The side of the hotel that had once been the residence of princes and dukes, facing the stately Place Vendôme, was now the residence of high-ranking German officers, including the head of the Luftwaffe, Hermann Göring. On the other side of the palatial hotel, facing rue Cambon and separated by a corridor filled with shops that boasted the most expensive, most luxurious, and most unusual wares that might be purchased in Paris, lived the civilians. Or at least those civilians carefully approved by the Third Reich.
The appropriation of the hotel by the Luftwaffe did not come without its inconveniences for the longtime residents who were evicted to smaller, less glamourous rooms. Some patrons left and didn’t return at all. Those who stayed endured the frantic renovations that preceded the Luftwaffe’s occupation, the greatest of which were the changes to the Imperial Suite that Göring had selected for his own use. Though if any of the civilian residents had complaints, they did not share those in front of Estelle. Or the Luftwaffe.
At the same time, Estelle Allard was also completing renovations to her own apartment. The work was carried out with the same sort of urgency but that was where the similarities stopped. In Estelle’s apartment, the alterations had been completed surreptitiously by a single individual aside from herself, a small space annexed from the existing layout and cleverly concealed. In the Ritz’s Imperial Suite, with its multiple salons and bedrooms, its maids’ quarters and formal dining room, crews had worked tirelessly to improve the palatial atmosphere and meet the demands of its new occupant.
The men on the crews, when questioned discreetly once the work had been completed, had described the extraordinarily large bathtub Göring had ordered. The hotel staff, when questioned guilelessly after the Reichsmarschall had taken up residence, had described a great deal more. The tub, they said, on their way to the suite with stacks of towels and trays upon trays of food, was part of a cure for the Luftwaffe general’s addiction to morphine. A doctor came, they said, to submerge the man in water, give him a series of injections, and then submerge him again. But in a hotel where the staff was long used to providing unflappable, unquestioning service to exacting, difficult guests, these changes and demands seemed to be taken in stride.
That type of service, coupled with the hotel’s lavishness, had made the Ritz as popular with the occupying Germans as it had always been with its preceding clientele. Estelle’s own parents had favoured the Ritz, especially when they wished to host a soiree while staying in Paris. They liked being at the center of the social elite, and the Allard fortune, having the benefit of being both French and vast, had always been welcomed warmly, as had their daughter. Estelle, in fact, had celebrated her eighteenth birthday in the Ritz’s grand dining room, on one of the rare occasions her parents were in Paris on her birthday. They had thrown a party for their friends, treated Estelle to caviar, given her a necklace with eighteen glittering emeralds set in gold, and presented her with a dark green Mercedes roadster to match. At the end of the evening, they had toasted her with champagne, careful to ensure that a photographer for the Paris-Soir captured the moment. Appearances, after all, were paramount.
So the return of Estelle Allard, heiress, socialite, and patron of the Parisian art landscape, to the dining rooms and bars of the Ritz Hotel that September did not raise eyebrows. It was not at all remarkable that she had not been in Paris prior to the Germans’ arrival—even Coco Chanel had fled south before returning—and one could not be faulted for being prudent. And the newly installed inhabitants of the Ritz Hotel were delighted when the young Frenchwoman drifted gracefully through the grand salons. Beautiful Frenchwomen were always appreciated by the officers of the Luftwaffe.
Estelle was the recipient of that appreciation now. At the enthusiastic and insistent request of the officers crowded into the room, she stood by the piano and sang Rina Ketty’s “J’attendrai,” which never failed to please her audience. It was probably a nod to the glamour and extravagance of the hotel, or perhaps it was the lyrics or the melody, but the moment she began, all conversations stopped and every eye was upon her.
Including those of the man who sat in a chair just off to the side, as if holding himself apart from the other officers. At this distance, in the soft light, it was difficult to see the insignias on his dark uniform but the way he was looking at her made her uneasy. He was wiry in build, his face thin, his eyes close-set beneath well-coifed blond hair. While the other men generally gazed at her with expressions that ranged from admiration to lust, enchantment to indifference, this man was looking at her with what only could be described as suspicion.
It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Estelle finished her song to a warm round of applause, aware that the officer’s eyes had not left her. She ignored him and withdrew to the bar, taking herself out of the spotlight and away from the attention of the solitary man. Perhaps she would not linger tonight. Perhaps it would be best if she slipped away and came back another time—
“One wonders why such a beautiful woman is all alone.”
Estelle should have moved faster. Slowly she turned, pasting a blank expression on her face.
“Good evening,” she said with a vacuous smile. After letting the seconds tick away, she allowed her smile to slip. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German,” she lied. “I don’t know what you just said.”
“I said I enjoyed your song.” The officer switched to French.
“Oh. Well, thank you.” She tipped her head flirtatiously as she noted the Gestapo uniform, the strip of black at his shoulder, and the SS runes at his collar. A sergeant, perhaps, given the absence of any sort of braid.
“I am Scharführer Schwarz,” he said, confirming her guess. “And you are?” Cold blue eyes bored into hers.
“Estelle Allard,” she replied, wondering if this was simply a lonely officer’s attempt to make conversation. She was used to the overtures of Luftwaffe officers but she found advances from those associated with the Gestapo unnerving in their intensity and directness. The Gestapo were not so easily manipulated or deflected.
“You live here? In this hotel?” he asked, leaning toward her.
She forced a gay laugh. “Alas, no.”
“Then why are you here?” He wasn’t smiling.
“I don’t understand. Why does anyone come here if not for a good time?” She giggled. “And to admire such handsome men in uniform.”
The sergeant didn’t smile. “How often do you come to the hotel?”
“Whenever I fancy putting on a pretty dress.” She cringed inwardly at such a deliberately superficial reply but it earned the reaction she had hoped for.
He scoffed with obvious disparagement but his scorn didn’t stop his questions. “And you sing each time you come?” he pressed.
Uneasily, Estelle blinked and put a hand to her chest, hating how she could feel her pulse pounding beneath her fingers. She toyed with the emerald necklace that rested against her skin. “Well, not every time. Whenever I’m asked.”
Schwarz’s eyes had followed the movement of her hand, and he was openly sneering now. “By whom?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions?” She let petulance creep into her tone.
“Because it’s my duty.”