Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

Americans spoke as if they believed the entire world wished to hear what they were saying; they had no discretion.

More than anything, Parisians simply wanted to be left alone. Left to their grief, for they were the ones who died and lost. They especially resented the young American men, for in 1923, France had few of them left under the age of sixty.

But women in Paris in 1923, Blanche was about to discover, had not. Married women in Paris in 1923 couldn’t open bank accounts and had to turn over all their money to their husbands. Women—married or not—in Paris in 1923 weren’t allowed in the bar of the Hôtel Ritz.

This is what an occupation does—it wears you down until you accept evil. Until you can no longer fully define it, even. Let alone recognize it.

Marriage is not defined by what we hope to gain, but by what we are willing to sacrifice.

What is left to the French is too enormous and complicated, a great tangle of threads of all hues and heft that one cannot begin to unravel. There was bravery, but there was also collaboration. There was defiance, but there was also acquiescence. Some people suffered, but most did not.

It is devastating to see a loved one suffer; it is harder to bear than your own pain. Love is despair, love is delight. Love is fear, love is hope. Love is mercy. Love is anger.