Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

  Whatever happened next didn’t matter; she believed that just as sincerely as she believed in the gallantry of Frenchmen.

  She was wrong about both these things, as it turned out.

  For the first time in their marriage, Claude sometimes hesitates when he leaves his wife at night. Especially after the nine months away at Nîmes, just the two of them actually living like other husbands and wives, no room service, no gay, glittering gossip, no late-night calls from sexy duchesses.

  The first time the phone had rung, just once, Claude did pause; his wife’s innocent gaze when he turned on the light did give him a troubling moment of doubt. But finally, he answered the summons; he had instigated the assignation in the first place. Although in his defense, he had no way of knowing precisely the outcome of that initial, fateful meeting; he had no idea of the depth of the entanglement, the longevity of it.

  He only knew he was grateful, because finally, for the first time since the invasion and the disgrace of laying down arms, defeated, he feels like a man. A French man.

  * * *

  —

  THE DAY AFTER THE Auzellos returned to the Ritz after their journey from Nîmes, they were paid a visit—“A courtesy only,” he said, smiling smugly—by Colonel Erich Ebert, a typical Nazi type. He sported close-cropped white-blond hair, a mustache, and was stocky but solidly muscular.

  “I have heard much about you, Monsieur Auzello,” he said, taking a chair in their suite even though they hadn’t offered one. Claude shoved his hands into his trouser pockets; at that moment, he made a vow. He would never shake a German’s hand. He would treat them courteously as befit the director of the Ritz, do their bidding as far as morally possible. He would not visibly make waves; he would not endanger any employee, Madame Ritz herself, or most vitally, his Blanche.

  But he would not shake their hands.

  Fortunately, Colonel Ebert did not appear to notice this slight. Blanche hastily shoved some lingerie—she had been unpacking—into a drawer, and she sat down, too. She was pale but composed; she took a Gauloise out of its pack and just as the German reached into his pocket to take out a lighter, she quickly lit a match herself. The German put the lighter away, with a short laugh.

  “I am grateful you speak German, Herr Auzello,” the man continued. “I wish that I spoke French. You are most gifted in languages, I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” Colonel Ebert reached into his attaché case and produced a sheaf of papers. “This is your dossier. We know all about your—commendable—service in the Great War, and your command of the garrison at Nîmes. We admire how you handled the General Strike here in Paris. We could not find a more excellent director for the Ritz, so we are pleased to have you continue.”

  “Thank you.” Claude barely got it out; being forced to thank a German for allowing him to continue at his job!

  “For now, at any rate,” Ebert continued, grabbing one of Blanche’s cigarettes for himself; she opened her mouth, but caught Claude’s look and closed it. “General von Stülpnagel will be arriving here shortly, and he may make changes. Who’s to know?” The man shrugged, as if Claude’s entire livelihood was merely a minor annoyance. “One more thing.” Ebert held up a page with the word Enjuivé stamped across it, in menacing black ink. “The Ritz is famed for its hospitality, but we will not allow Jews to strain that hospitality any longer. Let them stay in their hovels. They are no longer welcome here, although we are pleased that your hotel has never been completely welcoming of them. You were born in America, were you not, Frau Auzello?”

  Claude, struggling to keep up with the man’s abrupt change of subject, glanced at his wife; she took a few quick draws on her cigarette.

  “Yes.”

  “How is it you speak German so well?” Ebert picked up another sheaf of papers—her dossier, Claude assumed—and shook it at her. “Our soldiers were most impressed with you yesterday.”

  “I speak German and French, as well as some Italian. What can I say? I have an ear.”

  “Where were you born in America?”

  “Cleveland, Ohio.”

  “I have been to America myself, once.”

  “Oh? How nice.”

  “Yes. I took the train from Chicago to New York once on your Fourth of July. Alas, I did not see any of your famous fireworks.”

  “That’s a pity, but I’m not surprised.”

  “Oh, you know that part of the country?”

  “Yes, as I said, I was born in Ohio.” Blanche dangled her arm—holding the cigarette—over the back of her chair. She puffed again and looked at Ebert with unconcealed amusement. As if she were a cat, and he a mouse. “In fact, you could have looked out the window of that train and seen my house. I often used to listen to the trains at night. At least, until my family moved away, to New York. I suppose that’s when I developed my ear for languages. Our neighbors, now that I think of it, spoke German. They were originally from Munich, I believe.”

  “What a pleasant coincidence. I hope you learned some of our beloved customs.”

  “I have a fondness for schnitzel, if that’s what you mean.”

  Ebert laughed at that (to tell the truth, Claude almost did, as well); he gathered up his papers and shoved them back in his case and left with a sharp salute and an assurance that they would be seeing much of him in the future.

  As soon as the door closed, Claude grabbed Blanche by the shoulders; he wanted to shake her, he was so furious at her insouciance—but also, more than a little admiring of it. Instead, he pulled her fiercely to his chest, as if he could keep her there always and protect her from the evil around them. After all, he rescued her once.

  But even Claude doubted that he could do so again, under the circumstances.

  “You idiot,” Claude whispered. “You beautiful idiot! You were actually teasing that man.”

  “He didn’t know that.” She giggled into his chest. “God, Claude, you were white as a ghost when he started questioning me. It’s a good thing he wasn’t looking at you!” But she stopped giggling and released an enormous, shaky breath. She was not as strong as she sometimes appeared; Claude always had to remember this about his wife.

  “Blanche, be careful—it is more important than ever, now. Think of—”

  “The Ritz?” she asked, wryly. But there was a darkness in her gaze: Accusation. Resentment. “It’s always about the Ritz with you, isn’t it Claude?”

  “I didn’t say that! You didn’t give me a chance—but yes, of course, the Ritz. Remember my position. It’s particularly precarious now.”

  “As if you’d ever let me forget it.” She pushed him away, tidied up her hair.

  Claude hesitated, but then he consulted his watch; he had a hotel to run, and he had no idea how to do it under these circumstances. Rationing, Germans, a skeletal staff, secrets, secrets, secrets; the enormity of the task ahead suddenly settled across his shoulders, and he knew that even he, Monsieur Auzello, director of the Hôtel Ritz, would stumble a little before he figured out how to distribute its weight. “Blanche, I’m sorry, I don’t have time right now—”

  “Well, I see one thing hasn’t changed.” She picked up her still-lit cigarette from the ashtray and inhaled quickly. “The Ritz calls, you run.”

  “Blanche, it is my job—a job that I hope, God willing, will keep us safe and feed us during this time. But please, one more thing—I believe that man was lying about not speaking French. They will be listening, all the time. Even in the bar. We were lucky today, but we must be cautious in the future.”

  “Oh, Popsy!” She resumed her unpacking. “You worry too much.”

  “Because you don’t worry enough,” Claude retorted before he left to try to figure out how to run a hotel when the majority of its guests were the hated conquerors of the staff.

  Soon after the Auzellos’ return, p
ostal and telephone service resumed. Ration cards were distributed to all citizens—including the German military—and a curfew enforced. General von Stülpnagel, a man with a sharp nose and face and a permanently suspicious air about him, arrived amid the pomp and circumstances the Nazis insisted on displaying to the conquered citizens at every opportunity—a lineup of officers along the front steps leading to the Place Vendôme, a military flourish, clicking heels, drawn swords. Accompanying him was Hans Speidel, his chief of staff. Speidel, Claude liked, despite himself; he had a round face made rounder with rimless spectacles, and a warm, easy manner. But Claude guarded against this feeling, naturally. For the man was still a Nazi.

  Göring, he of the marabou feathers and morphine, commanded the Imperial Suite when he was in the city but also took over an enormous mansion on the outskirts of town. So many wealthy Parisians were displaced by the Germans commandeering their lavish mansions that some decided to live permanently at the Ritz for the duration, like Coco Chanel (whose garishly decorated suite was relocated to the rue Cambon building), the film star Arletty, assorted citizens who had answered the door in the days after the invasion and found themselves agreeing, after an extremely persuasive conversation, to trade their homes and paintings and silver and antiques and family heirlooms for an indefinite stay at the Ritz. It was surely a better bargain than many in Paris were getting these days.

  Despite the orders from the high command that Paris carry on as usual—the theaters reopened, Maurice Chevalier and Mistinguett were back performing in the cabarets, and Edith Piaf sang her sad songs—most Parisians in those first days and weeks were too appalled, too shell-shocked, to think of laughing again. Claude could not understand why these performers would take the stage for the Nazis—who were eager to be entertained in the fashion Paris was best known for—until Blanche pointed out that he was doing the same thing, in a way.

  “But it’s my job,” Claude said curtly. “And what would happen to me—and more important, to you—if I refused to do it?”

  “If they refuse, what do you think the Germans will do to them?”

  Claude had not thought of that. Although it still seemed wrong to him. And he began to comprehend, then, how murky it all was going to be; how many choices Parisians were going to have to make on a daily basis, questions they would have to ask themselves that had no correct answers. Yet if you blundered, if you made the wrong choice, you would likely be thrown in prison for a few days. Or worse. And if you made what appeared to be the right decision for now, how would you be held accountable for it in the future?

  Claude had no answers. The only thing that mitigated his misery was that he knew no one else did, either.

  At the Ritz, von Stülpnagel ordered a sumptuous banquet his first night there.

  “I will do my best,” Claude assured him, detailing the fresh flowers that the Ritz could provide, the musicians they would arrange—for heaven knew there were fresh flowers in abundance, and musicians with too much time on their hands. In many ways, Claude reminded himself sternly, this was simply another banquet held at the Ritz. Another revelry for him to plan.

  But there was one small catch.

  “I will need your ration books, naturally.”

  Von Stülpnagel looked down his sharp nose at Claude.

  “I hardly think that is necessary. These are all the highest-ranking officers. You will provide us with the type of banquet the Ritz is famous for, Herr Auzello. This is why we decided to keep you on.”

  Claude did not reply; he simply bowed and left to arrange it all.

  But when the doors to the banquet room were opened the next evening, revealing perfectly set tables groaning with flowers, crystal shining, silver gleaming, a string trio playing Strauss in the background, the Germans sat down and waited for their food.

  They waited, and they waited.

  “Again, Herr von Stülpnagel, I must have your ration stamps before I can serve you the food. It is in the very orders you have given.” Claude tried not to betray his nervousness—more like terror—as he whispered into von Stülpnagel’s ear. But he felt this was an important thing to do; to show them that the Ritz was still a hotel, not their command headquarters. All guests at hotels and restaurants were now required to present ration books with stamps to be collected. Claude felt that if the Ritz was going to survive, they would treat the Germans as guests, not occupiers. Their most valued, exalted guests, true—guests who carried weapons with them and had the power to throw any one of them in jail, or worse—but naturally, that is how the Ritz had always treated its guests, from kings to film stars to couples who had saved everything to spend their honeymoon night in the very smallest room.

  And the Germans—please, God—would respect them (and him) for that, and not, in the end, loot all the silver and the wine and the paintings and the linens; they would not destroy or even desecrate Monsieur Ritz’s palace. And that was important to Claude, God help him, even in these times—particularly in these times. It was vital that this beacon of Paris, this iconic jewel, this world-renowned symbol of French taste and hospitality, remain as it was before—unsullied by German hands.

  So Claude held his ground and tried to conceal the tremor in his fingers as he straightened his tie and waited.

  “Fine, Herr Auzello.” Von Stülpnagel—after a quick consultation with Speidel—laughed. “You are right to ask. My aide will retrieve them and present them to you. However, from now on, here at the Ritz we will provide our own food from our own warehouses so we won’t have to bother with this ration book business.”

  “Perfect,” Claude replied, thinking rapidly. “And I am happy to assist in procuring the finest vegetables and the freshest meats for those warehouses. After all, I have my connections with the local suppliers, and you do not. Shall I arrange to do this for you?”

  “Of course.” Von Stülpnagel waved him away. Claude fairly danced out of the room, quickly told the staff to bring the damned Nazis their food and ran to his office. There, he picked up the phone and arranged to have the largest lorry he could find out back in the morning. He would fill it up with food for the Germans—

  And for all the rest of them on the Cambon side, and all his staff, and if there was any food left over, he would arrange for it to be distributed to those most in need. And in that way, everyone at the Ritz would survive.

  There is one other thing Claude needs to do, however. One other burning desire he needs to fulfill, in order to survive however long this occupation will last; it cannot last forever, please, God. It will end sometime; the Germans always conquer but they never manage to hold on to their spoils for long.

  * * *

  —

  SOON AFTER THE BANQUET, Claude had discovered that all the other fine hotels had been commandeered by the Germans, too. He decided to meet first with his compatriot at the George V, François Dupré, to see how his fellow hotel directors were handling things.

  “Claude!” Dupré embraced him with tears in his eyes, bestowing upon him two wet kisses, one upon each cheek, which Claude returned. Despite the fact that the two had not been close friends before, Claude now regarded him as his brother. That is what war can do to men.

  They were in the lobby of the Hôtel George V; armed soldiers like the ones posted at the entrance of the Ritz patted him down when he entered and asked why he was there but paid him no further heed. Unlike the Ritz, which did still operate like a hotel, at least half of it, the other hotels were strictly German headquarters; no paying guests allowed.

  That day, for the first time since his return to Paris after the bitter defeat, Claude felt himself growing agitated, excited; moved by the new rumors rustling through the narrow streets like the winds of the mistral. There were whispers of group meetings in basements. In back alleys. Outside of town. Calls for resistance. A general named de Gaulle—one of Pétain’s former aides—had escaped to Great Britain during
the invasion and was making secret radio addresses urging for France to keep fighting, although few heard the broadcasts themselves, only the rumors of them. It was thrilling, it was frightening, it was the backbone the French needed.

  “How are you doing, François?” Claude accepted a glass of brandy from a rattled young waiter; Claude studied him, then shook his head. This young man would not be working here long. Far too nervous a disposition.

  “Ah, Claude, it is terrible, is it not? What has happened? Mon Dieu, I still cannot believe it even though I saw it with my own eyes, that day. Germans, marching beneath the Arc de Triomphe!” Dupré, to Claude’s dismay, was obviously one of those who had already given up. While some citizens were finally stirring after the stunning shock of the invasion, others remained broken. There had been many suicides since the tenth of May. Dupré was gray, his hands shook as if he were eighty and not fifty. His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he wept day and night.

  But he was still the director of the George V, a man Claude had long admired.

  “We who run the hotels, François, are in a unique position, are we not? We have ringside seats to everything that goes on in the German high command. We will most likely know who is meeting whom, when someone is posted elsewhere, when troops are moved around.”

  “So?” Dupré only shrugged and picked at a thread on his cuff—in fact, his cuffs were most obviously frayed—and Claude was astonished, for he’d never seen his colleague look anything but pristine.

  “I don’t have a definite idea, but don’t you think—” Claude glanced around, and lowered his voice. “Don’t you think this is something we might be able to take advantage of? This knowledge?”

  “Claude, Claude.” Dupré trembled all over; his head, his hands, his knees. He raised his watery eyes to him. “Claude, you are young, still. You are a man. I understand your passion. But I cannot share it.”