He obeys, though he is certain she will fall.
“Always the front door from now on,” she whispers, her eyes, in her skeletal face, shining brightly. Bravely.
The staff cannot hide their horror at her appearance; Marie-Louise herself has tears in her eyes as she rushes to Blanche’s side. Claude lifts his wife once again and carries her down the hall—the Hall of Dreams, they once called it, but the displays are empty; the Nazis took all the dreams with them when they left—to the rue Cambon side and gets her into the service lift. There is no way she can manage the stairs.
“Dear Claude,” Marie-Louise murmurs, after he carries his wife—she weighs nothing—over the threshold of their suite, and lays her tenderly on their bed. “Dear Claude. Dear Blanche.” Madame Ritz is sobbing, tears making tracks through her heavily powdered cheeks. “That this could happen here, in Paris. In my husband’s home.” She shakes her head and leaves, pressing Claude’s hand in sympathy.
“My love,” he says, looking at his wife, so slight, so fragile. “I—I only wanted to keep you safe,” Claude whispers. “I only wanted to keep us all safe here.”
“You did a lousy job of it.” She laughs, and the sound is like glass being crushed beneath a Nazi boot.
“Don’t.” Claude can’t bear it even as he can’t help but admire her—that she can make a joke of this, this terror that she endured. “Don’t. I am not worthy of you, Blanche. Of what you did for Paris—for me.”
“No more lies, Claude.” Now she is crying, not laughing, and Claude creeps gingerly upon the bed, cradling his body against hers, not caring about the filth, the lice, the smell. “No more lies between us. I told them—I told the damn Nazis I was a Jew.”
“Is that why they—?” But Claude can’t bring himself to say the word torture.
“No, they did that before. But they didn’t believe me, Claude. They didn’t believe there could be a Jew here—at the Ritz.”
“We won’t hide it anymore,” Claude promises. “Only the truth from now on, my dearest.”
She is so still, for such a long while, that he thinks she has fallen asleep; he has to listen carefully, but he can hear her breathing, ragged but steady. “I promise to keep you safe,” he whispers. “For the rest of my life—I will sacrifice anything. To keep you safe.”
And Claude doesn’t know if these two promises—the promise to tell the truth and the promise to keep her safe—can both be kept, even in peacetime. The only thing he does know is, he has to at least try.
And one thing more:
No one will have to show Claude Auzello how brave his wife is, ever again. He will see it every morning, every night. In every conversation they have, every glimpse of her that he is allowed—every smile, every frown, every tear, every laugh.
And he will never be worthy of her.
“I have come to liberate the Ritz,” he crows, hopping out of the Jeep, standing with his legs planted like thick trees, his arms upon his hips. His beard is longer and bushier—and whiter—than it had been when the Ritz saw him last.
But the Ritz still recognizes him. Hemingway himself—come to liberate the Ritz!
Claude Auzello, standing at the entrance, suppresses a sigh. The Ritz is already liberated; the last German left last night and as soon as he left on foot—snarling, spewing forth obscenities—the entire staff cheered and sobbed. They marched about like soldiers themselves, taking all the swastikas down; they celebrated in the Imperial Suite, bouncing upon the very bed that Göring had slept in, donning the marabou dressing gowns and dancing to that gramophone—odd, the German was very fond of the American Andrews Sisters, particularly “Bei Mir Bist du Schön.” They sat, ten of them easily, in that enormous tub (after first, of course, scrubbing it) and drank the good champagne that Monsieur Claude managed to hide from the Germans in a storehouse across the Seine.
Hemingway takes a pistol—a German pistol, many of the staff can’t help but recoil at the sight of it—from a holster strapped to his broad chest. He is in the uniform of an American soldier. There are four other Americans with him.
He bounds up the steps; Claude Auzello bows to him.
“I’m here to liberate the Ritz bar,” Hemingway declares, throwing his head back. “Follow me, boys!” And he runs, his gun at the ready, down the wide entrance hallway, smiling his big white-teethed American smile; he looks healthy, well fed, and jubilant.
Emerging from the long hallway into the rue Cambon side, Hemingway bursts through the door of the bar, declaring, “I have done it! The Ritz is taken back by the Allies! Drinks for everyone!”
And soon the bar is flooded with familiar faces, Americans and Brits—all dusty, all wearing uniforms, but all noticeably well fed and giddy—are crowding into the bar. Robert Capa, Lee Miller, so many war correspondents. Picasso, too, has returned, after spending the Occupation holed up in his apartment (unlike Gertrude Stein and her friend Alice, who fled to the country). George Scheuer—Frank Meier’s former lieutenant, the head bartender now that Frank is gone—is so busy popping champagne corks, for a while it sounds as if there is gunfire inside the hotel itself. But no one flinches; everyone keeps drinking, laughing, slapping one another on the back.
And then—
“Hello, boys.” It is Marlene Dietrich herself slinking her way toward Hemingway. “Papa,” she purrs, and he drops to his knees and bows down to her. She is in an American Army uniform but it is tailored to hug her curves. Her blond hair is shining, in a page-boy cut. Her face is fully made up. She looks as if she’s just walked off a movie set, but according to the whispers, she just got off an Army truck, having accompanied a regiment of U.S. soldiers into the city.
“The Kraut! Long live the Kraut!” For a moment, everyone flinches until they remember that this is Hemingway’s nickname for her. And they cheer, along with the others, as the two embrace, and kiss passionately.
“You need a shave,” she scolds him in the only German accent anyone wants to hear, ever again. “But first, a drink.”
The party goes on. It will always go on, they think—they believe.
Now that the Germans have finally left the Hôtel Ritz.
On the Place Vendôme.
“Blanche, hey, Blanche!”
There are cheers as she ventures into the bar for the first time; cheers that lift her off her unsteady feet and ensconce her at her usual table. But there is shock, as well. Hemingway tries, but does not quite succeed, to hide his concern.
He pulls out her chair for her with a gentleness that’s startling in a man as overwhelming as he can be, and buys her a drink. And then proceeds to tell her all about his adventures following the Army into France, his boredom in London waiting for the invasion. Blanche listens, nods, her usual role. But she can’t help noticing that he doesn’t ask about those who are no longer at the Ritz, like his “good pal” Frank Meier. Like Greep. Like his favorite shoeshine boy, Jacques. Like the man who used to shave him, Victor.
Dietrich—slim, blond, wearing trousers to Claude’s disapproval—is singing her famous songs, encircled by a throng of admirers. Blanche is sniffing that single rose in a vase, put there by Claude, dear Claude, who is still afraid to let her out of his sight and so he’s happy, for once, to have her spend all day at the bar, drinking martini after martini. Martinis she suspects won’t obscure the thoughts, the memories, but damn, if she won’t give them a chance to anyway.
Ernest downs his martini in one gulp. She notices, not for the first time, that his hands are as vast and creased as baseball gloves.
“Look at this, Blanche.” He caresses a big black leather belt cinched tight around his protruding belly. “I took it off a Nazi. I call it my Kraut belt.”
At the sight of it, she can’t stop herself; she begins to shake, so she picks up the drink with two hands and brings it to her lips, manages to set it down without sloshing too much ove
r the brim. He ignores this, friend to friend, drunk to drunk.
“Hey, what happened to that friend of yours? That little Russian, or whatever she was?”
Blanche eyes him. His fine-featured yet broad face shines with good health, good times. Privilege. Ignorance.
Blanche shrugs—that convenient Gallic shrug, invented for moments like this—and quickly changes the subject, asking him about his current, typically complicated, marital situation.
“Oh, Martha’s coming soon, but Mary’s here now, and so I need to make sure Martha stays at another hotel. We’ll divorce. I’ll marry Mary.” He indicates a young woman with short brown hair seated near Marlene; she is plainly dressed to the point of dowdiness and seems to be eyeing Dietrich with jealousy. Everybody knows that Dietrich and Hemingway have always had a passion for each other, and the first night Dietrich came back to the Ritz, she spent it with Hemingway after giving him a very public shave; Capa captured it with his camera, and the photo has already run in the newspapers.
This is the kind of gossip that once filled Blanche’s days. She rose every morning, eager to hear more of it. But now it just seems pointless. And unfair—these people who have had such a “marvelous” war can think about romance and deceit, can play these little games with deadly seriousness. They have room inside of them for that; their bellies are not full of hate and guilt.
“Mary’s a reporter, too. We met in London. Martha’s mad as hell with me, but I’m mad as hell with her. She got to land with the troops at Normandy.” Finally his face does cloud over, but it is the petulance of a little boy who didn’t get his way. “A goddamned woman landing with the first wave of troops, when my papers got all fouled up and I couldn’t. It kills me, Blanche, it kills me. I’ve never known such tragedy.”
She asks him to get her another martini, praying she won’t throw it at his bragging face. But even if she does, what will happen to her? What could possibly happen to Blanche that she could ever care about, worry about, fear?
They are all like that, these Americans, these Brits, all those who spent the war on the other side of the Channel—too bright, too loud, too damn happy. And Blanche wishes she could be like them—Christ, she really does! She’d thought—she’d known—those long weeks at Fresnes, that if only she could get back to the Ritz, everything would be the way it used to be. So every morning, she dresses herself as before; she even bought a new frock from Chanel who took one look at her and said, “I like what you’ve done with your hair, Blanche.”
Blanche handed her salesgirl an exorbitant amount of American money. An envelope with her name on it showed up one day, slid beneath the door of their suite, and she recognized the handwriting as Frank Meier’s; inside was several hundred dollars and no note. She expected Claude would order her to turn the money over to Madame Ritz but surprisingly, he did not.
“I see you still have your hair, bitch,” Blanche retorted. For how Coco wasn’t rounded up with the other women who’d had Nazi lovers, and had her hair shaved like they had, no one knows. The fact that she’s been handing out free bottles of Chanel No. 5 to all the American servicemen to take home to their girls must have been a factor. They’re so besotted with her, they won’t let any of the ravenous civilian tribunals touch a hair on her scheming little head.
But to Blanche’s surprise, Coco refused the money and told the girl to wrap the dress anyway.
With her extra money, Blanche found nylons on the black market, thanks to a French baroness who seems overanxious to help some of those who have returned (apparently, her German lover did not take her back across the Rhine, and she is worried about her immediate future). Blanche went to a hairdresser—not that the shocked young woman could do much with her sparse hair but dye what was left of it, and suggest Blanche buy herself some new hats. Blanche puts on perfume, makeup, pearls; she had the seamstresses at the Ritz take in all her clothes, for they hang on her now. But it’s only a costume; the person looking out from the mirror is someone else, not Blanche. Still, she marches forth from their suite clad in this familiar, expensive garb, remembering the filthy wool shift, the wooden clogs of Fresnes.
But always she sees herself from afar; she sees herself as she was before, knocking them back with the boys, laughing raucously, gossiping. Then Blanche drifts back down, like a balloon losing air, and she settles into the broken body she has now: the shoulder that refuses to heal, the headaches, the pain in her side whenever she moves too quickly, the shortness of breath, the tremors she can’t control, the nervousness—the least little sound makes her jump like a cat and break out into a sweat. Sometimes, she even soils herself and she thinks, Christ, is there no dignity left to her?
But still she tries; oh, she does try! She drinks, she sings along with Dietrich when she croons “Lili Marleen” and Dietrich calls Blanche a “Good Little Soldier.” She roams the streets as she used to before, trying to recapture the magic, haunting old haunts—the Galeries Lafayette, Brasserie Lipp, the newly reopened shops on the avenue Montaigne (although they have precious little to sell).
Sometimes, she walks past Maxim’s. She can’t help herself. But she’ll never go inside it again.
She’s searching for the Paris she fell in love with, but it’s difficult. There are bullet holes pockmarking walls and buildings, broken windows and streetlamps, barbed-wire barricades still visible, where members of the Resistance, along with civilians, decided to take on the panicked German troops themselves before the Allies arrived. The street signs are still in German and French, but somebody has made it their business to paint over the German words. The museums, like the Louvre, are vast, empty echoes of the past; there are still too many paintings and sculptures missing, looted by the Germans. Who knows if they’ll ever be returned?
Just like the people who will never return.
Parisians are too thin, even for Parisians; they walk about in patched dresses and jackets that were fashionable five years ago—although who knows what’s fashionable now?—and their shoes still have those wooden soles. Potatoes and leeks seem to be the only vegetables available in the meager little markets, although flowers, as always, are in profusion. Instead of those horrible German military bands with their tubas playing in the Luxembourg Gardens, the Americans, with their flashing trombones, play swing music—Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman—and the young people dance to it, slinging each other about, laughing, free—acting like young people should, and this in itself is a miracle.
The French performers who stayed and entertained the Germans during the Occupation, like Maurice Chevalier, have all conveniently taken a vacation elsewhere for the time being.
There are still soldiers, of course, but the sight of them no longer strikes terror and resentment in Parisians’ hearts. These are their liberators—the Americans in their khaki uniforms, the smiles broad, flashing healthy white teeth; the British in their slightly darker versions, their smiles not so ready. And French soldiers, too—they came marching in in triumph, led by General Leclerc, along with the British and the Americans. And the citizens cheered them, wildly, even as they knew that were it not for the Brits and Yanks, the French Army would still be in North Africa. The French troops are browned by the sun; they look as if they’ve been on a holiday, not in a war. It isn’t their fault, of course; it had been the government that told them to stop fighting, back in 1940. Still, there is a sense of shame mixed with relief, when Parisians see their own military uniforms.
Blanche wanders these strange yet familiar streets with her husband’s permission; Claude thinks it’s good for her to get away from the Ritz now and again. He’s concerned for her, understands how fragile she remains, and she’s grateful enough that one damned person in this world remembers what she’s been through and allows her to talk about it. She meekly accepts his fussing and worrying: “Only go out during the day, Blanchette. I want you home at night.” “Only a few blocks today, my love, you’re lookin
g tired.” “How is your shoulder today, Blanche? Would you like me to schedule you a masseuse? Don’t you think you ought to stay in bed today, my dear?”
Like a child, Blanche nods dutifully, she accepts his attentions, smothering though they may be. There is a surprising tenderness between these two; they both see it but they can’t quite talk about it. Something young and fragile has sprung forth, like a new branch growing from a battered tree. They are both so damaged, in different ways, by these past years. They are a middle-aged married couple but they treat each other with such respect, such care. Sometimes Blanche feels shy in his presence; like a new bride.
Every day, he sends her flowers. But never violets. She looks for those, from another person. But she looks in vain.
Elise is still with them. She fusses over Blanche, concocting endless, delicious, nourishing things for her to eat. Although soup is the only thing she can reliably keep down.
“I did look, Blanche,” Claude says to her one evening while they’re sitting quietly in their apartment; they spend more nights there, as of late. Apparently, Blanche screams in her sleep. And she wouldn’t want the Ritz guests to hear that now, would she? “There are no records left at Fresnes, of course—the Nazis burned everything, as you said. Martin appears to have vanished, as well—I told you about him. I asked everyone I knew who might have some contact with the Resistance. But no one has heard what became of her.”
“I think she must be dead.” This is the first time Blanche has said it aloud. “I think I got her killed.” She hasn’t been able to cry for Lily yet. Since she’s returned, she’s not been able to feel anything—not the sight of lovers huddled over a café table; not the newborn kittens and their contented mama discovered in a neighbor’s attic; not even the sound of accordion music along the Seine has been able to stir in her any kind of romance or happiness or longing, as it once did.
Mistress of the Ritz Page 28
