The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle Hartford,’ returned their leader, before adding, shyly, ‘We all like your outfit – it looks just like the flag!’

  Polly grinned and did a little twirl for them in her divided skirt, ignored and unworn since the day of Lana Mae’s internment.

  ‘Is it by Lucien Lelong?’ the girl wondered.

  At the welcome desk, Claude had opened the wrapped bundle. There, still smelling of printer’s ink, were copies of the first flimsy newspaper of the dawning era: Libération. He seized one of the sheets, holding it up so that everyone in the packed lobby might see the headline. ‘Do you all read what it says?’ he beseeched the room. ‘It’s a war cry as old as the very paving stones of Paris!’

  Splashed across the front page were the perfect words to inspire all Parisians: ‘To the Barricades!’

  ‘Long live France!’ Claude declared, tearfully, and again the whole room returned the cry.

  ‘They’re a little late, aren’t they?’ Blanche had appeared at his side bearing a heaving platter of asparagus spears drizzled in Hollandaise sauce from the kitchens. ‘We’ve had the barricades up since Saturday.’

  ‘It’s symbolic, my sweet,’ said Claude, kissing her. He started tossing newspapers into the hands of those milling around him.

  Blanche spotted Polly in the throng. ‘Help me, sweetheart – this thing weighs a ton.’

  Polly stepped in to help her with the enormous plate. ‘We’re still doing room service today?’

  ‘Not today,’ said Blanche, with a smile. ‘This is strictly barricade service – it’s going outside.’

  Polly stuck a tantalising spear in her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness – it’s divine.’

  Beaming Mimi was holding the doors open for them.

  ‘I can’t believe the Ritz actually has asparagus,’ said Polly, as she passed. ‘I’d even forgotten what it looks like, let alone how it tastes.’

  ‘The Hôtel Ritz has a great many nice things,’ said Mimi, enigmatically. ‘And today we share them with all Paris.’

  * * *

  Capped with enormous, defaced portraits of Hitler and Göring, the two Place Vendôme barricades, placed at opposite ends of the square, were like so many others that had risen spontaneously across the capital. Constructed with the intention of impeding the Germans in their anticipated battle with the arriving Allies, everything and anything that could be moved or carried had been heaped into their creation. Paving stones had been ripped up from sidewalks and stacked across the two roads that fed into the Place Vendôme – just as they had been in all major squares and boulevards across the city. The sandbags of the Civil Defence had been lent to the task, along with sewer gratings, cut down trees, burned-out German military vehicles, and even a massive grand piano. In the rue de la Paix barricade that Blanche and Polly headed to first, mattresses, furniture, and a rusty, ancient pissoir had been put to new purpose. An old sign promoting the National Lottery Draw had been placed alongside the Nazi leaders’ portraits in a fine example of dark French humour.

  Polly smiled with happiness at those she recognised along the way. The handsome Baptiste from the Cambon bar. The eccentric Mr Wall, with his chow dog, Pepe, who today wore a tricolour scarf. The industrialist’s forgetful wife waved to Polly from where she led a group of women preparing bandages. Monsieur Lefèvre, the chilly sommelier, was today anything but cold, as he led a class of giggling children in games of hopscotch. Seeing all these old friends from four years at the Ritz, Polly couldn’t help but think of those who were conspicuous in their absence. Where was Monsieur Guitry, the flamboyant playwright? Or Serge Lifar, the Russian ballet star? Where was Monsieur Cocteau, the fashionable poet, who everyone said dabbled in drugs? Where were any of the collabos?

  Where was Zita?

  Polly blinked her troubled thoughts of the film star away. The whereabouts of her guardian, at least, Polly knew.

  As she and Blanche reached the barricade, an old man with a handlebar moustache and a collection of medals pinned to his jacket was teaching a group of eager sixteen-year-olds how to fire a pistol.

  ‘Won’t you let your pupils take a little break to enjoy the hospitality of the Hôtel Ritz, monsieur?’ Polly asked him with a smile. She spotted Tommy with Anaïs, perched in sentry positions near the top of the barricade; Anaïs in a too-big Wehrmacht helmet. Odile was among the crowd of people below, as ever showing negligible evidence of her impediment.

  The moustachioed old man stood ramrod straight as tears welled in his eyes at the sight of the food. ‘Asparagus – my God.’

  ‘Had you forgotten what it looked like?’ Blanche asked him, kindly.

  ‘Oh, Madame – what a day is this. What a day.’

  ‘Just wait’ll you taste it,’ said Blanche. ‘There’ll be fois gras to follow – and profiteroles au chocolat for dessert!’

  The teenagers swooped on the cuisine.

  Polly left Blanche to it, and looked to the barricade, her eyes resting upon Tommy. They’d spoken little since the day they’d believed that Odile had been taken by the Gestapo. Polly knew he was embarrassed – ashamed even – although she couldn’t have quite said why. Certainly, Mimi’s words that day had been mortifying, but Polly felt as if she had been the one intended to be humbled by them, not Tommy. It had been Polly, after all, who had long ago failed to act on her heart and had ever since lived with the emptiness. Tommy’s feelings were unknown to Polly – or at least, that’s what she persisted in telling herself. Yet still she longed to speak with him properly, if only to return their relationship to something like colleagues in resistance again. But in the few weeks since Odile’s non-arrest, Tommy had avoided such overtures.

  Someone had brought a phonograph to the barricade and was playing a collection of French songs forbidden by the Occupiers. A gloriously ugly Parisienne danced a wild carmagnole to the music, while over her head she flourished a personal trophy for the occasion: a pair of Wehrmacht officer’s trousers, with the proud red stripe down the seam. Polly guffawed at the outrageous woman, and joined the others around her, clapping and cheering her on. She saw Tommy look over from the barricade, and for a moment their eyes met.

  Whether Tommy did it as an unconscious gesture, or as a deliberate means of connecting with her again, Polly couldn’t tell, but in the second it happened her heart sang: Tommy gave his little head toss at her and Polly, while his eyes were still upon her, gave her own head toss in return.

  They broke out in grins at each other.

  ‘I’m coming over!’ Polly called out to him, waving.

  But before she could, two beautifully dressed women, tugging at the handles of a huge laundry basket wrapped with a white tablecloth, appeared in front of her. She knew them both from Lanvin. ‘Why, Madame Hélène!’ exclaimed Polly, delighted to see her. She kissed the woman on each cheek. ‘What on earth are you carrying in there?’

  ‘Molotov cocktails,’ said Hélène, gratefully letting the basket drop, ‘we followed all the instructions. And might I say you look gorgeous, Polly – yet you’re not in Lanvin today?’

  Polly laughed and kissed Hélène’s companion. ‘Hello Giselle,’ she said to the young Lanvin cashier. ‘I’m afraid my Lelong won the toss.’ She struck a fetching pose. ‘I’m sure you see why.’

  ‘I would have worn my own Lelong,’ Hélène confided, ‘but I dreaded what Madame Lanvin would say of disloyalty.’

  A voice behind Polly entered the exchange: ‘Well at least I knew the right thing to wear.’

  Hélène and Giselle frowned and Polly turned around to see.

  It was Demetra Breker, the sculptor’s wife. She postured grandly in an elegant outfit: a pale beige shantung suit topped by a chestnut cape. ‘One of Madame Lanvin’s finest,’ she purred.

  None of them said anything.

  ‘Have you been in the rue Cambon?’ Demetra asked them. ‘Mademoiselle Chanel has re-opened her boutique.’

  Polly’s eyes narrowed at this news.

  ‘She’s put up
a big sign in her window,’ said Demetra, ‘she’s offering free bottles of Chanel No. 5 for all American GIs when they get here.’

  ‘She can’t be serious,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, but she is!’ crowed Demetra. ‘What a masterstroke.’

  ‘What on earth can you mean by that, Madame Breker?’ said Hélène.

  Demetra lowered her voice. ‘Well, surely you know she slept with those Nazis?’ she tittered. ‘Yet who’ll harm a hair on her head for it now, with a city full of grateful GIs on her side?’

  ‘They’re not here yet,’ Polly reminded her.

  A thick wad of spittle hit the front of Demetra’s shantung suit. With a shock, Polly realised who had spat it: Giselle.

  ‘You think to place yourself above the collaborators, do you, Madame?’ asked the girl. Her face was twisted with hatred.

  Demetra was ashen. ‘How dare you insult me!’

  Giselle reached out and slapped Demetra’s face hard. ‘You’re no better than Chanel – you’re no better than any of them.’

  Hélène watched on, perfectly composed.

  ‘How many years have we put up with your filthy disgustingness?’ Giselle shot at Demetra. ‘Well, it all ends now.’ She began pushing her away. ‘Get back to Berlin, you stinking collabo, and get there fast. You and all the Führer’s other favourites have got your days numbered.’

  They watched with satisfaction as Demetra scuttled away.

  Polly rubbed Giselle’s shoulder. ‘Very nicely done,’ she told her.

  Giselle was trembling with rage. ‘I never knew I could be so rude,’ she confessed. She looked back at Polly, askance. ‘And do you know, I think I quite liked it.’

  Polly laughed.

  Then they all felt it.

  Low, right at their feet, the Place Vendôme rumbled.

  The phonograph needle skipped.

  ‘What was that?’ said Hélène, looking around them.

  The square rumbled again, deeper and louder. From somewhere at the top of the rue de la Paix came the sound of metal tracks scraping upon stone.

  ‘Tank!’ cried a voice from the barricades. Polly looked up and saw it was Anaïs. ‘It’s coming this way!’

  ‘It’s the Americans!’ cried someone from the crowd below.

  ‘It might be the Free French!’ called out someone else. ‘Long live France!’

  The cry rang through the square. ‘Long live France!’

  But Polly kept her eyes on Anaïs and Tommy, watching the looks on their faces. Suddenly they were clambering from their perch.

  ‘Take cover!’ screamed Anaïs to the crowd.

  ‘It’s a German tank!’ Tommy yelled at them all. ‘Protect yourselves!’

  No one panicked. Everyone in the square was too fuelled by courage and optimism. Polly caught eyes with Tommy again and found herself running in the same direction he was heading with Anaïs.

  ‘Wait – where is Odile?’ called Tommy.

  Polly saw Odile in the crowd. ‘She’s up there – she’s with Blanche.’

  All three of them flung themselves into a jeweller’s doorway, behind the barricade, near the corner of the rue de la Paix and the square. When Polly collected her wits, she found Tommy’s arm around her.

  He at once took it off.

  ‘It’s definitely a German tank?’ she asked him.

  ‘A Panzer,’ he said, ‘just like the ones that were here in 1940.’

  They heard it draw nearer and then actually saw its turret above the top of the barricade – along with the long barrel of its gun.

  A dapper little man with a goatee and an antique hunting rifle stepped into the line of fire.

  ‘What’s he going to do?’ said Anaïs, incredulous.

  Shouldering his ancient weapon, the old man pulled on the trigger. A smoky blast sprayed the tank barrel. Then, his weathered old face glowing with happiness, the dapper gentleman fled towards the doorway from which he had just appeared.

  The three of them laughed.

  ‘Cheeky old coot,’ said Tommy.

  ‘I adore him,’ said Polly, hugging her Hermès handbag.

  The retaliatory blast from the tank blew the barricade to splinters. Mattresses, furniture, the ancient pissoir, all disintegrated with the impact. Crouching in the jeweller’s doorway, the three of them covered their heads with their arms as shrapnel and debris rained upon them.

  ‘This is all theatre,’ cried Tommy, when he looked up again. ‘That tank could have easily driven over us – they’re just putting on a show.’

  ‘Is there only the one tank out there?’ Polly’s ears were ringing.

  Anaïs nodded. ‘They must be really desperate. They’ve got nothing left to win this war.’

  The tank rolled in through the hole it had made in the barricade and proceeded to begin lapping the square. It didn’t fire a second shot.

  ‘Is that all it’s got for us?’ cried Polly with contempt.

  On the opposite corner in another shop doorway they saw a fellow resistance fighter’s face they recognised: the now legendary Denis, who was twenty-two, and had once gunned down a young German officer in the Barbès-Rochechouart Metro station. With his dirty white shirt open to his chest and a tricolour band on his arm, he gripped an aged Mauser in his hand as he skirted along the wall opposite them. They watched him reach the next alcove where Blanche was crouching. The tank continued its intimidating rotation, with everyone who had been at the barricade now watching on intently from the sides of the square. They saw Blanche shove asparagus at the young fighter.

  The young man swallowed the handful of spears and kissed her hand without a word, before moving on.

  ‘What is he planning?’ said Polly, watching from across the road.

  ‘He’s going to make a dash for the tank,’ said Tommy.

  ‘But it’ll fire at him!’

  ‘He’s taking a punt they don’t have any more ammunition,’ said Tommy. ‘And I think he’s right. All this is just to bully us.’

  Armed with his Mauser, Denis set out to cross the Place Vendôme. Seconds later there was a burst of gunfire. They watched, horrified, as Denis hit the ground, a vivid red stain oozing from under his white shirt.

  ‘Oh no.’ Polly closed her eyes to it.

  Anaïs pointed to the façade above. ‘It wasn’t the tank that fired – it came from up there.’

  ‘A sniper?’

  But Tommy realised what had been amiss in Blanche’s doorway. ‘I thought you said Odile was with Blanche.’

  ‘She was,’ said Polly.

  On the ground, Denis was still moving. They saw another young resistance fighter crawling towards him along the pavement. A new shot fired from above and the second fighter froze.

  ‘He’s up there,’ cried Tommy, identifying a window high in the façade. ‘I can see the bastard.’

  ‘We’ve got to kill him,’ said Anaïs. She snatched up her pistol.

  ‘You can’t go,’ Tommy told her. ‘He’ll shoot you from above.’

  ‘Want to see me try?’ said Anaïs.

  Tommy pulled his own gun from inside his shirt – the gun that had once been Jürgen’s. ‘Then I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Neither of you can go!’ cried Polly. ‘You’ll both be shot!’

  A rapid burst of gunfire came from a different side of the square. The window Tommy had pointed at shattered and the body of the sniper slumped across the sill.

  The three of them looked in amazement at each other.

  ‘This day’s going pretty well,’ Anaïs cracked.

  In the square, the crawling resistance fighter made it to Denis. The tank did nothing, continuing only to roll slowly in a wide circle. ‘It’s all right!’ the fighter shouted to the crowd. ‘He landed on top of a tomato!’

  A fresh cheer of hilarity rang out from all sides.

  ‘I still can’t see Odile . . .’ said Tommy, worried.

  ‘Sing,’ said Polly.

  He looked confusedly at her.

  ‘That
song she loves, you know the one – let’s sing it for her. She’ll hear it and she’ll know that it’s us – and we’ll know where she is.’

  Tommy was stricken. ‘I – I can’t remember it.’

  ‘Yes, you can – how can you ever forget it?’ But Polly struggled to remember it herself.

  Anaïs had the tune: ‘Wait for me in this country of France . . .’

  ‘Yes – that’s it,’ said Tommy.

  ‘I can’t remember what comes next,’ said Anaïs.

  Tommy joined her repeating it. ‘Wait for me in this country of France . . .’

  The three of them sang it again, louder. ‘Wait for me in this country of France . . .!’

  From somewhere across the square came the completed verse. ‘I’ll be back soon, keep confident!’

  ‘Oh my God!’ cried Polly. ‘She heard.’

  The four now sang in unity:

  ‘Wait for me in this country of France, I’ll be back soon, keep confident!’

  ‘But, where is she?’ said Tommy.

  They craned to see but there was no sign of their friend.

  ‘Stay brave, Odile!’ Tommy shouted into the square with his fist in the air. ‘Stay strong! We’re with you!’

  Then, from a position nearer the Ritz, Odile stood up from the scattered debris she’d been hiding behind and gave a perfect impression of Tommy’s characteristic head toss.

  Tommy stared in astonishment. ‘Where the hell did she get that from?’

  Still crouching with them in the doorway, Anaïs shut her eyes to the sight, blinking back tears. When she opened them again, Tommy was looking intently at her.

  Anaïs was momentarily surprised. Then, summoning her courage, she said. ‘You might as well know: I love Odile.’ And then, as she watched Tommy interpreting what this meant, she clarified it: ‘And Odile loves me. We’re together, you see. We’re lovers.’

  Polly watched the scales falling from Tommy’s eyes. She almost wanted to laugh – almost. Instead she just marvelled at Tommy’s blinkered naivety.

  ‘She didn’t like people to know that we’re more than just friends,’ Anaïs told them. ‘But I don’t think it matters much now, do you? Given the day.’

  Tommy was silent with amazement, so Polly stepped in. ‘I’m so very happy to hear this lovely news, Anaïs,’ she said, and she truly meant it. She kissed Anaïs on the cheek, and as she did so, she stage whispered, ‘Thank you for taking her off our hands.’