The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  The door of his office was thrown open and in burst Lieutenant Richard Fleischer, a young blond officer who had replaced the luckless Lieutenant Grunberger.

  “Sir!” said Fleischer, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “A French armored unit is on the outskirts of the city!”

  Choltitz smiled. “Really?”

  Fleischer was taken aback by Choltitz’s reaction. “Yes sir.”

  “Regular army and not maquis?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Does the report say how many they are?”

  “Division strength, sir. And an American unit, also of division strength, has been sighted to the southwest of the French unit.”

  Choltitz rubbed his chin with his fingers. “You don’t say.”

  “A colonel from the Engineers is in the outer office and he requests permission to blow up the bridges over the Seine!” Fleischer’s face was flushed with emotion. Paris was his first assignment, and nothing like this had ever happened here before.

  “Calm down,” Choltitz said, stepping from the balcony to his office.

  “What should I tell him, sir?” Fleischer asked, following Choltitz as he crossed the floor and sat at his desk.

  Choltitz leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his ample belly. “Tell him I’m not here.”

  Fleischer blinked. “But you are here, sir!”

  “No I’m not. Tell him I’m away from my office and you don’t know where I am, and tell him he’d better not blow the bridges without my written authorization.”

  “But sir . . .”

  “Are you refusing to follow my orders, Lieutenant Fleischer?”

  Fleischer imagined himself before a firing squad for refusing to obey the orders of a general. “No sir.”

  “Good. Then carry them out.”

  “Yes sir.” Fleischer threw the Hitler salute and marched toward the door.

  “Just a moment,” Choltitz called out.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Tell Captain Schmundt to ring this hotel with troops, and to prevent SS personnel from coming upon the premises. Is that clear?”

  “What if Schmundt wants to speak with you about this order, sir?”

  “Tell him I’m not here.”

  “I see.”

  “That will be all, Lieutenant Fleischer. Carry on.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The French 12th Armored Division, their vehicles flying the Cross of Lorraine, entered the outskirts of Paris, and the citizens of the city poured out of their homes carrying loaves of bread and bottles of wine, climbing onto the trucks and tanks, kissing everyone in uniform.

  The word spread like wildfire throughout the city that they were being liberated at last. The bells on every steeple began to ring and people danced in the streets, although German troops and SS detachments still controlled most of the key points in the city.

  Mahoney heard the commotion up ahead and leaned out the rear of the truck to see what was happening. He saw men and women jumping onto tanks, and his eyes nearly bugged out.

  “CUNT!” he screamed.

  He jumped out the back of the truck and went running toward the crowds.

  “Sarge—come back!” shouted Cranepool.

  But Mahoney appeared not to have heard him. Mahoney ran into the crowd and was swallowed up by it.

  “Sarge!”

  The column came to a stop. Cranepool hopped over the tailgate and walked toward the front of the truck as throngs of people cheered and advanced down the column. The door of the cab opened and Major Denton climbed down.

  “Was that Mahoney I saw running up ahead there?” Major Denton asked.

  “Yes sir,” Cranepool replied.

  “Where the hell does he think he’s going?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well don’t stand there—go get him!”

  “Yes sir.”

  Cranepool ran after Mahoney, and a group of French people approached from the other direction.

  “It’s an American!” one of them shouted.

  “Bonjour, Americain!” said another.

  “Bonjour,” Cranepool said shyly.

  “Have some wine!” shouted an old man with a white mustache.

  “No thank you—I don’t drink!”

  “You don’t drink?” asked a young woman. “Why don’t you drink?”

  “Um ... I don’t know,” Cranepool replied, shuffling his feet nervously.

  “Are you sick?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then have a drink—please—for victory.”

  Cranepool thought it might be bad for Franco-American relations if he didn’t join the people for a drink, so he held out his hand and said, “All right.”

  They passed him the bottle and he took a swig. It was cognac and it went down smooth as velvet, but Cranepool didn’t see what was so wonderful about it and couldn’t understand why Sergeant Mahoney always had a bottle inside his mouth whenever there was one around.

  He burped and handed the bottle back to the woman. “Thank you,” he said politely.

  “You like?” she said.

  “Yes, it’s very nice.”

  “Then have another.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I should.”

  The old Frenchman slapped him on the arm, and bells were ringing everywhere. “This is a great day!” the old Frenchman said. “Drink up!”

  Cranepool took the bottle again and drank a few mouthfuls. When he handed the bottle back his head was spinning. He smiled and one of the girls kissed him.

  Her pert young breasts touched his shirt, and he smiled crazily. “Vive la France!” he said, looking into her eyes.

  Crowds rushed around them, dancing with soldiers. The old man walked off with his bottle of cognac, holding it out to some French soldiers.

  “You are very sweet,” the girl said to Cranepool.

  “So are you,” Cranepool replied.

  “You are very handsome, too,” she said.

  She had blue eyes and blond hair, and the top of her head came up to his chin. “You are very pretty,” he said. “Can we go someplace?”

  She made an “O” with her lips. “You are being very naughty, I think.”

  Cranepool blushed. “I’m sorry.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “You should be ashamed—thinking bad thoughts at a time like this.”

  “Sorry,” he said, looking for somewhere to hide.

  She pinched his cheek. “But there is a place that we can go.”

  “There is!”

  “Come with me.”

  She took Cranepool’s hand and led him toward the row of buildings at the side of the road. People threw confetti out of windows, and somebody was blowing a trumpet. Crowds swarmed over the tanks and trucks and soldiers danced in the streets with the civilians. All over Paris the bells were still ringing, and Cranepool suddenly remembered Mahoney.

  He stopped on the sidewalk in front of a house. “I just remembered that I’ve got to do something,” he said.

  “Do it later,” she cooed.

  “But it was a military order,” he replied.

  She shrugged. “So what?”

  He looked at her pretty face and could smell the flowery fragrance of her body. An artery throbbed in his neck and he thought that if anybody could take care of himself in a mob scene, it was Sergeant Mahoney.

  “Yeah, I’ll do it later,” Cranepool said.

  She tugged his hand, and he followed her up into the house.

  Mahoney was running through the streets like a madman. A wreath of flowers was around his neck and he had a bottle of cognac in each hand. “Vive la France!” he screamed. “Vive Paris!” Every few steps he’d stop and gulp down some of the cognac. When he emptied a bottle he threw it over his shoulder and somebody gave him another.

  It wasn’t long before he was drunk out of his mind. People danced around him and the bells kept gonging. Total strangers of both se
xes walked up to him and kissed him. He’d never been in such an atmosphere of mass hysteria in his life.

  He turned a corner and saw a band playing in a public square. Staggering in that direction, gulping down his cognac, the music began to affect his mind. A stout gray-haired woman of sixty was nearby and he grabbed her, dancing her off into the crowd. She laughed and kicked her feet as though she was twenty again, and people nearby clapped their hands. Mahoney thought he was dancing as gracefully as Fred Astaire, but actually he was stumbling all over the place. The old woman laughed boisterously and shook her big behind. Something in the back of Mahoney’s mind told him he was AWOL, and something else told him to hell with the army and the war because this was a special day.

  The band stopped playing and Mahoney clapped his hands, but the two bottles were in them and they smashed to bits against each other. The cognac splashed into the air and everybody laughed. No matter what he did, everybody laughed. It was wonderful to see everyone so happy. If only life could be like this all the time.

  Someone handed him another bottle, and this one was full of champagne. He guzzled some of it down and passed the bottle to a young man with curly blond hair. He knew if he hung on to it he’d break it. The band started playing again, and he looked for a partner. His eyes fell on a big bosomed woman with a face that looked as though it enjoyed a good laugh. Mahoney walked over to her and said in French, “Let’s dance.”

  “All right,” she said, and he took her in his arms.

  A quick fox trot was playing and they began to dance. He thrilled at the feel of her big boobs against his chest, and an erection began to grow in his pants.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “You know damn well what it is,” Mahoney slurred.

  “You are an American, are you not?”

  “You’re damned right.”

  “How did you learn to speak French so well?”

  “I picked it up in North Africa,” Mahoney told her. “I’ve got a knack for languages, I guess. The people in Oran used to call me The Parrot.”

  They danced around the square, bumping into other couples who also were drunk. Everybody was laughing and singing and talking at the same time. The band went oom-pah-pah oom-pah-pah and Mahoney grabbed the woman by the ass.

  “I hope you’re not married,” he said.

  “What does it matter?” she replied.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “Far away.”

  “How far?”

  “Far enough.”

  “Take me home with you,” he said, kneading her haunches with his big hands.

  “Let me think about it,” she replied.

  “What’s there to think about?” he asked.

  “This is so sudden,” she replied.

  He looked into her eyes, and they were like glittering bowls of jewels. “Lady, a day like this only comes along once in a lifetime.”

  She thought for a few moments and said, “Yes, you’re right.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “I don’t know where to go.”

  “Don’t you live around here?”

  “My daughter might come home.”

  “There must be someplace.”

  “Let me think.”

  He danced her through the crowd, smelling the sweet fragrance of wine on her breath. Looking down, he could see the cleavage between her massive breasts. He guessed that she was around thirty years old, which he considered a very good age for women, because they were old enough to know all about fancy fucking but were still in pretty good shape. He pulled her tighter to him, rubbing his stiff dong against her belly.

  “My cellar,” she said. “I have a cot down there.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He glided her away from the other dancers, then they disappeared into the crowd. She walked a few steps in front of him, holding his hand, and he watched and slobbered over her haunches rolling up and down beneath her loose-flowing skirt.

  They walked up the steps of a building and entered its downstairs corridor. It was dark and the music from the square echoed off the walls. He stopped her, pushed her against a wall, and kissed her full sensuous lips. She thrust her hips against him and he dry-humped her, moving his mouth down and kissing the visible top part of her breast.

  “Not here,” she said, breathing deeply.

  She pushed him away and moved quickly toward the rear of the building. He followed and they came to a door, which she opened. Mahoney looked over her shoulder down a dark flight of stairs. They descended and came to a cool stone cellar.

  “This way,” she whispered in the darkness.

  He followed her past empty coal bins to a little room that was a workshop. A cot with an uncovered blue-and-white-striped mattress was in the corner. She turned around next to the workbench and he kissed her. He reached his hands under her skirt and grabbed the cheeks of her ass.

  “Ouch,” she said. “You probably haven’t had a woman for a long time.”

  “Take off your clothes,” he replied, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “No, somebody might walk in.”

  She reached under her skirt and pulled down her underpants, laying them on the workbench. Then, unbuttoning her blouse, she walked to the cot and lay down on it, thrusting her nipples into the air.

  Mahoney hung his helmet and carbine on a hook and unbuttoned his pants. He moved toward the cot and lowered himself on top of her, wrapping his hand around one breast and placing the nipple in his mouth, where it became pointy and hard.

  She ran her fingers through his close-cropped hair. “I think I like Americans,” she sighed.

  He crawled up her body and kissed her neck, lips, and ears.

  “Do you like me?” she asked playfully.

  “Of course,” Mahoney whispered as he reached down and stuck it in.

  It was night, and there was no electricity in the city of Paris. Lieutenant Fleischer sat behind General von Choltitz’s desk in the Hotel Meurice, a candelabra providing ghostly illumination. Fleischer’s tunic was unbuttoned at the collar and he was leafing through an old copy of Signal magazine. Through the open doors of the balcony he could hear fighting all over the city, and it was coming closer all the time. He could see General von Choltitz’s pudgy body on the balcony, silhouetted against the fires and explosions.

  The phone on the desk rang, and Fleischer picked it up. “Lieutenant Fleischer speaking, sir.”

  “This is General Jodl at OKW headquarters,” said the voice at the other end. “May I speak with General von Choltitz, please?”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not here, sir.”

  “Would you get him for me, please?”

  “He’s not available, sir.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s out in the city, sir, directing its defense.”

  “Would you tell him to call me when he gets back?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “The reason I’m calling him, Lieutenant, is that the Fuhrer would like to know if Paris is burning. Is it?”

  “Oh yes, sir. In many places.”

  “But I mean in general. Is the entire city aflame?”

  “Oh no, sir. It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not!”

  “No sir,” Fleischer said nervously.

  “Have the bridges over the Seine been blown?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Not for sure, sir.”

  “Who’s in charge there!”

  “I am until General von Choltitz returns, sir.”

  “You!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “There are no high-ranking officers about?”

  “They’re all out fighting in the city, sir.”

  Jodl snorted. “What a mess!”

  “We’re doing the best we can, sir.”

  “Be sure you have General von Choltitz call me immediately when he returns. That is all. Carry on.”

  Lie
utenant Fleischer heard a click in his ear, indicating that the connection was broken off.

  General von Choltitz entered the office from the balcony. “Who was it?”

  “General Jodl, sir. He wanted to know ...”

  Choltitz interrupted him. “I know what he wanted to know.” He turned around and went back to the balcony to gaze at shell bursts and the flash of small-arms fire. He wondered how long it would be before the French and Americans arrived at the Hotel Meurice. He hoped it would be before Karl pulled into the Gare de l’Est.

  Lieutenant Fleischer joined General von Choltitz on the balcony. Choltitz glanced at Fleischer and noticed the young man seemed exceptionally nervous.

  “Are you all right?” Choltitz asked.

  “I’m afraid, sir,” Fleischer said in a squeaky voice.

  “Don’t worry,” Choltitz told him. “The worst thing that can happen is that we’ll all be killed, and we’re all going to die sooner or later anyway, so what’s the difference?”

  “I’d rather die later than sooner, sir. I’m only twenty-three years old.”

  Choltitz placed his hand on the young officer’s shoulder and gazed into his eyes. “We must be brave, Lieutenant Fleischer. We must behave like soldiers at all times and especially in difficult circumstances.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a quick bullet through my heart so much, sir. But I’m afraid that when the French get their hands on us, they’ll do to us what the SS has done to them.”

  Choltitz removed his hand from Fleischer’s shoulder and nodded sadly. “Yes, I’m afraid there might be some of that. I can only advise you to always keep one bullet in your pistol for use against yourself, should that become necessary.”

  Fleischer’s mouth was dry and he had difficulty swallowing. “Yes sir.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was dawn and Mahoney was on the streets of Paris, making his way back to the old deuce-and-a-half truck. The smell of gunpowder was in the air and he could hear fighting taking place in other parts of the city. The streets were deserted except for an occasional drunken French soldier sleeping in a gutter or beneath the railings of a house. Confetti and wilted flowers lay everywhere, and Mahoney had a fierce hangover. He’d screwed for most of the night and had obtained little sleep. His balls felt light as feathers and he scratched them as he turned a corner. He always was cranky when he didn’t get enough sleep.