The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  Langlois paused on his way out of the room. “What ees eet, m’sieu?”

  “I want the address of the best whorehouse in Paris.”

  Langlois sighed. “Ah you poor soldiers, you are lonely and you need ze dooby-dooby. I know how you feel, for I was a soldier once myself, you know. I realize I do not look eet now, but I was, yes indeed. In the First War. Under Field Marshal Foch. I fought in ze Somme, you know, and all I thought about, besides staying alive, was ze dooby-dooby. Well let me tell you zat you do not have to go to ze whorehouse, because two very beautiful ladies of the night live here in zis hotel, and I weel ask them to come upstairs and attend to your needs. But I’m afraid you weel have to pay. The ladies are patriotic, but not zat patriotic.”

  Mahoney puffed his cigar. “Pay them with what? I’ve heard that money isn’t any good in this town.”

  Langlois threw out his hands. “Money is nothing anymore, but do you have cigarettes?”

  “I’ve got a couple packs,” Mahoney said.

  “I think I’ve got three,” Cranepool added.

  Langlois turned down the corners of his mouth. “That should be sufficient, gentlemen.”

  “You’re sure they’re pretty?” Mahoney asked.

  Langlois kissed his fingertips. “Very pretty. I weel leave now and get zem for you, yes?”

  Cranepool raised his hand. “One more thing,” he said.

  “What ees eet, m’sieu?”

  “What’s the big commotion outside?”

  Langlois blinked in disbelief. “Have you not heard ze news?”

  “What news?”

  “You have not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “But m’sieu,” Langlois said, astonished, “do you not know zat ze German General von Choltitz has surrendered?”

  “He did?”

  “Of course he did! Paris is free! Zat is what ze commotion to which you refer is about! General de Gaulle is supposed to arrive on ze Champs Elysees at any moment!”

  “No shit,” Mahoney said.

  “Shit?” asked Langlois. “What is shit?”

  “Never mind,” Mahoney replied. “I gotta take a shower.”

  Langlois shrugged and left the room. Cranepool wrapped himself in a towel and lay on the bed, hoping the two French whores would be pretty.

  At Hitler’s headquarters in Rastenburg, General Jodl walked down the bombproof corridor toward his Fuhrer’s office. Jodl was bald, had jug ears, and a long chin. He approached Hitler’s door and knocked upon it twice.

  “Who’s there?”

  “General Jodl, Mein Fuhrer.”

  “Come in.”

  Jodl entered the office, marched to Hitler’s desk, and threw the Hitler salute. Hitler sat behind the desk wearing his tan party jacket with swastika on the sleeve and Iron Cross hanging from the breast pocket. He scowled at Jodl because he was in a rotten mood.

  “Mein Fuhrer!” Jodl said. “I’m afraid I have disheartening news.”

  “What is it this time?” Hitler asked morosely.

  “General von Choltitz has surrendered to the French, Mein Fuhrer.”

  Hitler’s spine stiffened. “Surrendered?”

  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer.”

  “But what about Paris, Jodl?” Hitler asked, leaning forward. “Is it destroyed?”

  Jodl shook his head sadly. “I regret to inform you that Paris has not been damaged very much at all.”

  “What!” Hitler shot to his feet and pounded his fist on his desk. “But I gave clear and unequivocal orders that Paris was to be destroyed!”

  Jodl stepped backwards because Hitler was frothing at the mouth and some of the spit had landed on Jodl’s lip. “Evidently those orders were not obeyed,” he replied, wanting to wipe the spit away but fearful that Hitler would be offended if he did.

  Hitler’s face twitched with anger and his left arm shook uncontrollably. “Where is Karl?”

  “Karl is in the town of Soissons. It cannot proceed because the rail lines leading toward Paris have been severely bombed this morning.”

  Hitler dropped into his chair and his eyes went white. “This cannot be,” he whispered.

  Jodl sat on a chair in front of Hitler’s desk. He did not know what to say, so he sat silently and wondered what he could do to placate Hitler.

  Hitler balled up his fists and shook them in the air. “I am surrounded by traitors!” he screamed through clenched teeth. “I am lied to on all sides! Generals always lie!”

  “I have never lied to you, Mein Fuhrer,” Jodl said.

  “Not yet,” Hitler grumbled. He picked up a pen and let it fall, thinking of the increasing dimensions of the catastrophe that was befalling Germany. Historically, the loss of Paris had meant the loss of France; and with France lost, the Allied armies would swarm into Germany immediately thereafter. Moreover, on the Eastern Front the Russians had just launched a major offensive on the Romanian frontier, encircling twenty-seven German and twenty Romanian divisions. If the Allies won France they’d also capture his V-l and V-2 rocket launching sites. “The situation is deteriorating badly,” Hitler admitted.

  Jodl nodded his head sadly. “It is indeed, Mein Fuhrer.”

  “But,” Hitler said, “Germany has been in dangerous waters before and has survived. Our new submarines and jet aircraft will be ready soon, and Speer is raising twenty-five new divisions. We’re not knocked out of this war yet by any means. And moreover, the overconfidence of our enemies will cause them to make a serious mistake one day, a mistake which we shall exploit to the fullest. And then,” he continued, getting shakily to his feet, “Germany will rise again and push its enemies back! We shall roll over them and smash their bodies into the ground! Ultimately the sun will never set on the German flag, and those of us who have led this great crusade against Jewish Bolshevism will be hailed as heroes and saviors by good people everywhere!” Hitler, his face flushed with excitement, looked down at his chief of operations. “Is this not true, Jodl?”

  Jodl always had been susceptible to the charm of Hitler’s personality, and on this occasion, as on so many others, he only could smile and say, “Yes Mein Fuhrer, it most assuredly will be exactly as you say.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Wrapped in a blue velvet robe, Mahoney lay on his bed in the Hotel Saint Germain and smoked his cigar. He was cleanly shaven and cologne had been applied generously to his face and neck. His hair had been brushed and he looked almost handsome, despite the few lingering bruises and welts on his face.

  On the next bed, Cranepool lay and smoked a cigarette. He too was shaven and well groomed and wore a maroon robe.

  “This is the life, huh Sarge?” he asked, blowing smoke rings into the air.

  “You bet your fucking ass,” Mahoney replied.

  “Gee, just imagine—a few weeks ago we were sleeping in mud holes and killing Germans, and now here we are in a hotel in Paris.”

  “That’s war, kiddo.”

  “How long you think we’ll stay here?”

  “Not long I imagine. Sooner or later we’ll have to rejoin our company, because if we don’t they’ll start carrying us on their morning report as AWOL, and if we’re AWOL some crazy fucking M.P. might shoot us on sight.”

  “You think maybe tomorrow, Sarge?”

  “Maybe.”

  There was a knock on the door. Mahoney and Cranepool leapt out of their beds.

  “You think it’s the girls?” Cranepool asked, dashing to the dresser mirror and smoothing down his blond hair.

  “Must be,” Mahoney replied excitedly, joining Cranepool at the mirror and looking at himself. He wiped a crumb from the corner of his eye, pursed his lips, and examined his teeth.

  There was another knock. Mahoney ran to the door and opened it wide. His jaw dropped open and his eyes spun around like cherries in a one-arm bandit. Standing before him were two gorgeous blond females who were identical twins, each carrying a bottle of Calvados brandy and two glasses.

  “Bonjour,” said on
e of the blondes. “How are you?” she asked in fractured English. “We are here to have some fun.”

  Mahoney stepped to the side and beckoned toward the interior of the room. “We speak French,” he said in French. “Please come in.”

  The two blondes sashayed into the room. “Oh, what a lovely place,” one of them said.

  They entered the room and handed the Calvados and glasses to Mahoney and Cranepool, who placed them on the dresser. Then Mahoney closed the door and locked it. Turning around, he saw Cranepool standing transfixed in the middle of the room, staring at the girls. The part of his robe in front of his groin was beginning to protrude.

  Mahoney looked at the girls and his brain was reeling. There are some women who look like whores, he thought, some women who look like movie stars, and some women who look like the girl next door. These twins looked like a little bit of each, and Mahoney figured they were around twenty-five years old.

  “Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “we might as well all get acquainted. My name’s Mahoney, and this here is my buddy, Cranepool.”

  The blonde on the left wrinkled her nose. “What kind of strange names are they?”

  “They’re regular American names,” Mahoney said.

  “But I do not think I can pronounce them.” She looked at her sister. “Can you?”

  Her sister shook her head. “I do not think so.”

  “In that case,” Mahoney said, “you can call him Ed, and you can call me Joe.” Mahoney preferred to use his middle name in situations like this, because he couldn’t stand his first name. He’d never forgive his mother and father for naming him Clarence.

  “Well,” said the blonde on the left, who was wearing a white dress with blue polka dots on it, “my name is Veronique, and this is my sister Monique.”

  Monique, wearing a green skirt and yellow blouse, raised her hand and waved her fingers in the air. “Hello,” she said.

  Everybody looked at each other awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. Mahoney figured that the best way to break the ice was for everybody to have a few drinks, so he went to the dresser and poured four glasses of Calvados. Everyone took a glass and Mahoney raised his high in the air.

  “To happy days!” Mahoney said.

  “To France!” said Veronique.

  “To de Gaulle!” said Monique.

  “To Ottumwa, Iowa!” Cranepool said.

  Cranepool was so moved that he joined them in drinking. The fiery liquid burned his throat and warmed his brain. The girls giggled, and Mahoney stared lewdly at them.

  Mahoney was getting tired of the social niceties. “Listen girls,” he said, “how much?”

  Veronique winked. “You have cigarettes?”

  “We sure have.”

  She pursed her lips. “American cigarettes?”

  “Naturally.”

  “One pack apiece.”

  “It’s a deal,” Mahoney said, relieved, for he thought he’d have to give them all he had.

  He and Cranepool reached into the pockets of their robes and each took out a pack of cigarettes, which they handed Veronique. She examined the cellophane to make sure it hadn’t been ripped, sniffed the packages, and dropped them into their purses.

  “Anytime you’re ready,” Veronique said.

  Mahoney rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready right now and I’ll take you,” he said to her.

  “That’s all right with me,” she replied.

  Cranepool looked nervously at Monique, and she gave him a big smile.

  Mahoney cleared his throat ominously, and Cranepool took the hint.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Monique. “My bed’s in the next room.”

  Monique picked up one of the bottles and walked toward the door. Cranepool followed her and then entered his bedroom. He closed the door, leaving Mahoney and Veronique alone. Mahoney sipped his glass of Calvados and looked at Veronique over the rim. She had nice breasts, perhaps a little on the small side but succulent anyway.

  “Let’s take our clothes off,” he said.

  “All right.”

  She reached down, gripped the hem of her dress, and picked it up over her head. Mahoney stared with lust pounding in his heart as first her pretty legs emerged, next her white silk underpants, then her white silk brassiere, and finally the dress was over her head. She hung it in the closet, and Mahoney watched her every move like a wolf watching a rabbit. She wore high-heeled shoes that enhanced the line of her bare legs; her skin was like a strawberry milkshake.

  Turning to him, she smiled gaily and reached behind her, unsnapping her bra. She took it off and hung it over a chair. Her breasts were high and firm as only young breasts can be. They were elegantly shaped and came to a point on their ends.

  Mahoney’s cock was throbbing thunderously. He untied the belt of his robe and took it off, throwing it across the room. She laughed like a tinkling little bell at his melodramatic gesture and stepped out of her underpants. Mahoney looked at the fine blond hairs at the juncture of her legs and couldn’t stand it anymore.

  With a growl in his throat, he charged and lifted her into the air. She smiled confidently and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “You’re like a wild horse,” she said. “I think I’m going to like you.”

  He rushed toward the bed and let her down gently. Then he threw himself with wild abandon in between her legs, and he led with his tongue. He’d been longing for pussy for months, and now he wanted to bury himself face first in it.

  She spread her legs and opened her slit with two fingers of her right hand. Mahoney lay the flat of his tongue against it, grunting and groaning. He cupped her soft little ass in his hands and probed his tongue deeper into her.

  “Oh,” she whispered, squirming like a snake on the bed. She’d figured that she was going to be screwed nearly to death by a sex-starved American soldier, but she’d never realized that he was going to give her the pleasure of his tongue. “It feels so nice.”

  She raised one leg into the air, and Mahoney worked his tongue in and out of her, scooping up the ambrosia. She tasted like lemonade, and he’d always loved lemonade in the summer. He pressed his teeth against her rose petals and wanted to take a bite, but he didn’t because he wasn’t that crazy. Instead, he caught her little gumdrop in his lips and flicked it with his tongue. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. She’d been screwing Germans for four years and not one of them ever did this to her. Not even her boyfriend did this to her—only Antoinette the lesbian, but even the fabulous Antoinette of the gigantic tongue never had eaten her as passionately as this American G.I.

  She tried to grab his hair and hold him more tightly against her, but his hair was too short. So she had to hold the back of his head as she kicked her legs in the air.

  “I love cunt,” Mahoney grunted. “I can’t live without cunt.’

  “I’ll be your slave forever!” she said madly. “Just don’t stop what you’re doing!”

  Mahoney knew he never could stop, that he was utterly lost. He kept slurping and slobbering between her legs, drooling and grunting, licking and nibbling, and he became so excited that he thought he was going to come.

  He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. “Suck my cock!” he yelled.

  She moved around, sat on his face, bent over, and stuck his huge cock into her mouth. Mahoney licked her snatch while she bobbed her head up and down on his massive joint. Waves of ecstasy crashed over them, and then they came in each other’s mouths. Mahoney bellowed like a wild bull as his cock exploded, and Veronique twitched as though a thousand volts of electricity were being routed through her body. They went into wild convulsions against each other, Mahoney sucking her cunt and she gulping down his essential fluids. She squeezed his cock with both her dainty hands, and he dug his fingers into her ass. They bounced up and down on the bed, grunting and snorting, and she was afraid that she’d drown in all his juice. It dripped down her chin and squirted i
nto her hair. She kept on sucking until he was dry and went limp underneath her, his tongue still between her legs. At this very time, not far away on the other side of the Seine, General Charles de Gaulle was marching down the Champs Elysees, receiving the acclaim of French people who did not have to work that afternoon.

  Meanwhile, down the hall, Cranepool and Monique did not experience the initial burst of mutual attraction that Mahoney and Veronique had felt. The problem was Cranepool, who was plagued by guilt and doubt.

  Cranepool and Monique had entered the room, and Monique placed the bottle on the dresser. She turned around, expecting Cranepool to attack her, but he only stood in the middle of the room, staring forlornly at her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied nervously.

  She smiled, hoping to relax him. “I can see that something’s wrong. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m all right.”

  “Is the problem that you can’t get it up?”

  He blushed. “No, it’s up.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?”

  “Go right ahead. I’ll pour us some Calvados.”

  He took a pack of cigarettes out of his robe and lit one up, sitting on a chair. She poured Calvados into both their glasses, gave him one, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs so that Cranepool could have a nice view of her legs and black lace underpants. When he saw them he looked away quickly as though he’d seen a ghost.

  “You’re as skittish as a young colt,” she said. “Haven’t you ever had sexual relations with a woman before?”

  “Of course!” Cranepool said, insulted.

  “Then why are you so reluctant to have sexual relations with me?” she asked. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

  “I think you’re very pretty,” he replied.

  She patted the bed beside her. “Then why don’t you come and sit beside me?”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Of course you can,” she replied. “Just get up, walk over here, and sit down. I don’t bite.”