The Hotel Martinez

Today, the Hotel Martinez proudly stands as the premiere focal point for the prestigious Cannes Film Festival. Over the decades, many of the cinema’s greatest storytellers have passed through its illustrious doors. But within its walls lurks an untold story that transcends fiction. It is the true story behind the legendary hotel and its dedicated founder, Emmanuel Michel Martinez.

Born the son of a harbor master in Palermo, Sicily, in 1882, Emmanuel had ambitions that stretched beyond his native shores. With a young man’s determination, he set off for Paris at the turn of the century. Thus began a lifelong adventure that would see him climb to heights he could never have imagined, only to suffer a tragic downfall that still looms over his legacy to this day.

Emmanuel secured an entry-level position at the renowned Grand Hotel in the City of Light through family ties. Early in his fledgling career, he became enamored with the bustling hotel trade and its international clientele. How better to discover the ways of the world than to have the world arrive at his doorstep? He would apprentice in every aspect of the hotel’s operations, learning the ins and outs and everything. His swift ascent up the corporate ladder soon elevated him to the top rungs of management. The hotel chain’s board of governors recognized a shooting star and began assigning him to various other establishments throughout France. But Emmanuel would never be content as a career employee, even in an executive capacity. He had loftier ambitions to pursue, far exceeding anything he could attain as a hired hand.

With his professional success came financial rewards, and Emmanuel began to invest his money wisely, buying most of his shares in two London hotels that had been in steep decline. His keen understanding of the hotel trade soon turned these failing establishments into profitable business ventures. The young entrepreneur had just taken the first steps in achieving his true goal.

When the battle lines were drawn across Europe in the First World War, Emmanuel transformed his two London hotels into military hospitals. He witnessed firsthand the atrocities of war in the trenches - the mangled bodies. The young soldiers gasping for air, their lungs blistered from mustard gas. On several occasions, he sailed aboard ships that carried wounded people across the English Channel. During one such crossing, the boat he was on narrowly avoided a torpedo launched by a German U-boat. Other vessels in the same convoy were not as fortunate. Emmanuel was among the rescuers who raced to their aid in lifeboats, pulling the survivors off the sinking ships while risking his own life in the process.

Following the Armistice, Emmanuel returned to professional life, but his personal life would soon take a turn for the better. It happened during the 1919 Bastille Day Parade when he first looked at the ravishing Emma Digard. Their relationship, often tempestuous but always devoted, would span over four decades and produce Emmanuel’s most stunning personal accomplishment, his precious daughter, Micheline.

The roaring twenties were a time of great frivolity in the Western world. People were anxious to distance themselves from the horrors of World War I, and what better way to forget the terrible memories than to trip the light fantastic? As a result, business was booming in the hotel trade, and Emmanuel knew the time was ripe for him to set his grand plans in motion. Through a series of shrewd investments over the years, he finally accumulated enough capital to finance his dream. In December 1927, Emmanuel placed the first stone in what would become the French Riviera's next jewel.

Less than two years later, in February 1929, Emmanuel’s most outstanding professional achievement, The Hotel Martinez, officially opened for business. It quickly became the premiere vacation spot in Cannes, attracting the world's wealthy, famous, and influential. For Emmanuel and his family, it was indeed “La Belle Époque.” But their bliss would be fleeting. A scant six months later, the bomb known as “Black Monday” came crashing down, and the world was faced with another kind of devastation: The Great Depression.

Like many other businesses, the hotel trade was decimated by the events on Wall Street, and establishments began closing their doors in rapid succession. Despite this, Emmanuel managed to juggle his creditors and keep The Martinez afloat. It was one of the few hotels in the area to escape the auctioneer’s block. Another source of great pride for Emmanuel was that he did not dismiss a single staff member, although the financial strain would limit his resources.

The end of the Depression resulted from an even bigger catastrophe: World War II. Among the first countries to capitulate under the Nazi juggernaut would be France itself. During the Occupation, several floors of the Hotel Martinez were commandeered by “freeloaders in uniform,” namely, officers of the German SS and the Italian Military Command. Emmanuel had little choice but to bite the bullet and grudgingly tolerate his tenants, much like the rest of France.

Meanwhile, Emmanuel’s daughter, Micheline, now a beautiful young woman, had fallen in love and was engaged to marry Tom Kenny, a Canadian intelligence officer courageously working for the British in the occupied territories. Tom was instrumental in orchestrating the escape from France of countless downed British pilots and spies. He would also be the source of Emmanuel’s political awakening. Seeing his future son-in-law risk life and limb provoked Emmanuel into action, offering Tom whatever resources were available. He could no longer stand idly by while these ruthless invaders had free reign of his adopted country. So began his efforts, sometimes coordinated through Tom, other times through his initiatives. While keeping a public face of cooperation with his unwanted guests, Emmanuel secretly aided the French Resistance, providing financial assistance and safe houses to spies fleeing the continent, as well as helping hundreds of Jews and refugees escape the terrible fates that the Nazis had reserved for them. His situation was made all the more perilous by the fact that he was harboring many of these so-called “fugitives” right under the enemy’s noses. On any given day, any number of spies, pilots, Jews, or refugees would be huddled deep within the bowels of the hotel. At the same time, their oblivious stalkers cavorted on the floors directly above. Through this clandestine involvement, Emmanuel would also rub elbows with some of the most courageous activists in the Resistance movement.

Despite several close calls, events progressed relatively smoothly in the ensuing weeks as Emmanuel juggled his duties for the Resistance, his hotel business, and the arrangements for his daughter’s impending marriage. The joyous event was to be marred by the pitiless forces of a brutal war that was laying waste to everything it touched. Barely two days after Tom and Micheline’s wedding, Tom was arrested by the Gestapo and incarcerated on charges of espionage. Tom went on a hunger strike to protest his innocence and harsh treatment in the hands of his captors. Meanwhile, Emmanuel and Emma worked feverishly to obtain his release. Emmanuel influenced several high-ranking officials and contacted Tom’s family in Canada. A distinguished Nova Scotian family with strong ties to the banking industry (they were founders of the Royal Bank of Canada, as well as personal advisers to Sir John A. Macdonald), the Kennys would pull out all the stops on the home front for their favorite son. At the same time, Emmanuel and Emma continued their efforts in France.

Micheline was now pregnant with the couple’s first child and unable to travel. She would have to be content with letters, many of which the prison staff confiscated, and whatever news Emma could furnish. The newlyweds had spent only two short days together before their forced separation, and many nights, Micheline would cry herself to sleep worrying about their uncertain future.

The beaches of St Tropez, the azure pools of Monaco, starlit nights, and the luxury boats on the breathtaking, azure waters of Cannes were just a few of the ingredients that gave the South of France its golden era of the French Riviera. Its vibrant dining and nightlife scenes dominated most of the conversation on land, but the French Riviera was also an international business and cultural center. It earned a growing reputation as Europe’s most stunning travel destination.

The last rays of the late winter sun fell on the world-famous bay in Cannes. I remember waking up in pain - a sharp, throbbing ache coming from my abdomen. At first, I thought I was at home, lying under the Christmas tree, looking up into multicolored lights that seemed to be swirling in a surreal cloud of blinking, pastel colors blending into each other to create hues of light that I couldn't believe was possible. My eyes began slowly adjusting to the semi-darkness of my strange surroundings. They fell upon a blurry figure sitting next to my bed. I felt a familiar hand on mine and instinctively squeezed it. Finally, I focused on my mother’s tear-streaked face as she looked down on me. I don't think I'll ever forget her face at that moment. It was the face of a mother who was agonizing over the fate of a son, not knowing if his suffering would lead to more severe problems.

I was in a hospital. As I mentioned, my health was fragile, and this most recent manifestation found me under the surgeon’s knife to remove my appendix.

It was my first trip alone without my parents or brothers. Mother would follow in a week when I was scheduled for my operation. In the meantime, I had been entrusted to the care of my grandmother, who took her responsibility very seriously, not to say she didn't go out of her way to ensure that I was having fun. Grandma had a knack for these things. Yes, she was proper, had impeccable manners, and exuded an air of nobility that left everyone in awe. Still, she did know how to entertain a little boy - especially her favorite grandson.

During my first few days in Cannes, I was taken to the rue d’Antibes to pick up my “smoking,” which had been custom-tailored for me.

“When one was the grandchild of Mr. Martinez of Cannes,” Grandma declared, “you had to be at the height of fashion!” (Especially when you had to climb up on a chair so the seamstress could take your measurements) A nice piece of work! The suit was fabulous. It was too bad John and Patrick weren’t there to see it.

“Oh! You look like a real English Lord!” the seamstress exclaimed with her sing-song Marseillais accent.

“Well! It’s only natural. His father comes from an established Canadian family,” added Grandmother, who never missed a chance to exploit her social status.

We were soon on our way to the Municipal Casino, where Grandma and I would spend the afternoon at a Carnival dance organized for the children. Grandma, more elegant than ever, accompanied me. I wore a wool coat over my nice new outfit, and a hat covered my head to protect my ears – a gift from last Christmas.

When we entered the Casino, all the employees recognized Grandma and greeted her enthusiastically.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Digard!” (Interesting, Grandma didn’t have the same name as Grandfather. I would have to ask her why later.)

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Digard. And who is this handsome young man escorting you? Your grandson?…What a fine boy!”

I preferred not to listen to this gibberish anymore. My attention was drawn down a hall towards a set of closed doors from which resonated the rhythm of an upbeat Latin dance tune. I pulled Grandmother away from the nauseatingly doting Casino staff and led her toward the source of the music. After using all my force to open one of the heavy doors, I stood at the entrance of an immense hall where an orchestra played full tilt on a raised platform in the back of the room. Great! Just what the doctor ordered: a party! Numerous tables decorated with garlands formed a circle around the dance floor. A maitre d’ showed us to our table, where I ordered a flute of champagne for the lady who accompanied me and a glass of fruit juice for myself (Coca-Cola hadn’t arrived in Europe yet.) All the parents were already seated. The youngsters were dancing in couples or alone. The drinks arrived shortly after that, and I was dreading the moment, too.

“Well, Phillip! Why don’t you go dance, my sweetheart? You’re not going to stay nailed to your chair all afternoon! Go have some fun…”

There was one thing that Grandma could not put up with, seeing her grandchildren sitting comfortably in a chair and not doing anything. I amused myself just as much by watching the people dance. Also, I knew no one here – I was “passing through” after all. But, Grandmother was born to move mountains. It didn’t take her long to find me a partner. And, presto! I suddenly found myself in the middle of the dance floor, gyrating to the frantic rhythm of a Raspa. Pardon me for being a boor, but I’ve completely forgotten my dance partner’s name.

Sometime later, Grandma asked if she could leave me alone for a few minutes. The independent young man I was, I told her there’d be no problem. However, as a last precaution, just before she left, I saw her whispering into the master’s ear and pointing at me, most likely asking him to keep an eye on me. One of the game rooms had just opened, and she went in for a look. It worked out better this way. I did what I wanted and danced while Grandma indulged in her little guilty pleasure. Everyone seemed content.

After leaving the Casino and walking through the Croisette of Cannes (where all the starlets of today display their fine "talents" to a feeding frenzy of photographers during the film festival), we arrived at our "palace", The Hotel Majestic. For good reasons, the best and most luxurious hotels in France are called palaces. Their exteriors usually resemble royal residences, with the most ornate and elaborate stonework adorning every ledge and angle of their facades. The main lobbies were no less impressive, decorated, and furnished with amenities gathered from the four corners of the world made by the most talented craftsmen: expensive rugs, wallpaper, furniture, and chandeliers. The staff's refined manners and impeccable uniforms reminded one of the affluent and privileged environment they had just entered.

If you were facing it, our room was on the third floor on the right side of the building. From my window that evening, I could see the shimmering waves of the sea and the last rays of the sunset. Sublime! I made myself comfortable and took off my smoking along with my shoes. I lay on the bed in my underwear to rest in the grand dining hall on the hotel's first floor before supper. How beautiful everything was here! It all looked and felt like it belonged to a Marquis, and I was one of his special guests staying at his chateau. I was spoiled for life! I never slept in a bed before that was so big and so soft. It was also very high! So much so that the little stool stored underneath was barely big enough for me to get into bed. Patrick and John in Vaucresson were suffering through that harsh Parisian winter. Naturally, I didn’t forget my parents. Still, lying there in that blissful state, it was hard to imagine how others could be so cold while you were so comfortably warm!

“Phillip, my dear. It’s time we got ready!” Grandma called out.

I was dozing. I went into the bathroom to splash water on my face just before leaving. This was another room that didn't cease to surprise me every time I walked into it. The faucets and fixtures, I was sure, were pure gold. The considerable sink was made of the finest white porcelain and shimmered so you could almost see your reflection. The pedestal bathtub could easily hold ten people! Of course, that was a boy's perception. A couple lounging in the warm, oiled water with candles surrounding the tub and a bottle of champagne would be more exact. And then, the pièce-de-resistance: the shower. This was a marvel of modern science. I remember being quite afraid of getting in the first time I stood before it, eyes wide with awe and fear. It looked like some chrome octopus ready to wrap its metal tentacles around my tiny body and squeeze the life out of it. It took Grandmother almost five minutes to convince me it was safe and pleasurable. When I finally did get up the courage to step into the glass chamber and turn on the water, I was delighted by the incredible experience of having warm water shoot out at me from every imaginable angle! The jets of water even pulsated in a cycle every few seconds. I must have spent an hour there that first time until Grandma had to come in and drag me out by force. The shower would have to wait that evening as she called me, saying we would be late for the next sitting.