“I do.”
“He does,” Martin repeats to Simone and Michele with a broad grin. The girls giggle and shake their heads.
“Martin is a naughty boy, too,” Michele says with a knowing wink. A German officer, two tables away, stares so intently, obviously, at her that she winks at him as well, and the officer—young, glassy-eyed from too much wine—blushes and looks away.
“Yes, I was,” Martin acknowledges. Then he leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. After he inhales and blows two smoke rings, he laughs. “I was a gigolo.”
“A—pardon?” Claude nearly upsets the coffee that the waiter has just now set before him; the waiter grins as he walks away.
Simone and Michele laugh their bright, magpie laughs; all around, heads are turned toward them but Claude knows that no one sees anything but the two glittering, gay women and their devastatingly handsome male companion; Claude is invisible. Which, of course, is the point, however it might wound his pride.
“A gigolo,” Martin repeats with a shrug. “I could be bought. I was bought—heavens, my friend, I am bought still, eh, ladies?” He winks at the two at the table next to them; they blush again and look away. “By wealthy women, mostly. I have been to your Ritz many times, but you never noticed me. I was always on the arm of some matron, some stout madame dripping with jewels. It was the matrons you noticed and bowed to. Not the handsome fellow on their arms. That is how I know you, my friend. I am very aware of your reputation, and your business.”
“My God.” Why does this surprise Claude? Martin is so strikingly good-looking, so confident. Without fear, which would be an asset, Claude recognizes, when dealing with bejeweled matrons in possession of husbands.
“You do not think less of me, do you, Claude?” Martin’s eyes betray a flicker of anxiety, which touches Claude. He realizes this man puts a lot of store in Claude’s good opinion, and that is flattering, naturally.
“No, no, I do not. What does it matter what we did before? War, occupation—it creates new opportunities for those smart enough to take advantage of them.”
“I am glad you see it that way, my friend. Now.” Martin takes out an order form from his pocket. The girls, bored, begin to talk about films they’ve seen lately, as the two men get down to business. “How many apples did you go through this week? And how many do you expect you will need next?”
“Not so many, I’m afraid—only about two hundred. But there was quite a demand for artichokes, surprisingly. I’d say we need three dozen of those.”
The two men continue their haggling over vegetables and fruit; produce required for the Ritz kitchen, Martin making notes on the order form, occasionally pausing to consider, flicking the ashes from his cigarette. Claude sometimes reconsidering his needs, changing his mind when Martin, after angrily muttering, lowers a price. It is past curfew before they are done, but they are not in any hurry to leave, now that the haggling is done; the tables remain crowded around them.
Finally Simone, who has gone to the toilet, returns; she does not sit, but instead, she takes Claude’s arm and drags him out of his seat.
“Come, it’s time, I’m tired. But not too tired,” she purrs, and others around them—including a table of German soldiers—laugh, and nod knowingly as the other two rise, as well.
Michele clings to Martin’s arm with a cooing sigh, but she ostentatiously cups his crotch and proclaims, “This one is never too tired. Mon Dieu, I get no sleep!”
And there is even more laughter; the Germans, Claude has noticed before, are very appreciative when the French act the way Nazis think that the French should act. Overly amorous, prone to theatrics.
“Oh, Claude, one thing.” Martin, tightening his scarf, lowers his voice under cover of the lingering good cheer from their neighbors. “I hear there are some mass deportations. Just starting, but I have it on good authority. Jews, mostly. Being taken from their homes in the night, entire neighborhoods of them.”
Claude shoves his hands into his gloves to keep them steady. He dares not look at Martin, he dares not look at anyone; he struggles to keep his face neutral. “Merci, I appreciate this.”
“I just thought you should know.” Abruptly turning, Martin bends down and kisses one of the two giggling women still at the table next to them while Michele howls her displeasure; the woman turns scarlet, her eyes sparkling, as she gasps.
He winks at her, then at Claude, and with an insouciant wave he and Michele disappear, arm in arm, into the night, so darkly ominous. There is no blackout at the moment, but streetlights are no longer turned on, regardless. Only the light from the cafés illuminate the streets.
Claude, Simone clinging to him, resting her blond head upon his shoulder, which is not at all distasteful, picks his way through the tables, and the couple begins to stroll through the dark streets. Still entwined, they cross the Pont de l’Alma and head up the avenue Montaigne. The avenue is quiet, empty.
Despite all that he is thinking, measuring, calculating, Claude is not immune to the blonde’s charms; Simone smells like lilacs, her hair is soft and shining. Like most Parisiennes these days, her clothes are worn, mended several times, but clean and flattering, embellished with little touches—silk flowers, rhinestone pins, bits of lace removed from other clothing. The girl does not wear nylons—few women do anymore—but has drawn seams down the backs of her bare legs with an eyebrow pencil. She is, finally, a woman. A soft, pliant, convenient woman.
They reach the Auzellos’ apartment building; Claude gazes up, and sees the lamp shining in the window. Just as Claude turns, with a smile, to Simone—she has blue eyes, and a penciled-on beauty mark of which Claude does not approve—a German soldier walks by, rifle slung across his chest.
“Get it over with, or get inside,” the soldier barks in German. “It’s past curfew, you Frogs.”
The two of them stiffen; then Simone turns to the German with one of her brilliant smiles; she tosses her shining hair and wiggles her hips.
“Perhaps you’d like to join us, eh?”
The soldier stops, sputters, almost drops his rifle. Simone laughs, grabs Claude’s arm and they are inside the building before the German can stop his stammering.
“That will give him something to talk about,” Simone says as they climb the steps up to the apartment. “He won’t forget me anytime soon.”
Claude is still a bit stunned, to be honest; he was quite terrified the German was going to take Simone up on her offer. So all he can do is nod as the girl—nonchalant, breezy, brave—begins to chatter about what she plans to do tomorrow: mending a torn handkerchief; meeting a girlfriend for what passes for lunch now, watery soup and maybe a crust of bread; standing in line for some meat—what she wouldn’t give for a nice filet of steak, but of course, no one can expect that these days, all she can hope for is that it’s not dog or cat….
He follows her up the stairs, and into the apartment.
All the while wondering where his wife will be sleeping tonight.
Grasping her hand, Lily pulls Blanche through row after row of stalls overflowing with flowers—autumn flowers, lanky sunflowers, giant mums, and purple coneflowers—and then, with one quick glance around, so furtive Blanche almost misses it, Lily tugs her down a narrow aisle toward the back of a stall; she lifts the canvas flap, and Blanche finds herself in a cramped, dark little tent filled with overturned crates, buckets of blossoms in water, straw scattered on the floor. A couple of lanterns emit a yellowish glow; at first, she can scarcely make out the faces watching her with guarded interest.
Perching on the crates are Lily’s “friends.” One woman, a lumpy, dull-looking girl with her dirty blond hair in braids. The others are all men. All bearded, all wearing hats, fisherman’s caps, pulled low over their faces. Their clothes are inconspicuous: workers’ clothes. One reaches out to pull Lily to his lap in a proprietary, hungry motion; this must be
her lover.
But while Lily introduces her—“This is Blanche, my friend I told you all”—and fires off their names in return, Blanche understands, by the way they barely acknowledge them, that these are not their real names. She also understands she should not ask why.
The man Lily says is Lorenzo—her lover—continues to stare at Blanche long after the others resume their conversation, and she feels, absurdly, flattered. Perching gingerly on an offered crate—surely not good for the woven silk skirt she is wearing—Blanche listens while the others talk, in hushed tones, in French, in many varying accents. She detects a couple of hard-consonant Russian affectations, a rough Polish accent. None of them appears to be native-born French.
And it dawns on her, slowly, that what Lily and her friends are discussing—“Tomorrow, we will shop for silk scarves at the Galeries Lafayette,” “Next week’s dinner party will have only four place settings”—isn’t what it seems.
It dawns on Blanche—it illuminates her, like a warm shaft of daylight has suddenly penetrated the gloom—that what they are talking about are acts of sabotage.
Acts of resistance.
“She might be of help,” Lorenzo says once, indicating Blanche. “Look at her, very rich.”
“Yes, but—” Lily flashes her smile at Blanche. “Money only.”
“Maybe more.”
“No!” Lily says decisively. “Not Blanche. I do not want Blanche involved too much, like us. She is my friend, yes, she can help maybe get money because of the Ritz, maybe food or ration books. But nothing more. This is not why I brought her here. She is my friend.” Lily glares at them.
Blanche blushes; every eye is turned on her, and she feels their skeptical gazes taking in her nice clothing, her silk stockings (darned, but still presentable), her impeccable coif, fresh from the beauty shop at the Ritz. She feels shame at having her privilege exposed like this, the comparative ease of her life; nobody here looks as if they’ve bathed or had a hot meal in days.
But they do look as if they’ve struck blows against the Nazis, while Blanche has spent her time playing bridge with them. Despite her clothes and stockings, she is the inferior one here.
Then she remembers her “escapade.” She thinks of Claude, a native Frenchman, so damn smug about his country, so pompous—what has he been doing since the invasion? Nothing. Nothing except getting his conquerors—his guests—everything they desire. Presenting it to them with a smile and a bow that turns Blanche’s stomach.
And she is suddenly itching with anger, with purpose. One of the Auzellos has to defend the honor of the Ritz.
“I want to be part of your group,” says Blanche.
It isn’t as difficult as she’d thought it would be, after all.
Every day, someone from the Ritz disappears. An absence will be noted at the morning staff meeting. Faces will pale; eyes shift, afraid to linger too long on any one person. Feet will shuffle; a chambermaid might whisper a strangled prayer to the Blessed Virgin. Claude has learned not to ask if anyone might know the reason for the absence.
No one knows anything, while seeing, hearing, everything. This is how it is in Paris these days.
Sometimes the missing staff member will show up in a day or so, amid cries of joy. “A bottle of champagne,” Claude will call out, and one will appear from the store they keep hidden, at another location, from the Germans. Sometimes this person will have fresh bruises, raw cuts that will soon harden into thick scars. Sometimes an arm in a sling. Sometimes a hand bandaged, digits missing.
Claude watches this person very carefully, in the days following. He keeps everything that could be used to poison locked up in his desk; he sleeps with the key beneath his pillow. There will be no accidental dose of lye in the soup delivered on the other side of the long hallway. There will be no hemlock tucked in the leaves of a salad. Claude fears this kind of retaliation for the foolishness that it is—one Nazi down, but how many of his employees would they take in return? It is his job to keep these people—his people, for it’s his Ritz—safe, as best he can. What they do on their own time, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to care.
Sometimes, however, the missing employee doesn’t return. They’ve learned to give it time—a week, maybe two. After that, Claude fills the vacancy.
But he writes down the names of the missing, keeping that list in the same drawer in which he keeps all poisonous items and the revolver Frank Meier procured for him. Why does he do it? Perhaps he has some vague idea of trying to find them, when—when this is all over, if it will ever be over. Perhaps he simply needs to mark their existence by noting their absence.
The list increased in the days after the tragedy at the Vél d’Hiv. And that was a particularly black day in Claude’s mind, because it was the French that did it, not the Germans. They rounded up their own people, for the very first time, and no one could convince Claude that it was in order to protect all citizens. The French rounded up Jews who had come to France, some recently, some decades before, seeking refuge, a better life. They rounded up Jews—immigrants from other countries—who had become French citizens. They dragged infants out of their cots, mothers nursing their babes in arms, toddlers clutching their ragdolls. Women and children, predominantly; the men had already been taken, less visibly, and sent to the labor camps that the Germans said were for the making of ammunition and war materiel.
So what threat did they pose, these women and children? They were sorry enough as it was, waiting for their men, existing in shadows, the only bright thing about them, ironically, the yellow Star of David on their clothes. Why tear them from their garrets, their closets, their one-room flats and shove them inside the glass-domed velodrome, deny them food, the sanity of even a one-holed lavatory? It was the French police that did it; their gendarmes, their prefects; they drove the trucks, they knocked on the doors, they pointed the rifles. They shoved the poor souls in the hothouse that became a hell house and only after five days—five days with little water, less air, and no hope—were the survivors taken on to the camps at Drancy, Beaune-la-Rolande, and Pithiviers. Or places unknown.
Who had ordered it? That was the burning question in the streets of Paris among those who were fortunate enough only to have to witness. It was the gossip in the bar at the Ritz. Frank Meier insisted it was the Vichy government; others said no, it had to have been the Nazis, forcing Vichy to do their bidding. Claude agreed with Frank; he knew the anti-Semitism inherent in French culture. He—like everyone else of his generation—had been weaned on L’affaire Dreyfus.
The Ritz lost ten staff members that day, reliable, hard-working employees, mostly women. They never came back.
The Germans celebrated; they toasted, they chortled, Adolf Eichmann came to the Ritz to gloat with von Stülpnagel. Eichmann, whose name already invoked terror. Sitting in the terrace—it was July, such a beautiful day, Claude would always remember how the lilies were in bloom, the air perfumed with roses abuzz with bees—they laughed, they sang songs, they exulted in the fact that “To think, today there are ten thousand fewer Jews in Paris than there were yesterday,” as Eichmann said.
“Already the air seems purer,” von Stülpnagel agreed.
Claude, watching, rushed to them when beckoned. He bowed, he signaled for waiters to bring them caviar and more champagne.
There are, despite Eichmann’s glee, still Jews in Paris. Those born here remain, although sometimes they leave, too. Less obviously. The knock on the door in the middle of the night instead of the summons in the harsh light of day. But every Jew in Paris now has a star, has a card on file in Gestapo headquarters. And no one is safe; it is foolish to think they will stop with the Jews. What about the effete young men in Claude’s employ, the ones who are the favorites of the matrons, the ones who wear green carnations in their lapels when they are off duty? What about the maimed—like little Greep, whom Frank Meier does not think tha
t Claude knows but of course, he does. Greep is lame in one leg. What about the few Americans who remain, like Blanche?
The first time Blanche and Claude saw the yellow stars, they stopped in their tracks. Yes, they were aware of the decree, but it was only a concept, unimaginable. They even joked about it—would Chanel come up with a brilliant design of her own, a yellow star with flair, and charge a fortune for it? Until the day they were walking home from a pleasant lunch at a café.
It was part of Claude’s plan to keep Blanche away from Lily since she—unfortunately—has come back. If Claude spends more time with Blanche, he reasons—time he does not have to spare—perhaps she won’t seek this woman’s company. For being with Lily brings out the worst in his wife; the two of them seem to do nothing but drink all day, all night. They stagger into the Ritz holding on to each other, trying to stay upright, laughing hilariously at a private joke. Lily often has to sleep it off in their rooms, curled up in an armchair while Blanche snores on the bed and Claude spends an uncomfortable night on the small sofa in his office.
“Claude, you A-OK,” Lily murmured to him one night as she kicked off her shoes—a pair of men’s combat boots, for heaven’s sake—and settled down in the chair, her eyes half-closed, tucking herself into a little ball just like a cat.
“Claude’s a peach, aren’t you, Popsy?” Blanche agreed with a hiccup.
Claude wrinkled his nose and left them to their hangovers. Wondering, the whole time, what mischief they might have gotten themselves in, for Blanche had a tendency to blurt things out when she was drunk.
Wondering if Lily was only a cover, if Blanche was perhaps seeing a man—oh, wondering about everything in this topsy-turvy world!
The day that the Auzellos first saw the yellow stars on the street, Blanche grabbed his arm, just as he grabbed hers. While in fact there weren’t a lot of them, simply because the latest decree forbade Jews from gathering in public places or walking in the major thoroughfares, still, it seemed as if everywhere they looked, they suddenly saw these hateful badges. There, sewn to the lapel of a schoolgirl’s blazer—a blazer too small for the girl, who hadn’t been able to attend school since the Nazis decreed that Jewish children could no longer do so. But still, the girl wore the uniform, and Claude had to wonder why. Was it hope, pure and simple? Nostalgia? Or simply a child’s whim?
Mistress of the Ritz Page 17
