The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  ‘When do I not?’ Alexandrine tapped the back of the empty chair at her table. ‘It has your name on it.’ She removed her open handbag from the seat, placing it on the floor between them. Zita glanced inside the bag as she did so and saw a Lanvin package.

  ‘You’ve been shopping.’

  Alexandrine shook her head. ‘I had meant to,’ she said, ‘but Jeanne didn’t want my cash today.’

  Zita was incredulous. ‘Not good enough for her now? Christ, she’s turned into Chanel.’

  ‘No, she just wouldn’t let me pay.’ Alexandrine’s distraction remained; she seemed rather wistful. ‘She’s a very good woman really.’

  ‘No one’s denying it,’ Zita watched as Alexandrine now made an effort to be more engaging.

  ‘I think Jeanne double-charges all those dreadful Boches wives,’ said Alexandrine. ‘Loyal old clients like ourselves have not been forgotten, darling. Perhaps she’ll give you a freebie, too?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Zita, looking up again. ‘Why not? It’d make a nice change to start saving my money.’

  Zita bent in her chair to scratch at her ankle, and slipped something of her own inside Alexandrine’s handbag. It was all she could do to warn her friend, and still she feared it was doomed to failure. If she told Alexandrine outright what she’d learned, she knew she’d unravel in front of her, making Alexandrine want only to save her. Zita couldn’t be saved. What’s more, she didn’t want to be. All that mattered was the information. When Alexandrine learned of it she’d waste no time on Zita. She’d use the time that remained to save who mattered most.

  ‘You’re terrible with your funds, darling,’ Alexandrine was saying. ‘What’ll you do the day they stop paying you so much?’

  ‘Start sponging off you.’

  Alexandrine laughed. Then she looked at Zita with uncharacteristic emotion.

  ‘What is it?’

  Alexandrine shook her head again, and the emotion was gone. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s something.’

  ‘No, it’s not, I’m just happy, that’s all.’

  ‘Half your luck – what’s your secret?’

  Alexandrine just smiled enigmatically at her.

  Zita considered her dear friend. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, puss? Don’t think I’ve not noticed it before. A change has come over you.’

  Alexandrine sat up at once. ‘A change?’

  ‘Yes. A distinct one.’

  Alexandrine looked uneasy.

  ‘You’ve got a new lover, haven’t you?’ Zita fished, slyly.

  Her friend was now oddly relieved. She made the face of a mock-coquette. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

  Zita took that as a yes, and then, in a moment of sheer recklessness for what it could so easily expose in herself, she added, ‘He’s not some sexy kraut, is he?’

  Alexandrine’s disgust made it clear he was not. ‘As enjoyed by Mademoiselle Chanel?’

  Zita took a gossip segue. ‘I don’t think she’s screwing that Hauptmann Jürgen anymore.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She’s got herself another one. This one’s been out of the cradle longer.’

  ‘One day she’ll regret who she sleeps with.’

  Zita hid her wince at this by puffing on her cigarette for a moment. ‘Who knows,’ she mused, ‘perhaps she even spies on them?’

  Alexandrine gave her a searching look at that. ‘In the last war,’ she said, ‘the women who slept with the Boches had their heads shaved.’

  Zita closed her eyes. ‘Yes. I remember that.’ She opened them again. ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘And terribly deserved.’ Alexandrine looked long at her friend, on the cusp of asking her something.

  Of course, Zita knew what it was. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘it’s all right, puss.’

  The Comtesse took the plunge. ‘You and him,’ she started, at a near whisper. ‘That’s all over between you now, isn’t it?’

  It was as if the friendship of a quarter century meant nothing to Zita anymore, such was the apparent ease with which she broke the rule most precious to the friends: the burden of a secret must be shared. ‘Of course, it is,’ she lied.

  Zita watched as the Comtesse processed this and hated herself for it. ‘But what of Lotti?’ Alexandrine asked.

  Zita reached for the shreds of her own soul – and crushed them in her fingers. ‘She is healthy and well cared for. Almost a young woman these days.’

  Alexandrine nodded, reassured. She plucked her handbag from the floor.

  Zita nearly jumped at this action, her heart in her mouth, but her friend merely clasped the bag shut. ‘Perhaps that Jürgen is not so bad,’ Zita offered, blowing smoke to the café’s ceiling to calm herself. ‘He was the one who took Polly to visit Lana Mae that time.’

  Alexandrine had read nothing in that. ‘He’s young and polite – the latter only when he’s nowhere near Metzingen.’

  Zita winced at mention of Hans’ name again. ‘You don’t think she’s sweet on him?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘He’s pretty good looking. I bet he’s hung like a beast.’

  Alexandrine didn’t laugh. ‘Stop that at once. Polly is not in some love affair with that Boche. I know she’s not.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’ Zita was regretting everything about this conversation but didn’t care. All that mattered was that she’d hidden the thing inside Alexandrine’s handbag and her friend hadn’t discovered it yet – or anything else.

  Alexandrine placed a coin on the table and stood up to go. ‘I should be off, darling.’

  ‘I’ve had a new letter from Lana Mae,’ Zita told her, suddenly.

  This stopped the Comtesse.

  ‘The Swedish Red Cross passed it on. The krauts don’t seem as fussed about the internees these days – they can’t be if they’re letting more letters go through. Must have bigger things to worry about. You’ll get something from her next.’

  Alexandrine’s eyes were sparkling. ‘How is she?’

  Zita gave her a blank look. ‘For a woman with a terminal disease she’s a stinking long time getting dead.’

  ‘Zita!’ Then Alexandrine was laughing, ‘What Polly claimed is absolutely true?’

  Zita was comically careful. ‘I don’t want to think that Lana Mae might be lying . . .’

  ‘Neither do I!’ Her friend dabbed at a joyful tear. ‘But still, she might be,’ she mugged.

  Zita and Alexandrine looked delightedly at each other. ‘It’s all a ruse!’

  ‘I miss her so much,’ said Alexandrine.

  ‘Me too.’ Zita puffed her cigarette. ‘Somehow, she’s still funding all her big-hearted stuff for the soldiers. Of course, we both know her too well not to guess that her so-called “cancer” is playing a part – we didn’t need Polly to confirm it.’ Then she added, ‘Doctor Mandel’s still in there with her.’ She now made a comic rise of her eyebrows. ‘In this letter Lana Mae only mentioned him three times.’

  Alexandrine chuckled again. ‘God bless our dear friend,’ she sighed. ‘We’ll all be together again one day.’ She blew a kiss to Zita as she left. ‘See you back at the Ritz, darling.’

  Zita felt as if she’d turned a ship around. The conversation had ended on a better note than it had threatened to. Alexandrine had looked happy again and Zita now recognised a sliver of the old emotion in herself, however fleetingly it lasted.

  She suddenly had a longing for champagne and looked around for the waiter. It was then she saw Blanche Auzello at a table on the other side of the room. It was a testament to Zita’s own distraction that she hadn’t even noticed her.

  She felt a sharp pang about Blanche, remembering her afflicted daughter. Then Zita thought of Lotti again and had to blink back tears about it.

  Zita had gained the waiter’s attention. ‘A bottle of bubbles,’ she told him. She nodded to Blanche’s table. ‘For her over there – two glasses.’

  ‘Of course, Madame.’

  ‘Mademoiselle.�
� She winked at him.

  Zita watched as the bottle was opened and prepared at the counter – then delivered to Blanche. Informed of who it was from, Blanche looked over to Zita’s table in surprise. Zita raised her empty hand as if she had a glass in it.

  Blanche cocked an eyebrow.

  Zita had received that signal enough times in her life to know that a conversation could accordingly ensue.

  She sat down with Blanche. Before the American could say anything, Zita put out a silencing hand. ‘I just want to say, puss, that all those years ago – back in 1924 – when you and me were on that film set at the Château de Vincennes, I was a goddamn bitch to you, and now I’m sorry about it.’

  Blanche blinked in astonishment for a moment. Then she started to titter. ‘You sure were one nasty broad, Zita.’ She sniffed and took a sip from the champagne glass. ‘But the trouble was I just couldn’t act.’

  It was Zita’s turn to giggle. ‘Want to talk about old times?’

  ‘Always,’ said Blanche.

  Zita settled into the seat next to her, readying for a nostalgic half-hour.

  * * *

  Alexandrine slipped into the Ritz through the Cambon doors, finding the lobby welcomingly cooler than the street outside, which had now grown humid, thanks to the summer rain that had hung over Paris all day. She fanned herself with her hands for a moment, weighing up which had the greater appeal: a cocktail in the Cambon bar or an hour resting in her suite. The former won out; she still felt buoyed by the day’s interactions and wanted to extend this rare experience of being so unaccountably happy.

  She walked into the chromium-plated interior and at once regretted it.

  ‘Alexandrine – please come and join us!’

  She plastered a smile over her inner dismay. A colourfully dressed, middle-aged woman of Greek heritage was seated with a tight-faced Mimi, together occupying the most prominently positioned table in the bar, making avoidance impossible. ‘Madame Breker, what a nice surprise,’ Alexandrine lied.

  ‘You know very well that it’s Demetra, darling,’ said the Greek woman, patting the chair beside her for Alexandrine to sit down.

  ‘Of course – darling Demetra.’ She glanced at Mimi and correctly read the latter’s relief at the opportunity of escape that Alexandrine had just provided her.

  Alexandrine looked longingly towards the bar. Tommy was behind the chrome counter serving a group of patrons. He saw her and nodded.

  The Greek woman was anxious to include her. ‘I have just been telling Mimi all the changes we require now that our stay has turned out to be so long.’

  Alexandrine saw Mimi flinch.

  ‘You must know how Arno’s career’s taken off?’

  ‘Since he joined the Nazi Party?’ Alexandrine mused, pleasantly. ‘All Paris knows that, so how could I not?’

  Demetra chose not to elaborate on her husband’s political affiliations. ‘He gets more sculpture commissions today than he ever did,’ she said, preening. ‘He can barely keep up.’

  Alexandrine signalled her desire for a drink to Tommy as if he hadn’t seen her while Demetra began running through her list of requirements with Mimi.

  ‘Lamps,’ said Demetra, ‘there are simply not nearly enough lamps in our Vendôme suite. Arno stumbles about half-blind. How is he ever to work?’

  Mimi had heard enough. ‘Oh, there’s Claude in the lobby – I shall take your wishes to him at once.’

  ‘But that’s not everything!’

  Mimi tapped at her temple. ‘It’s all in here, Madame Breker – I never forget.’

  Demetra watched exasperated as Mimi made a hasty exit. There was no sign of Claude in the lobby at all. She turned to Alexandrine. ‘She forgets who’s paying.’

  ‘Who is paying?’ asked Alexandrine. Perplexingly, she had found an envelope she didn’t recognise inside her bag, next to her still-wrapped item from Lanvin.

  Demetra waved the enquiry away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Ah, so presumably it’s not you and Arno settling the bill. That is fortunate.’ The envelope was blank, sealed; there was a folded letter inside it.

  Demetra fixed a cold look at her. ‘Tell me, Alexandrine. We’ve not seen you at the Musée de l’Orangerie. Why would that be?’

  ‘Sorry – what’s that?’ She worried at the envelope in her hand, trying to understand how it might have found its way inside her bag. She held off opening it for a moment.

  ‘To Arno’s exhibition,’ said Demetra, ‘down at the Tuileries. It’s been on since May and yet we’ve not once seen you there.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Arno and I, of course.’ She leant forward on the table, dangerous. ‘Or do you find yourself quite unable to agree with what constitutes the art of today?’

  Alexandrine dropped the letter into her lap. ‘Of course, I don’t, darling, what a thing to suggest. I’ve visited Arno’s lovely sculptures several times. You must have missed me.’

  Demetra raised her eyebrow, rightly sceptical. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I prefer to drop in when it’s quiet,’ she said. ‘And good riddance to all that progressive muck I say – trying to take art forward, the cheek of it. Arno keeps art firmly running on the spot, doesn’t he? No troubling newness there. And those towering, muscular figures that he sculpts these days are so much more nationalist, aren’t they? So comfortingly Teutonic. It’s no wonder the Führer pays your way.’ She flicked Demetra a deliberate look, up and down, before glancing awkwardly away. ‘And I suppose the years when you were Arno’s muse are such a long way behind us now?’

  * * *

  Tommy made his way to the table once the patrons monopolising him at the bar had dispersed. Demetra Breker had by now departed, and Tommy had enjoyed her testy exchange with Alexandrine from afar, unable to hear what was being said, but knowing from the look upon Demetra’s face that Alexandrine was easily getting the better of her. He brought a negroni to Alexandrine upon a tray, expecting to discover an expression of amused triumph upon Alexandrine’s face, but instead he was thrown by her fear.

  ‘Madame?’ Shocked, he glanced around the now emptier room, ensuring no one was listening. ‘Madame – did that traitor threaten you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Tommy . . .’ She couldn’t finish.

  An opened letter was on the table before her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Her hands were trembling so much she couldn’t pick the letter up to show him. Glancing around again, Tommy placed the cocktail before her on the table and picked up the note, laying it flat on his tray. He read it as he stood there. It was childishly scrawled in a tried and true method: the correspondent had used their unfavoured hand in an effort to disguise their handwriting.

  Save a friend.

  Belleville, Saint-Paul, Popincourt, Poissonniere, and the Temple will all be crying tonight. The neighbourhoods around and including the Marais will be swept of all Jews. They’ll be loaded into buses and driven off before dawn. First to the Vélodrome d’Hiver, because they can be locked up inside it, and then they’ll be taken to Poland. And it won’t be the krauts doing this – it’ll be the ‘French’ cops.

  Save a friend.

  Tommy felt his throat close tight, like he was struggling for air. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘My bag. It was slipped inside.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometime today.’ She tried to order in her mind where the day’s tasks had taken her, but she could barely remember any of it. ‘Perhaps at Lanvin.’ She thought of Blanche and the coded conversation they’d held where it had been as if they hadn’t known each other. She thought then of how it was always better not to know. ‘Yes. I think it was at Lanvin.’

  ‘Who gave it to you there?’

  She wouldn’t tell him. She wouldn’t risk Blanche. ‘It could have been anyone.’ She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Is it real, do you think?’

  He didn’t need to answer her.

  ‘Su
zette,’ said Alexandrine, helplessly. ‘What will I do?’

  ‘We,’ said Tommy.

  ‘You can’t risk it,’ she told him, ‘you see what it says. All Jews will be taken. It has to be me.’

  ‘We,’ Tommy repeated. ‘The question is what we will do.’

  ‘Tommy, please.’

  ‘I will not argue,’ he said, ‘because there is no argument. Suzette is my grand-mère.’

  A tear escaped from her eye and she dabbed it with a finger lest anyone notice it. ‘All right.’

  Tommy was silent for only a moment, his thoughts racing, before he gave her his plan. ‘We will go to her in the night and take her from the Marais – we’ll go early, well before dawn; before the cops come.’

  ‘But where will we take her? Here?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. She stands out. We’ll take her to the Left Bank – the Latin Quarter.’

  ‘But there’ll be patrols.’

  She watched him wrestle with revealing something he obviously knew well. ‘There’s a route you can take – through the guichets of the Louvre. You can make your way to the Pont du Carrousel and from there cross the Seine. There are never patrols along that way.’

  She heard this with astonishment. ‘Never?’

  He nodded. ‘And there’re a lot less krauts on the Left Bank, too,’ said Tommy, ‘it’s too disordered for them. And in the Latin Quarter there are some trustworthy friends.’

  ‘Friends?’

  The look he gave her told her not to ask, but her worry was too great now not to. ‘But how can you know of such “friends”, Tommy, when you live hidden away here?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me this.’ He came to a decision. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You will not be involved.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You heard me, Madame. It’s best this way.’

  She bristled. ‘I will not be kept from Suzette.’

  ‘Why not? You kept her from me long enough.’

  It was as if she’d been winded.

  The silence between them ended when Tommy’s face creased with shame. ‘I’m sorry.’