Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

  Still they walk. Her legs are much steadier than her nerves; they appear to know exactly where to take her. The pair trots down to the Métro station at the Champs; Blanche chooses a car with only a few German soldiers in it and she prods the young man into a seat, while she stands, makes a decision, and clears her throat before she speaks.

  “Es ist immer so überfüllt, nicht wahr? Nicht wie zu hause.” Blanche turns, with a shaky but charming smile (she hopes!), to a German soldier, his gun in his holster, holding on to the pole next to her. He grins, even as she spies, out of the corner of her eye, her young soldier tense.

  “Ja, immer. Und auch schmutzig,” the soldier agrees with her.

  Blanche offers him a chocolate; he takes one with a smile before turning back to his companion and they begin to discuss how terrible the postal service is between here and home, and her young man relaxes. Blanche doesn’t venture anything further with the Germans; suddenly she’s shaking, too. But she thinks—she desperately hopes—it was enough.

  Blanche and her “ward” get off at the Bastille stop; keeping a firm grasp on the young man, Blanche forces him to walk slowly, not bolt as she senses he’s gearing up to do; she reads it in his face, the panic, the desire to flee. She feels it in his muscles, so tense and hard, she could strike a match off them.

  She feels it in herself—she could outrun a panther, the way the adrenaline is pumping through her. She’s soaking wet; her blouse is once again sticking to her chest. But she holds on to him and keeps them both going, slowly but steadily. Occasionally she instructs him, loudly in German, to rest, and he understands because each time, she nods at a bench. So in fits and starts they make their way through the quieter streets toward the Pont d’Austerlitz, one of the more ugly ponts in Paris. Even Claude has never been able to muster much enthusiasm for it. Instead of the charming, flower-bedecked little houseboats that are tied up closer to the heart of the city, here are industrial commercial barges. Blanche searches them, looking for a clue, and finally she spies a smaller one, with a birdcage hanging from a pole on the front. And in that birdcage are two birds with broken wings; the wings are bandaged, and they hang loosely by the sides of the birds’ bodies.

  “The crippled birds,” Blanche whispers in English.

  The airman’s pupils dilate, and he looks where she’s looking.

  “There. You see?”

  He nods.

  “You have to go there on your own. It wouldn’t make sense for a woman to accompany a simple barge worker onto his boat. And that’s exactly what you look like. You shouldn’t be questioned, now. You’re home free.”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know what to say,” he begins to stammer, and dammit if she doesn’t have a tear in her eye, a warmth in her heart that’s never been there before. She shakes her head; she won’t allow him to see her this way. She’s not his mother. He’s not her son.

  But as she pushes him away, and watches him walk slowly, hands in pockets, head down, across the pont to the other side, and then shuffle down the steps leading to the river’s edge, and finally step onto the barge and disappear from sight, she realizes she doesn’t know his name; never once has she asked. So desperately does she now need to know this that she almost dashes across the pont herself. She desires a connection—something that will outlast her memories of this extraordinary adventure. Something that will link her to another human being, whom she helped; truly helped, not passed by or stood watching from afar or merely showered with money. If she has his name, she can write it down and one day—dear God, surely one day this will all be over?—look him up, or maybe he’ll come back to find her, but no, he doesn’t know her name, either.

  But she understands that it’s better this way. Better for both of them, should—should the thing she can’t bring herself to contemplate happen. So Blanche turns, blinking away her tears, and walks briskly back toward the Ritz. It’s a long walk, but she can use it.

  She needs to be above ground. Among the living, among the hunted, among the doers. For she finally feels, after these long months—after these long years, all the years of her marriage, even—as if she’s taken her rightful place among them.

  “Claude, I—” She bursts through the door of their suite once she’s back at the Ritz, after she’s smiled broadly at Frank Meier behind the bar, who grins back in relief. “Claude! Popsy—you won’t believe what I just did—”

  “Where have you been?” Her husband glares at her, then consults his pocket watch, old-fashioned, just as he is. “It’s late, you’ve been gone for hours. Where have you been, you selfish child? Did you not think of me, how I might be worried about you? But no, you think only of yourself, don’t you?”

  Her husband. Once her savior. His face is tight with anger. He doesn’t see her: Blanche—Blanche the Bold, Blanche the Brave. Blanche in Need of a Good Strong Drink. No, he can only see his wife who is so much trouble, so much of a burden these days. After all, he has a hotel to run, a hotel full of Nazis he has to bow and scrape to, run and fetch for. He has no time for her antics, Blanche the Disappointment, Blanche the Nag—hasn’t he told her this, time and again?

  Her words—of accomplishment, of pride, of bravery—flutter to the ground, unspoken. Claude can’t see them there, these broken, ruined things, stillborn.

  But Blanche can. She steps over them on her way to the bathroom where she shuts the door and heaves into the sink. Outside, in the bedroom, the phone rings once.

  The room to their suite opens, closes.

  When finally she emerges from the bathroom into the empty suite, she can still see them there on the floor, her words, her story. The story she will never share with her husband now.

  For it’s far too good for that cheating bastard.

  The phone rings, that one telling ring. Claude glances at his wife, who is dressing to go out, for reasons she hasn’t made clear. It’s late afternoon, too early for dinner, although he had intended to take her out somewhere, even if it means using up all his ration stamps to do so. Normally, they dine here at the Ritz, of course; that’s the whole point of remaining here, there is always leftover food from the Nazi banquets for staff and their families; food that doesn’t require a ration stamp.

  But there’s something new to Blanche these days, both a recklessness and a brooding quality, and it worries Claude almost as much as it angers him. As if he has time for one more worry! She sometimes starts a conversation, one Claude senses she has wanted to start for a long time, then abruptly stops herself. She speaks more boldly—sometimes rudely, sometimes playfully—to the Germans, especially her old friend Spatzy; she flirts with him so brazenly, Claude fears that Chanel will one day push his wife down the stairs. He himself is of two minds about this new development: On the one hand, if she plays nicely with the Germans, there’s a greater chance she won’t bring ruin down upon them all. On the other hand, Claude detests seeing her cozy up to them as if they weren’t evil to the core.

  Of course, he imagines she detests seeing him do the same.

  The other day, while they were in the restaurant (the only room on the Place Vendôme side where civilians other than hotel staff are allowed; it is insulting, to have to be patted down by armed guards every time he crosses that long hallway that links the two buildings), von Stülpnagel sat down, unasked, at the Auzellos’ table.

  Naturally, they could not tell him they wished to be alone; there is no such thing as being “off duty” to the Germans these days. The Ritz employees, all of them, are now the Nazis’ adjunct staff. Claude, of course, is used to being treated casually by the rich and famous. But before, he was well paid for the honor and, for the most part, they were decent people. There is no honor now. And little pay.

  As for decency, that word has no place in the world in which they find themselves.

  “Claude, my friend,” von Stülpnagel said, waving his arms expansively; the German seem
ed genuinely happy to see him.

  “And his lovely wife,” the man added, still smiling; was he drunk? “The American. Now our enemy, too. So many enemies of the Reich.” He nodded at Blanche, his eyes half-closed, and he almost sounded sad.

  “Thanks to the Japs,” Blanche said coolly, fingering the long stem of her glass of wine; Claude stiffened, afraid she might be tempted to throw it in the man’s ruddy face. “They’re responsible for finally getting America into the war.”

  “So you wanted your country to fight us before?” He leaned forward, made an effort to open his eyes wider, as if he were merely curious. Claude couldn’t figure him out—was he laying a trap for his wife? Claude clutched his knife tightly, watching von Stülpnagel, searching his face. But the man didn’t seem menacing at all, only slightly tipsy and in a surprisingly expansive mood.

  “As astonishing as it might be, Franklin Roosevelt doesn’t actually consult me on these issues,” Blanche replied with a shrug Claude could only admire.

  Von Stülpnagel laughed; he actually slapped the table in delight. “A witty woman! You are a lucky man, Herr Auzello. I know a lucky man when I see one because I am lucky, too. My wife, you should meet her. She is almost as charming as your wife.” The German inclined his head at Blanche, with a courteous bow.

  Blanche gave Claude a look of surprise, which he returned. Neither knew what to do with their dinner guest, who was now beckoning to a waiter and asking for some brandy.

  But one of the other officers, seated at the next table, had heard their conversation for he rose, raised a glass and exclaimed, “To Washington! Our next conquest—Heil Hitler!”

  Blanche was trembling; her hand clutched the stemware of the glass so tightly, Claude was afraid it might break. He could not reach across the table to grab her; von Stülpnagel was between them, glaring at the officer who had risen. Almost with reluctance, it seemed to Claude, von Stülpnagel rose, too, lifted his glass and mumbled, “Heil Hitler.” And the entire restaurant filled with Nazi officers did the same.

  “Excuse me,” Claude said, getting up from his chair, quickly pulling his wife out of hers and propelling her toward the door, even though they’d only had their soup. “I realized I’ve not yet ordered tomorrow’s fish.” And with a bow—he detested himself for it, he saw himself as if from above doing this despicable thing, bowing to the Nazis, but decades of being in this industry betrayed him; Nazis or not they were, still, guests of César Ritz—Claude propelled his wife out of the dining room.

  As they reached the armed guard standing at the beginning of the long hallway back to the rue Cambon side, the young man grinned at them, tipped his hat. “Good evening, Frau Auzello.”

  “Good evening, Friedrich,” Blanche replied tightly, but then she sighed and paused. “Did you get a letter today?”

  “Yes!” The boy beamed and reached inside his pocket. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “Some other time.” Blanche allowed Claude to continue dragging her back down the endless marble passageway. “What’s your hurry, Claude?”

  “I—I was afraid you might say something foolish.”

  “You mean tell the damned Nazis what I think about their chances of taking Washington?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Oh, boy, wouldn’t I like to do just that!” She threw him off and marched away, and he had to run to keep up with her. “I just may do that, now that you mention it.” She pivoted and started marching back toward the hallway, but Claude grabbed her just in time.

  “Get your damned hands off me!”

  “No, Blanche, no. Not here.”

  “Why the hell not? I don’t give a damn about your precious Ritz, Claude Auzello! How can you keep bowing to them like a servant? I don’t care how charming they are—I don’t even care about Friedrich anymore, he’s just like them, isn’t he, even if he is just a boy, a boy like—” And then, to Claude’s astonishment, his wife began to weep, bitterly. “Oh, it’s just so damn sad, Claude. So damn wasteful. What can I do?”

  Finally, he got his weeping wife up to their rooms—she wanted to stop in the bar but as it was full of officers off duty, he wouldn’t let her—where she was free to rage and fume at him, at the Nazis, at all men in general. “You all act like big brave beasts, pounding your chests and grunting at each other but it’s only because you’re all weak, you’re all pretend; and meanwhile here I sit and it’s not enough, it’s never enough”—until she finally fell asleep, her makeup streaked, her lipstick faded so that her mouth looked like an Impressionist brushstroke.

  Claude sat down, wiped his brow, eased his breathing. She was right, of course, in the abstract—it was a shame, it was a waste, a horror, men were, indeed, just as she said and more. Men were awful, himself included.

  But in the reality in which they were trying to live, trying to survive, his wife could not have been more wrong. She must remain aloof, she must sit and watch, for her own good as well as his—and the Ritz’s.

  Would he be able to avert a crisis like this next time—avoid a raging Blanche shouting like a lunatic, perhaps revealing things she shouldn’t? The fact was that he did not trust his wife, particularly when she drank. He had never been able to trust her in the ways a man should be able to trust a spouse: to be discreet, to soothe instead of ruffle, to put his needs before hers, to understand and comfort. There would surely be more moments like this in the future; the combustive combination of an alcoholic American wife plonked into a nest of viperous Nazis made it inevitable. Claude could see them all, an endless parade of little bombs that only he could defuse. And he did, for the very first time, wonder if he—the unflappable Monsieur Auzello—was up to the task.

  He wondered if his own wife might, in the end, be the downfall of the Ritz, his Ritz, his wartime assignment—that was how he looked at it now. He might not have a battlefield assignment in the truest sense, but he viewed his responsibility to see the Ritz through this safely, keep it and its staff intact, alive, in exactly that way.

  His assignment. His responsibility. His duty. As a Frenchman.

  * * *

  —

  THE PHONE STOPS RINGING, and Claude must answer its call. He is a man, after all; a man in whom war has stirred up familiar longings.

  Blanche—in the act of putting on her earrings—stiffens. He flinches before she can even say a word or pick up the closest item to hurl at him—he throws his arms up, to protect his face in anticipation of the battle to come. A battle that is ancient, moth-ridden; an old play, the two of them actors wearily saying their lines, going through their paces for an audience that has fallen asleep.

  Tonight, however, it appears that Blanche has gone up on her lines. She is silent.

  Claude lowers his arms.

  Blanche starts humming a little tune, something from a theatrical production, maybe American—it’s faintly familiar to him, but not enough so that he would know the words. She continues to make herself up, putting on her lipstick, blotting it with a tissue, doing that odd thing she does—she puts her index finger into her mouth and pulls it out, and wipes the lipstick off her finger, too. She claims that by doing this, her lipstick won’t get on her teeth.

  She then steps into a pair of shoes and reaches for her purse.

  “Have fun tonight, Claude, darling. Tell her hello, give her a good time—oh, and don’t wait up for me!”

  “Where—where are you going, Blanche? You know I don’t like it when you wander the streets. You never know what might happen—”

  “Too bad, Claude” is all she replies as she sails out the door with a bright smile.

  Claude, for once, is at a loss for words. He does not know the dialogue for this particular play. He sits on the bed, befuddled.

  And then, immediately, suspicious. What did she mean, “Don’t wait up”?

  As violently as he desires to r
un after her and ask—or to trail her like a spy, like he once did back when J’Ali was squiring her about Paris—he cannot. Someone is waiting for him.

  He splashes on some cologne, straightens his tie, combs his mustache, opens a closet, retrieves a notebook from a coat pocket. Claude locks the door of the suite and descends the curving stairs, glancing inside Frank Meier’s busy domain, hoping, for the very first time in their marriage, to see his wife seated at her table, bending her elbow.

  She is not there.

  Frank Meier might know where she is, and Claude is halfway to the mahogany bar before he stops himself; it would never do to share his marital concerns with Frank, who, after all, is technically Claude’s employee. No, that would never do; it’s bad enough when his and Blanche’s quarrels attain decibel levels that cannot be contained by the walls of their suite.

  So Claude spins on his heel and pushes his way out the door, out of the hotel. He really has no other choice.

  Because someone is waiting for him.

  Lily is back.

  The note—delivered to Blanche with a bouquet of violets—says to meet her on a bench at the flower market, although it doesn’t say which one. But the only market Blanche knows well is the one on the Île de la Cité, near Notre Dame, and that is where she goes this late afternoon, after first deciding—oh, good God, the look on his face!—to bedevil her husband and ruin his evening. What came over her, what imp whispered into her ear, she has no idea; she’s just tickled she did, and wishes she’d done it years ago. Why not torture him as he tortures her?