her way through the tables towards him.
“You’re late,” he said reprovingly as she took a seat.
“A woman’s privilege,” Lais patted her blonde hair into place beneath her pretty little hat, glancing round at the assembled company. “My, my,” she commented as her usual champagne cocktail was placed on the table in front of her, “I thought Chanel had cornered the market on gold braid.”
Ignoring their guffaws of laughter, she sipped her drink. “Mmm. Heaven,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Sheer heaven.” Crossing her long silk-clad legs, she eyed her audience of admiring men levelly. “So, gentlemen. Who is fighting the war if you are all here?”
They laughed again, delighted with her. “
Liebchen
,” the tall one placed a proprietory hand on her knee, “I’m afraid I have an important meeting this afternoon, so we won’t be able to have lunch.”
Lais pouted over her drink.
“But don’t worry. I’ve invited them all for dinner. Call up some friends, my darling. Tell Johann to put the champagne on ice. And say that we’d like the caviare and the dish Albert at Maxim’s always orders for us—you know the one—with the veal. And a
Norvegienne
—with
fraises des bois
.”
“All your favourites,” commented Lais drily.
He beamed at her, and then at his colleagues. “Let me introduce you,” he said. “Mademoiselle Lais de Courmont—General von Rausch, of Oberkommand, his aides, Captain Albers, Major Dorsch of the Waffen SS. And this is Herr Otto Klebbich who has just been appointed director of affairs for champagne.” Her lover’s laugh echoed around the still elegant Ritz bar. “You know who Otto is? He’s the
Führer of Champagne
.”
It had been just another boring evening, thought Lais irritably as she prepared for bed. There was no doubt that Hitler’s preference for promoting men of the same intellectualbackground as himself made for dull parties. Tonight there’d been a couple of “Gauleiters” on their first ever trip outside Germany, small-minded provincial men bumped-up to party officials, though they must be in line for higher power or Karl would never have tolerated them. The others had been marginally more interesting—an architect, involved with building Goering’s new home and whom Karl had commissioned to design his chalet in the mountains, and a couple of his assistants—and Otto Klebbich. But no one really worth her trouble.
As Karl had commanded, she had seen that the table looked exquisite. The elaborate silver candelabra had thrown soft light on to the bowls of trailing tawny orchids and the crested de Courmont dinner service, sparkling off the thinnest Lalique champagne flutes that brimmed with an endless supply of the sweet champagne the Nazis preferred. But the delicious food had been too delicate for their hearty taste.
There was one young officer, though—Ferdi von Schönberg, an aide to Otto Klebbich—who’d known his wines. He’d known about music too. He had come to stand beside her as Lais leaned over the piano, while the old man who always entertained at her parties played Mozart and Chopin as well as Cole Porter—with equal tenderness. The other officers had remained at the table with Karl, discussing the latest developments in the war. Maps had been brought out and were pored over and their talk and laughter grew louder as the excellent brandy flowed. Several bored girls in pretty evening dresses were waiting disconsolately in the drawing room, ignored by the Germans and by their hostess.
“I get no kick from champagne,
Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true,
That I get a kick—out of you …”
Lais sang along with the piano.
“You like Cole Porter?” Ferdi von Schönberg had asked with a smile.
He was tall and blond with a nice hard young body. “Cole Porter—and
good
champagne,” she’d said, lifting her glass filled with a delicate golden liquid whose tiny bubbles fizzed
“You’re late,” he said reprovingly as she took a seat.
“A woman’s privilege,” Lais patted her blonde hair into place beneath her pretty little hat, glancing round at the assembled company. “My, my,” she commented as her usual champagne cocktail was placed on the table in front of her, “I thought Chanel had cornered the market on gold braid.”
Ignoring their guffaws of laughter, she sipped her drink. “Mmm. Heaven,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Sheer heaven.” Crossing her long silk-clad legs, she eyed her audience of admiring men levelly. “So, gentlemen. Who is fighting the war if you are all here?”
They laughed again, delighted with her. “
Liebchen
,” the tall one placed a proprietory hand on her knee, “I’m afraid I have an important meeting this afternoon, so we won’t be able to have lunch.”
Lais pouted over her drink.
“But don’t worry. I’ve invited them all for dinner. Call up some friends, my darling. Tell Johann to put the champagne on ice. And say that we’d like the caviare and the dish Albert at Maxim’s always orders for us—you know the one—with the veal. And a
Norvegienne
—with
fraises des bois
.”
“All your favourites,” commented Lais drily.
He beamed at her, and then at his colleagues. “Let me introduce you,” he said. “Mademoiselle Lais de Courmont—General von Rausch, of Oberkommand, his aides, Captain Albers, Major Dorsch of the Waffen SS. And this is Herr Otto Klebbich who has just been appointed director of affairs for champagne.” Her lover’s laugh echoed around the still elegant Ritz bar. “You know who Otto is? He’s the
Führer of Champagne
.”
It had been just another boring evening, thought Lais irritably as she prepared for bed. There was no doubt that Hitler’s preference for promoting men of the same intellectualbackground as himself made for dull parties. Tonight there’d been a couple of “Gauleiters” on their first ever trip outside Germany, small-minded provincial men bumped-up to party officials, though they must be in line for higher power or Karl would never have tolerated them. The others had been marginally more interesting—an architect, involved with building Goering’s new home and whom Karl had commissioned to design his chalet in the mountains, and a couple of his assistants—and Otto Klebbich. But no one really worth her trouble.
As Karl had commanded, she had seen that the table looked exquisite. The elaborate silver candelabra had thrown soft light on to the bowls of trailing tawny orchids and the crested de Courmont dinner service, sparkling off the thinnest Lalique champagne flutes that brimmed with an endless supply of the sweet champagne the Nazis preferred. But the delicious food had been too delicate for their hearty taste.
There was one young officer, though—Ferdi von Schönberg, an aide to Otto Klebbich—who’d known his wines. He’d known about music too. He had come to stand beside her as Lais leaned over the piano, while the old man who always entertained at her parties played Mozart and Chopin as well as Cole Porter—with equal tenderness. The other officers had remained at the table with Karl, discussing the latest developments in the war. Maps had been brought out and were pored over and their talk and laughter grew louder as the excellent brandy flowed. Several bored girls in pretty evening dresses were waiting disconsolately in the drawing room, ignored by the Germans and by their hostess.
“I get no kick from champagne,
Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true,
That I get a kick—out of you …”
Lais sang along with the piano.
“You like Cole Porter?” Ferdi von Schönberg had asked with a smile.
He was tall and blond with a nice hard young body. “Cole Porter—and
good
champagne,” she’d said, lifting her glass filled with a delicate golden liquid whose tiny bubbles fizzed
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