The Heart of the Ritz Read online

  ‘Is it possible you are selling more jewellery today, Frau Huckstepp?’ Göring’s lust at the prospect was as naked in his face as it had been the first time Lana Mae had come to him. His avarice never diminished.

  ‘Ordinarily, I would go to a jeweller, of course,’ said Lana Mae, in seemingly bashful apology. She steeled herself for what she had to say next. ‘But since all those helpful yellow signs went up in the shop windows, well . . .’ She whispered to him, ‘I was shocked to learn just how many of ’em are Jews.’

  Göring nodded. ‘I wasn’t.’

  She reached the climax. ‘So, I thought maybe because you so enjoyed some of my other gems, Herr Göring, you might consider this one . . .’

  Lana Mae withdrew a ruby as large as a pigeon’s egg.

  ‘As I said,’ she offered, demurely, ‘it’s only a little thing . . .’

  Another burst of sulphuric bubbles hit the bath surface. The water now turned brown, pulling Göring from his reverie. ‘Auzello, you cunt,’ he said, seeing it. ‘Why did you take a shit in my bath?’

  * * *

  Outside the bathroom door, Lana Mae took a big slug of pink bismuth from the bottle in her purse. Her belly ache was worse than ever – she blamed the pressure of holding her nerve against Göring for it. Then she had to wake Metzingen where he’d gone to sleep upright, slumped against the armoire. His shock at stirring from slumber brought down clothes from the hangers: lavish, full-figured gowns, trimmed in ermine and mink.

  Lana Mae carefully hung them again as Metzingen returned to the bathroom to confirm the ruby’s price with Göring. When he came back out, the price that he quoted was less than the one Göring had given Lana Mae. She knew the drill and didn’t care. Metzingen was deducting his cut.

  The Oberstleutnant opened the room safe, not caring if Lana Mae saw the lock combination. He took out handfuls of used Reichsmarks, counting them out for her. He handed them over and she stashed them inside her purse, relieved, thinking of what this would bring for the hospitalised soldiers. It was true, they were calling her ‘The American Angel’. Never had Lana Mae known such self-worth. She was a different woman for her acts of sacrifice. She felt worthy of Marjorie.

  When Metzingen escorted her to the Imperial Suite’s doors, he paused as he delivered her to the hands of the Wehrmacht escort. ‘Do you know, Frau Huckstepp,’ he mused, sleepily, ‘you and the Reichsmarschall are so much alike.’

  Lana Mae had been made exhausted by her performance and had little energy to continue it. ‘I really don’t think that’s so, honey,’ she told him. ‘We don’t even take the same size in high heels.’

  Metzingen chuckled. ‘But that’s where you have it. To some people he’s ridiculous – effeminate and obscene – vermin daring to infest such an elegant establishment as the Ritz. They used to laugh at him, you know, behind his back.’

  Lana Mae stiffened. ‘People can be mean.’

  ‘Don’t the same people laugh at you?’ he asked.

  Lana Mae’s lip curled. She would never forget the day he had humiliated her at l’Espadon. ‘Once they did. But they don’t anymore – not the Frenchies, anyway. And they’re all that counts.’

  Metzingen chuckled anew. ‘Those same Frenchies who call you “collabo”?’

  She stiffened.

  ‘It is widely known, of course, that when you might have found yourself alternative accommodation, you chose to remain at the Ritz – along with many others. And it is widely known, too, that you wine and dine with us – and sell off your “assets” to the highest German bidder.’

  Lana Mae was rigid. She looked to the face of her Wehrmacht escort. The young man was expressionless. She told herself that all that mattered was the cash in her purse. ‘I wonder whether you think it should be you in that bath?’ she asked Metzingen.

  He held her eye some time before answering. ‘The very idea.’

  ‘Yet you wish it was, don’t you?’ she said. ‘It niggles you something awful that you’re not the one buying my jewels . . .’

  To her immense satisfaction the comment hit home.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ said Lana Mae, feigning upset for him. ‘You’ll get your own rocks someday, I just know you will. All you’ve gotta do is say your prayers and eat your vegetables.’

  He looked darkly at her.

  ‘See you round then.’ She giggled, preparing to go.

  ‘You must introduce me to Zita,’ he shot at her back.

  She stopped. For months, Lana Mae had done her utmost never to let Zita enter her conversations with Metzingen. ‘You haven’t done that for yourself already?’

  He shook his head. ‘I have only admired her from afar. We have never met each other, sadly.’

  Of course, she knew this for a lie. Lana Mae realised with surprise then that Metzingen didn’t know that Zita had confessed what she’d done. He believed the secret of his lover’s actions was just that, a secret, at least from Zita’s best friends. That it wasn’t made Lana Mae see she had the edge on Metzingen. ‘Zita ain’t backwards in coming forwards,’ she said, playing her apparent ignorance, ‘if she wants to meet you, then she’ll see to it herself.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Metzingen. ‘I put store by introductions. I’m sure that you will see to it as her friend . . .’

  Lana Mae tried to calculate what he was up to and became fearful at the possibilities. Did he wish to take what existed in secret and expose it for all those at the Ritz to see? Zita would become a pariah – a ‘collabo’ in extreme – and by extension, they all would. ‘You really don’t need me for that,’ she said, anxious now.

  ‘And yet, I insist,’ said Metzingen, ‘and so, you will arrange it. Thank you, Frau Huckstepp.’

  He kicked the door shut on her.

  * * *

  They now had a name for themselves: The Freedom Volunteers.

  The spot that they’d chosen for their ‘launch position’ was not at the Ritz, obviously, for that would only risk bringing attention to themselves. Instead it was opposite the hotel on the rue Cambon, located in an apartment building whose elderly concierge had died in the exodus. The lack of a doorkeeper allowed Tommy, Polly and Odile the perfect opportunity to execute their plans.

  Across a spate of days, Tommy and Polly had performed the reconnaissance. They took turns walking alone into the building entrance as if they were familiar with it, mounting the stairs. Tommy wore his Ritz uniform, carrying a covered tray as if he was delivering a meal from l’Espadon to someone who lived within. It worked in his favour that servants were simultaneously noticed, yet not noticed by most people. If he encountered someone on the stairs or the landings, he greeted them with a nod, and continued ascending. No one blinked twice. Polly took a different approach. If she encountered someone, particularly a male, she chatted pleasantly for a moment, without revealing her business, which only implied that she had reason to be there. Fortuitously, given the proximity to the Ritz, which was crawling with Occupiers, the apartment building was of no interest to the Germans.

  One of the fourth-floor apartments was empty, its door left unlocked for new tenants. It had a little balcony off the sitting room, which looked over the narrow street – and the rear entrance to the Ritz. It was ideal for their purpose.

  The contraption was ingenious, conceived by Odile. Owing to her dwindling eyesight, however, she could not be the one to place it on the balcony, and so this was Tommy’s task. The day they had decided upon was the day of a mass student protest against the arrest of a prominent college professor. Rumour of its planning had reached them through Odile’s network of school friends. Initially, they had intended to join the march, until good sense kicked in. If they were ever to succeed in what they had committed themselves to, then they must never allow themselves to be the objects of adverse German attention. The student march would draw the Occupiers like a magnet. It presented them with a distraction.

  They had tested Odile’s contraption often enough in Tommy’s hotel attic room to know it woul
d work. Crouching behind the apartment balcony’s flower boxes, so that anyone looking out from the windows on the Cambon side of the Ritz wouldn’t see him, Tommy first laid a modified rat trap. Then, in setting it, he placed an empty tin can with a hole punched into its bottom. He filled the tin can with water he’d drawn from the apartment’s sink. Immediately the water began to seep from the hole, but not at any great speed, for the hole was deliberately small. Tommy then placed the little container of ‘butterflies’ that would in time be flung into the air, when the tin can had become light enough to release the trap’s mechanism. With everything in place Tommy picked up his covered tray, which had the remains of a meal inside for added authenticity, and exited the apartment, softly closing the door behind him. He strode unhurriedly down the stairs, reached the rue Cambon, crossed it and returned to the Ritz.

  * * *

  Released at last from the Imperial Suite by Göring falling unconscious in bed, Claude kept fresh in his mind the one – the only – silver lining to be wrung from the cloud of the Germans’ despicable treatment of him. He had all their names. Speidel. Von Hofacker. Von Stülpnagel. And all the others besides.

  Reduced by the Occupiers to a position of such rank servitude, the likes of which he had not suffered since being apprenticed to a Nice hotelier in his youth, Claude relished the Germans’ blind spot he had found in their glee at humiliating him. It had not occurred to them that for every hour they forced him to fawn on the dope-addled whale that was Göring, Claude was listing in his head the names of everyone he encountered there. New names and ranks, sometimes unclear in the frenzy of partying, always became clear in good time to be added to those he already knew.

  As Metzingen himself had first told Claude: only the very highest ranked Germans were permitted to stay at the Ritz. They were the occupying elite. This was nice information for those who put store in tracking the bastards’ movements.

  Claude reached the Vendôme lobby, passing the pair of sentries at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Good afternoon, Messieurs.’

  They ignored him. Of course, they did. He was beneath their contempt, so why should they be mindful of him at all?

  He reached his little desk with its ledger and white telephone, and at that moment he thought of Marjorie. He had to blink and pinch the skin at his wrist, telling himself that the hint of her favourite perfume in his nostrils was memory, not real. He would not believe in ghosts. Yet it was almost as if she was with him, right by his side, inspiring him to fight. Marjorie, a foreigner, had received the Légion d’honneur for sacrifices she had made for a country that wasn’t even her own. How could he, a Frenchman, claim not to be shamed by that?

  From the drawer Claude took out his ‘shopping list’, in full view of the sentries. They looked right through him. ‘Ah me,’ Claude sighed to no one in particular, ‘It’s always the dullest of tasks that we put off until last, isn’t it?’ He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled the number of a very old friend who lived in the Unoccupied Zone in France’s south. If anyone asked, this man owned a farm; a reliable supply of black market vegetables, essential to feed German guests. Yet no one did ask.

  The telephone rang at the other end of the line and was shortly picked up.

  ‘Ah, Jean-Luc! How are you today?’ Auzello greeted his friend heartily. The information Claude would now give ‘Jean-Luc’ would be passed on to a railway worker who worked near the Swiss border. This man, whom Claude did not know, and most likely never would, would then pass it further along to agents of the Free French Army working in the neutral territory.

  With vengeful pleasure, Claude thought of the code name he’d assigned to Göring. ‘Yes, dear Jean-Luc, it is time to place our orders again, if you can spare me anything you have. Let me see.’ He consulted his shopping list. ‘A sack of potatoes. Yes, a great big fat one, if you have it for me . . .’

  * * *

  Revived by an hour or so’s sleep, Metzingen, now in a freshly laundered uniform, was joined in the Cambon lobby by Jürgen. The younger man predictably had his camera around his neck, their plan being to view the magnificent stained-glass windows at Sainte-Chapelle, tucked away on the Île de la Cité. On the point of exiting the Cambon doors they saw the Comtesse Ducru-Batailley approaching from the street, accompanied by her pretty young ward.

  ‘You see who it is, Oberstleutnant?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hans, grinning.

  ‘So beautifully dressed.’

  ‘The Comtesse – always. When is she not? She was wise to secure her own money.’

  But Jürgen’s appreciation was for Polly.

  ‘Ah,’ said Metzingen. ‘She’s a little young for you, surely?’

  The Hauptmann shrugged, fingering his camera case as he watched the women draw nearer. ‘I’m still only twenty-five and the girl is blossoming of late. She is not the same girl you paid so little regard to at the Boulevard de Courcelles.’

  ‘I paid?’

  Jürgen winked at him. ‘You ignored her. I, Oberstleutnant, saw her potential.’ He studied Polly, the wide smile staying in place. ‘Look how lighthearted she is. It’s like the Jew’s death never touched her.’

  Metzingen got there first to open the door for them, showily sweeping his Oberstleutnant’s cap from his head for Jürgen’s benefit. ‘My dear, Comtesse, how elegant you are today – and indeed every day.’

  Both Germans enjoyed watching Alexandrine go through the motions; an aristocratic automaton. ‘Dear Herr Metzingen,’ she muttered, bowing slightly, ‘you are so very kind.’

  Metzingen turned to Jürgen as if the women weren’t there. ‘She seems tranquilised.’

  Alexandrine winced as Jürgen nodded. ‘There is nothing behind her eyes.’ But Jürgen’s eyes were for Polly. ‘And little Fräulein Hartford.’ He actually chucked her under the chin. ‘You should be sweeter to your guardian – today you risk putting her in the shade.’

  The girl was that much livelier, it seemed to Hans, refreshingly lacking in loathing or fear. Her eyes were quite beautiful, too, now he was watching her anew.

  ‘Hello, Herr Jürgen,’ Polly said to the younger man. She met and held his appraising look, before turning to Hans. ‘Hello, Herr Metzingen.’ She turned to Jürgen again, and both Germans knew then where her interest lay. ‘It is much colder outside today,’ she said to him. ‘I do hope you’re rugged up enough.’

  They were all four paused at the doors, not quite outside or in. The only traffic in the street was cyclists.

  ‘I’m sure I shall warm up with a good healthy walk,’ Jürgen told her.

  Metzingen turned to Alexandrine. ‘And might I take this opportunity to remind you of the register, Comtesse?’

  Her eyes were still lightless. ‘The register, Herr?’

  ‘Oh, you have not heard of it?’ said Metzingen. ‘It is for all Jews. For their own protection. They are to report to the police prefectures, so that it can be freely known who is who.’ He smiled at Polly. ‘Just as it is already so with non-interned foreigners.’

  Alexandrine’s unfocused gaze grew sharp. ‘What an admirable administrative procedure.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Alexandrine, ‘is the man who thought up this idea the same man who ordered yellow stars be glued to the windows of Jewish shops?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hans, ‘that man is the Führer.’

  ‘Things move so quickly,’ said Alexandrine. ‘You’re telling me this because I am a Jew?’

  Hans tut-tutted. ‘I am telling you this because of that old woman who looked after your late husband – what was her name?’

  ‘I don’t recall,’ said the Comtesse.

  Metzingen clicked his fingers as if prompting the correct answer to a quiz.

  ‘It was Suzette,’ said Jürgen. ‘She was insolent.’

  ‘Yes, that is the one.’ Hans turned to Alexandrine again. ‘Kindly remind her to report to her nearest police prefecture, Comtesse. She must be registered for her own
peace of mind. Where is she living now? The Marais?’

  ‘I have lost touch with the woman,’ claimed Alexandrine.

  Neither German believed that. ‘Press the urgency upon her,’ Hans advised, ‘in case she has forgotten the authorities’ directive. There are to be no exceptions to it, I believe.’

  There was a long moment as both women remained looking at them, their respective expressions unchanged.

  ‘As ever, the authorities have our better interests at heart,’ said Alexandrine, eventually.

  ‘So very true.’ Metzingen went to return his cap to his head, which is when he saw the little slip of paper that had landed inside it.

  ‘Look! How pretty,’ said Polly, pointing upwards.

  In the rue Cambon it was snowing. Tiny, toilet-paper-thin documents were floating and spinning through the air around the cyclists. There were hundreds of them. On the sidewalk, pedestrians snatched at the little papers in fun.

  Metzingen left Jürgen holding the door as he stepped into the street, enraged. ‘Put them down!’ he ordered those who had caught them. ‘Put that thing down!’ Alarmed, people did as he said, but the wind had taken hold of those papers still airborne, spiralling them north towards the Boulevard de Madeleine.

  A massive black Daimler, the only car in the street, was approaching from the same direction. With dismay, Metzingen and Jürgen saw whose it was. In the spacious back seat, fresh from another ‘shopping’ expedition at the requisitioned mansion of a Jew, sat Göring. The car windows were damp from a rain shower. The little papers stuck all over them, obscuring Göring’s face.

  Metzingen turned to the Comtesse and her ward, who were still where he’d left them with Jürgen at the hotel door. They withdrew in unison.

  ‘What do they say, Monsieur?’

  Metzingen was jolted by a voice to his left. Auzello’s sightless step-daughter was slouched in the entrance alcove, puffing on a cigarette. Had the unpleasant child been there all along?

  ‘Don’t let me catch you reading them,’ he warned her. The girl flinched at his accent, as if she hadn’t realised she had addressed the question to a German.