The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  Choltitz knew it was only a matter of time before they captured him, and he hoped it would happen soon because the suspense and lack of sleep were wearing down his nerves. He didn’t dare surrender too soon because he was afraid some fanatical Nazi officer would shoot him. He had to wait patiently until the French soldiers came into his office and took him prisoner. He hoped they wouldn’t shoot him on sight.

  A bullet ricocheted off the wall nearby and he ducked his head. Crouching low, he entered his office and closed the doors to the balcony. Lieutenant Fleischer, chain-smoking cigarettes, was behind Choltitz’s desk. Fleischer was exhausted, his eyes sunken deep into his head. He rose from the chair so that Choltitz could sit down.

  Choltitz waved his hand. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “I’m going to bed and I think you should too. There’s nothing we can do. Circumstances beyond our control are at work here. If we’re rested, we’ll be able to deal with them.”

  Choltitz walked out the door and headed toward his bedroom. Fleischer finished his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, and then arose stiffly to make his way to his own bedroom. I have a feeling that tomorrow will be the worst day of my life, he thought.

  The B-17 bombers swooped down out of the sky over Soissons. The knuckles of the pilots were white as they clutched their wheels, while in the bellies of the planes, bombardiers glued their eyes to their sights and rested their fingers on the buttons that would release deadly cargos of blockbuster bombs.

  In Sweet Sue from Kalamazoo, the bombardier was Lieutenant Ronald Van Zandt from Poughkeepsie, New York. His eyeballs stung from lack of sleep as he looked at the huge railroad-yard complex dead ahead; it reminded him of certain abstract paintings he’d seen in museums before the war. I’ve got to wake up and be sharp, he told himself. This is supposed to be an important mission.

  He’d returned to his base at three o’clock in the morning after a night of booze and revelry in London. No sooner had he gone to bed than the alarm had sounded and he was ordered to report to the briefing room. He dragged himself to the briefing room and was told by his squadron commander that they all had to leave immediately on an important bombing mission. Within an hour they were in the air. Now they were over target. Van Zandt wondered if he’d passed out in a toilet someplace and was dreaming all this.

  He glanced up from the bombsight and looked through the window. The railroad complex was moving underneath the plane, the railroad ties looking like a maze of toothpicks. He peered through the bombsight again, burped, and saw the crosshairs advance into the yard. He wondered what was down there that was so important that they had to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night.

  He pressed the button that released the bombs. “Bombs away!” he shouted.

  The B-17 trembled slightly as the bomb doors opened and the big blockbusters fell out. Van Zandt looked sideways through the window and saw the bombs float down to the railway yards. All around Sweet Sue from Kalamazoo other B-17s in his squadron were also dropping their bombs. The nose of the B-17 tipped upwards as the pilot began to fly up and around for his second pass. Van Zandt looked back to see the bombs hit. At one moment the yard was pristine and still, and in the next moment the huge gray mushrooms appeared on its surface. The sight never failed to fascinate Van Zandt. The yard became covered with mushrooms as Sweet Sue from Kalamazoo climbed higher into the sky.

  In the railroad yard below, the crew of Karl huddled under their railroad car, sticking their fingers in their ears. The ground trembled and debris flew through the air. Major Heinrich Rossbach, the commander of the Karl crew, bit his lower lip as he watched ribbons of railroad ties explode into the air. He wondered what would happen if there was a direct hit on Karl. Would Karl only be demolished, or would he and his men be killed too?

  As if in answer to his question, there was a direct hit on the railroad car behind Karl. The sound of the explosion was so terrific that Major Rossbach blacked out for a few moments, and when he came to he couldn’t hear the explosions anymore although he could see them.

  He touched his fingers to his ears and felt a sticky liquid. Looking at his fingers, he saw that they were covered with blood. His eardrums had burst. And still the American planes were dropping bombs. They continued to drop bombs for what seemed to be an eternity to Major Rossbach.

  He hid his face in his arms and prayed they’d go away.

  As dawn broke over Paris, General von Choltitz stood on his balcony in his bathrobe and scanned the neighborhood through his binoculars. The nearby Hotel Continental was nearly destroyed, and the street was littered with the bodies of dead Germans. German tanks and trucks were ablaze all along the Rue Castiglione. It reminded Choltitz of the day he’d taken Sebastopol, charging at the head of his regiment. It was hard to believe that day and this one could occur during the same lifetime.

  Choltitz returned to his office and sat on the sofa. He was thinking of the vicissitudes of war. War had been thrilling when the German Army was winning, but now it was just one tragic humiliating defeat after another, and soon the great German fatherland would be ravaged by the Bolsheviks just as the German Army had ravaged the Soviet Union.

  The door to the office opened, and in walked Corporal Muller, a dumpy little man who was General von Choltitz’s orderly. “Ready for breakfast sir?” he asked.

  “Do we have croissants today?” Choltitz replied.

  “Yes sir. A batch was baked freshly last night.”

  “Croissants and coffee for me,” Choltitz said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “The same for me,” said Lieutenant Fleischer from behind Choltitz’s desk.

  “Yes sir.”

  Muller left for the kitchen, and Choltitz decided to take a bath, shave, and put on a fresh uniform. It wouldn’t do for a general of the German Army to look shabby when he surrendered. There were traditions to uphold.

  Choltitz shaved, had his bath, and put on a fresh uniform. He returned to his office, where Fleischer was pacing the floor nervously. The sound of guns and artillery were coming closer.

  “It won’t be long now, sir,” Fleischer said.

  “No, I don’t suppose so,” Choltitz replied.

  “What do you suppose they’ll do to us?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Choltitz sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette, thinking about Karl. According to General Jodl’s last telephone conversation Karl should arrive sometime today and would start firing on its own, whether Choltitz surrendered or not. It had a range of four miles, so it could set up far from Paris and fire its devastating shells from a safe distance. Choltitz wondered whether to tell his captors about Karl and decided he’d better not, because to do so would be treason, and he was no traitor. Let the Allies find out from somebody else.

  Muller arrived with a silver tray, which he set down on a corner of Choltitz’s desk. Choltitz took a croissant and proceeded to butter it, inviting Fleischer to join him. Suddenly there was a commotion outside. The door was flung open and a group of officers in battle dress barged into the office.

  “They’re coming, sir,” said one of them, a colonel.

  Choltitz calmly munched his croissant. “Throw down your weapons.”

  They obeyed, dropping their pistols to the floor. Choltitz took his own pistol from its holster and rested it beside him on the desk. Then he resumed eating his croissant. The German officers looked at each other; all knew that their happy days in Paris would be over officially in the next few moments.

  A clatter of footsteps could be heard in the corridor. Choltitz arose behind his desk and brushed the croissant crumbs off his tunic. The door opened and twenty French soldiers burst into the office.

  The French looked at the Germans, and the Germans looked back fearfully. The French aimed their rifles and carbines at the Germans, and the Germans raised their hands high in the air.

  A young officer stepped forward. “I am Lieutenant Henri Karcher of the army of General Charles de Gaulle!” he declared. �
��Who’s in charge here?”

  Choltitz bowed slightly behind his desk. “I am.”

  “You are General von Choltitz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you ready to surrender?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are my prisoner.”

  Choltitz breathed a sigh of relief. He and the other officers were marched out of the office. They went downstairs to the front of the hotel, where a huge angry crowd had gathered. The French soldiers formed a ring around Choltitz and the officers and led them toward a truck parked in front of the hotel. The crowd surged forward, waving angry fists in the air.

  “Filthy pigs!” one person shouted.

  “Scum of the earth!”

  “Kill the bastards!”

  The French soldiers struggled to keep the mob back, and Choltitz thought he was going to be lynched. A woman reared her head back and spat a huge gob at Choltitz, which landed just beneath his monocle. Choltitz thought they’d throw eggs and tomatoes if they had them, but fortunately there was a food shortage in Paris. He never thought he’d make it to the truck alive, but he did. He and the other officers climbed aboard, and the French soldiers got on with them. The truck started up and drove away as the crowd, shouting curses and throwing stones, ran after it.

  As the truck bounced over the streets of Paris, Choltitz smoked a cigarette and thought of the ferocity of the crowd’s emotions. He’d known that some French people didn’t like the Germans, but he hadn’t realized that the hatred was so widespread. Although many French had collaborated actively with the Germans, now he knew that most French despised the Germans and had made the best of things until this day. Well, he thought, it’s a great victory for them. Let them enjoy it.

  The truck stopped in front of the Prefecture of Police opposite Notre Dame. Choltitz and the other German officers were told to get out. Fortunately there was no crowd waiting for them, only French soldiers. The Germans were marched into the building, and Choltitz was separated from the rest of them and led through corridors and up stairs until a final door was opened and he was pushed into a poolroom.

  General Duloc stood on the far side of a pool table, a wry smile on his face. He’d been part of the French Army that had been defeated in 1940, but he’d been able to escape from France and join the Free French Army of Charles de Gaulle. Now Duloc was back, and it was a thrilling moment for him to have the defeated German general brought before him.

  “You are ready to surrender?” Duloc asked.

  “Yes.”

  They discussed the terms of the surrender, and a French lawyer wrote the surrender agreement. Choltitz stood with his hands behind his back and stared at the green covering of the pool table, thinking that perhaps he ought to tell Duloc about Karl. He knew he shouldn’t and that he would be a traitor for doing so, but the pristine surface of the pool table reminded him of the beauty of Paris, which he didn’t want to see damaged any more than it was already.

  He cleared his throat. “General Duloc,” he said, “I have something of the greatest importance to tell you.”

  Duloc was standing behind the lawyer and looking over his shoulder as he wrote the surrender document. “What is it?” he asked, turning toward Choltitz.

  “General Duloc,” Choltitz said in a tone of utmost gravity, “Paris is in the most serious danger. A terrible artillery weapon that can hurl a two-and-a-half-ton shell four miles has been directed to Paris by Hitler, who has ordered that this city be demolished.”

  “Do you mean Karl?” Duloc asked.

  Choltitz blinked. “Yes—how did you know?”

  Duloc snapped his fingers. “That’s been taken care of already. The United States Army Air Corps bombed the railroad network leading into Paris at dawn today. We believe Karl has been stopped somewhere in the vicinity of Soissons. Don’t worry about Paris, my dear general. Paris is safe.”

  Choltitz’s jaw dropped open. “But. . . how did you find out about Karl?”

  Duloc smiled superciliously. “I don’t know exactly, but I imagine a French spy discovered the information and relayed it to Allied headquarters, where immediate action was taken.”

  Choltitz expelled air from the corner of his mouth. He’d been so worried about Karl, and now it turned out that he had worried needlessly.

  “Never underestimate the French,” Duloc said, glaring victoriously at Choltitz.

  “No, of course not,” Choltitz replied, trying to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice. He had, after all, been part of the German Army that had conquered France in about three weeks in 1940. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Go right ahead,” Duloc told him. “The surrender document will be ready for you to sign in a few moments.”

  Duloc leaned over the lawyer’s shoulder again, and Choltitz took out his package of cigarettes. The German occupation of Paris was officially coming to an end.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mahoney and Cranepool awoke around the time General Choltitz was signing the official surrender document. The first thing Mahoney did was reach for his morning cigar, and Cranepool went to the toilet to take a piss.

  The toilet was bright and clean with white porcelain walls and fixtures. Cranepool stood at the bowl with his cock in hand, pissing away and looking around. The bathtub was large and looked comfortable; he decided to take a bath after he got something to eat.

  Then his eyes fell on a strange porcelain device that stood around two feet off the floor. It had a round device and a little nozzle in the center. I wonder what that is, Cranepool thought. After finishing his piss, he buttoned up his pants and moved closer to the device, trying to figure out what it was used for.

  Mahoney stomped into the bathroom in his filthy underwear, his cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth. “I gotta take a piss,” he said.

  “Hey Sarge—you know what this thing is?” Cranepool asked, pointing to the strange porcelain device.

  Mahoney looked at it as he pissed. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’s a water fountain for kids to drink from.”

  “Yeah, that must be what it is, Sarge. I can’t think of anything else that it could be used for.”

  Cranepool left the bathroom and went to the window. Looking down into the street, he saw crowds of people walking arm in arm and singing songs. There were only sporadic bursts of gunfire in the distance.

  Somebody knocked on the door, and Cranepool opened it up. Langlois pushed a table on wheels into the room.

  “Good morning my brave American friends!” Langlois said expansively in broken English. “I have brought zum breakfast up for you. I trust you slept well?”

  “Very well,” Cranepool replied with a big Midwestern smile.

  Mahoney came out of the bathroom, scratching his balls. “You don’t have to speak English,” he said. “My friend and I speak French.”

  Langlois pointed his finger in the air. “But I want to improve my English, now that so many Americans and British will be coming here.”

  “Have it your own way,” Mahoney told him. “Listen, can you tell us what this thing is in here?”

  “What thing in where, m’sieu?”

  “In here.”

  Mahoney and Cranepool led him to the bathroom and pointed to the strange porcelain contraption.

  “Is that a water fountain for children?” Mahoney asked.

  Langlois looked incredulous. “A fountain for children?”

  Cranepool looked at the contraption again. “I know—it’s to wash socks in.”

  “Wash socks?” Langlois asked.

  Mahoney looked at him. “Then what the fuck is it for?”

  Langlois did not know whether to laugh or cry. He pointed at the device and said in a stentorian tone. “Zat, m’sieu, is a bidet.”

  “A what?” asked Mahoney.

  “A bidet.”

  “What the fuck’s a bidet?”

  Langiois scratched his head. “You never have heard of a bidet, m’sieu?”

  “If I had I wouldn�
�t ask you.”

  “Well zen,” Langiois said. “I weel explain it to you. A bidet is for women to wash zere poozies.”

  Mahoney wrinkled his nose. “Wash their poozies?”

  “Oui m’sieu. Like zis.” Langiois squatted over the bidet. “See?” Then he moved off it and twisted a knob on its side. A tiny jet of water squirted into the air. “See?”

  “Well I’ll be fucked,” Mahoney said, staring at the contraption. “To wash their poozies.”

  Cranepool looked confused. “What do they need a thing like that for?”

  Langiois gesticulated with his hands. “To keep their poozies clean.”

  “How come American women don’t have things like that?”

  “Well, I cannot answer that question,” Langiois replied, his tone of voice suggesting that American women were savages. “Is zere anything else, gentlemen?”

  Mahoney and Cranepool shook their heads, and Langiois bowed and left the room. Cranepool walked into the bathroom and started running a bath. Mahoney looked out the window at the big celebration in the streets below. What’s going on? he wondered.

  He sat on the bed and took the covers off the plates. There was cheese, some bread, and a pot of chicory coffee. Mahoney picked up a piece of bread and proceeded to dine. After a while Cranepool came out of the bathroom, wiping his bare body with a towel.

  “That felt nice,” Cranepool said. “It reminded me of home. You know, Mahoney, it feels like there isn’t a war on anymore.”

  Mahoney grunted and continued wolfing down his bread and cheese. Then he drank a cup of coffee, and finally he relit his cigar. Cranepool sat on the bed and began to eat his share of the food. There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” Mahoney shouted.

  Langlois entered the room. “I have come for your clothes so that I can have zem washed, and I weel take ze sheets too,” he said.

  Langlois tore the sheets off the beds and gathered up the filthy uniforms, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

  “Listen,” Mahoney said to him, “you’ve been awfully good to us, but I’ve got to ask you for another favor.”