about the child called ‘the bastard’. She guessed that her guardian would not – could not – speak of it.

  It was only as they reached the bottom stair that Polly realised with horrific certainty what Eduarde had taken from the bureau. With it came an image she had never seen but had long imagined of her father’s last moments on earth. She stopped dead, looking at the Comtesse. ‘He’s got a gun, Alexandrine . . .’

  Alexandrine was confused. ‘What are you saying, Polly?’

  Polly took her by the arms, terrified. ‘Eduarde has a gun. He took it from the drawer – a little one. He slipped it inside his robe while we were talking. He’s going to do something desperate – just like my father.’

  Alexandrine’s eyes went wide.

  They turned to run up the stairs but then a gunshot rang from above, followed by Suzette’s scream.

  * * *

  When the authorities had been and gone, and before the Germans returned to begin their cataloguing, Alexandrine and Polly went out the front door. It was evening on the Boulevard de Courcelles. The City of Light was all shadow. With bombing raids coming from England, Parisians had become accustomed to blackouts. The streetlights had no globes in them; the headlights of the German military cars were covered with material that let only a strip of light through. This new darkness meant a tentativeness when walking. Strange sounds could be heard in place of the Parisians’ missing cars, sounds that were jarring and frightening in the unnatural quiet. Sudden shouts could give way to cut-short screams.

  Making their way along the avenue, Polly could see nothing but the bouncing beams of other people’s flashlights. They had no flashlight of their own, having left the Ritz when it was still daylight. This was just as well, for Alexandrine had the blood from her husband’s skull on her dress. Rubbing at it, the Comtesse found herself filled by a brutal honesty that, once started, could not be stopped. ‘I should never have assumed myself capable of mothering you,’ she said.

  Numbed, Polly felt these words like a slap. ‘Don’t say such a thing. You mean everything to me.’

  The Comtesse was deaf to it. ‘I have no mothering in me. I never have. I am cold and selfish. You are excused from your obligation to me, Polly.’ She walked ahead of her along the pavement.

  ‘Stop it, Alexandrine.’

  She turned. ‘You have Zita and Lana Mae left to mother you. You need nothing of me.’

  Polly stared, uncomprehending in the gloom. ‘Please stop this,’ she begged. ‘I could never stop needing you.’

  ‘But you must.’ Alexandrine’s voice rang shrill. Her eyes were stark with guilt. ‘If you knew of the wrong t
hat I’ve done to you – the lies.’

  ‘You only hid the truth of the war from me because you were frightened yourself,’ Polly fought to reassure her, ‘it means nothing now.’

  Alexandrine was tormented. ‘That’s not it at all . . .’ She hid her face in her hands. ‘Look at what I’ve exposed you to today? You, whose own father killed himself?’ She was near to weeping. Only her aristocrat’s self-control was holding her back. ‘You’re only sixteen. That I could have done such a thing to you . . .’

  Polly clutched at her. ‘No more of this. It’s the grief and the shock.’

  Alexandrine forced her off. ‘I’m no mother to you, Polly, and no mother to the bastard. I’m not even going to tell the bastard what has happened today, do you understand that? I will have someone else break the news. That’s my mothering for you, darling. That’s the depth of the love in my heart.’

  ‘Alexandrine!’ Polly pleaded with her.

  But the Comtesse was quickly walking away. ‘Marjorie was wrong to thrust you upon me,’ she threw over her shoulder, ‘she was hopelessly deluded and wrong.’

  * * *

  The tiny tapping at his door stirred Tommy from a state that wasn’t sleep, only something like it. He had still been awake, or thought he had, staring up at the moonless sky through the little dormer window from his bed. But he was not quite awake. The tapping came again; long, female fingernails on the door.

  ‘Polly?’ She knew that he lived in the Ritz. He had told her about the forgotten attic rooms.

  The tapping stopped. Tommy slipped from the bed to open the door, remembering then that he wasn’t wearing enough clothes. ‘Wait a second.’ He pulled on his threadbare tweeds and found his old undershirt where’d he’d thrown it on the floor. ‘Polly?’ He opened the door, pulling the shirt over his head.

  But it was Blanche Auzello.

  ‘Oh, Madame . . .’

  Embarrassed, he pushed his arms through the grimy sleeves. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you properly.’ He hoped his smile covered his disappointment. He never wanted her to know that there were times, like this one, when he didn’t feel like seeing her.

  ‘It’s late, I know,’ said Blanche. Alcohol hung heavy on her breath. She had spent the night drinking again, Tommy guessed. Her dark eyes bore into him, yet she struggled to keep them in focus. ‘I need to talk to you, Tommy . . .’