The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  “Press him!” yelled Kowalski’s trainer.

  Kowalski charged, throwing a left jab. Mahoney blocked it and countered with a left hook that connected with Kowalski’s nose. The blood began to flow again, dripping onto Kowalski’s white shorts. Mahoney danced from side to side, flicking his left into Kowalski’s face. I’m building up points, Mahoney told himself. I’m gonna win this fight on points.

  Kowalski feinted at Mahoney’s liver and then, when Mahoney lowered his guard, he hooked him on the cut eye. He followed with a hard right that landed and Mahoney threw an uppercut that missed. Dazed from the punches, Mahoney danced to the side, but Kowalski cut off the ring and made Mahoney dance in the other direction. His vision blurred, he danced into the ropes and Kowalski caught him with a roundhouse right. The sky disappeared and Mahoney went down again.

  “Oh what a fucking bum!” he heard somebody say.

  Mahoney got to his knees and looked up at the referee.

  “Four!” the referee yelled, pointing at him.

  Mahoney shook his head, and blood dripped from his eye to the canvas. He smelled the resin and the sun made his back hot. Got to get up, he told himself. He heard the soldiers roaring at him and he pushed the canvas away from him, staggering to his feet.

  The referee grabbed his wrists and wiped his gloves on his shirt. “How many fingers I got up?” the referee asked.

  Mahoney couldn’t even see his hand. “I’m okay, ref,” he said.

  “How many fingers?”

  “I said I’m okay.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mahoney.”

  The referee stepped back and brought his hands together. Kowalski rushed at Mahoney and threw a hard left. Mahoney blocked it with his chin and dropped to his knees again.

  “Get up!” shouted McGhee.

  “No—stay down!” cried Cranepool.

  Mahoney shook his head and heard the referee yell FIVE. There was a picture in his mind of Kowalski throwing that last punch. Mahoney realized that when Kowalski threw the left, he also lowered his right. Did he do that all the time?

  “Eight!” said the referee.

  Mahoney swayed as he got to his feet. The referee wiped off his gloves on his shirt and asked, “How many fingers I got up?”

  “Get the fuck out of my way!” Mahoney said, pushing the referee to the side.

  Kowalski charged across the ring again, and threw his left. At the same time Mahoney threw a left of his own. He saw his left go over Kowalski’s right hand, which he had dropped just as he did before. Mahoney’s punch landed first, and it was the hardest punch he’d thrown all night. Kowalski’s punch went wild and he closed his eyes, tucking his chin into his shoulder like a sleeping baby.

  “Hit him again!” McGhee hollered.

  Mahoney threw a left-right combination, and when Kowalski tried to cover Mahoney shot an uppercut that sent Kowalski falling backwards like a tree crashing in the forest. Kowalski hit the canvas and was still. The referee pushed Mahoney into a neutral corner and began to count. There was pandemonium in the crowd. The men from the 15th Regiment waved their fists in the air and screamed at the top of their lungs.

  “FIVE!”

  Kowalski stirred on the canvas. His corner told him to get up. He rolled onto his knees and at the count of nine managed to get to his feet.

  “Put him away!” yelled McGhee.

  The referee wiped off Kowalski’s gloves and brought his hands together. Kowalski stood like a naughty little boy in the center of the ring, trying to hide behind his boxing gloves. Mahoney dashed toward him and threw an overhand right, but Kowalski ducked under it and grabbed Mahoney’s arms. Mahoney struggled to get loose but Kowalski held him tightly as he tried to clear his head.

  “Break!” said the referee.

  Kowalski spun Mahoney around and scraped the laces of his gloves across Mahoney’s face, ripping the cut open wider. Mahoney yelped in pain and Kowalski stepped back, firing a jab. Mahoney caught it on his nose and covered quickly, blocking the next jab. He slammed Kowalski in the gut and hit him in the head. Kowalski countered with an uppercut that missed. His timing’s off, Mahoney thought. I’ve got him now.

  Mahoney went flat-footed and threw hard lefts and rights at Kowalski. Instead of trying to block Mahoney’s punches, the game Kowalski fought back. The fighters’ gloves collided in mid-air and they grunted as they tried to knock each other out. They threw punches from all angles, missing most but connecting occasionally. In his eagerness, Mahoney leaned forward too far. Kowalski took advantage of the opportunity and put all his weight into a right cross. It caught Mahoney on the chin and knocked him to the side. Mahoney sagged against the ropes, fell through them, and landed head first on the judges’ table, breaking the legs and making it collapse. By the time he and the table had landed on the ground, Mahoney was out like a light.

  “ONE!” said the referee, pointing at him.

  In Mahoney’s corner, Cranepool and McGhee looked at each other.

  “What’s going to happen now?” Cranepool asked excitedly.

  McGhee chewed his lower lip. “If he doesn’t get into the ring by the time the ref counts to ten, the fight is over.”

  “FIVE!”

  The bell rang, saving Mahoney’s ass. Cranepool, McGhee, and the medic ran toward Mahoney as the crowd booed. A photographer from Stars and Stripes took a picture of Mahoney sprawling unconscious on the broken table.

  “What a fuckin’ pig!” somebody yelled.

  McGhee rolled Mahoney onto his back and Cranepool broke an ammonia ampoule under his nose. Mahoney opened his eyes and blinked.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Somewhere in the middle of next week,” McGhee said.

  McGhee and Cranepool helped Mahoney get up, wrapping his arms around their shoulders and dragging him toward their corner. Mahoney’s face was covered with blood and he heard an organ playing someplace. White dots danced in front of his eyes and he realized he’d just been knocked out of the ring.

  “Hey scumbag!” somebody yelled. “Where’d you learn how to fight—in sissy school?”

  Mahoney felt humiliated by what had happened to him, and he thought the fight was over because he never heard the bell ring. He believed that he’d lost his three hundred dollars and his heart sank down to his ankles.

  “I’m sorry fellers,” Mahoney said. “I did my best.”

  McGhee wrinkled his nose. “I’m not so sure.”

  “I don’t feel like congratulating Kowalski. Let’s go straight back to the dressing room.”

  “You wanna throw in the towel?” McGhee asked, surprised. “What do you mean—throw in the towel?”

  “That’s the only way you’re going to the dressing room right now!”

  Mahoney blinked. “You mean he didn’t knock me out?”

  “Yeah, he knocked you out, but you were saved by the bell again, asshole.”

  “Sarge,” said Cranepool, “I think you oughta quit while you still got your head on your shoulders.”

  “Quit?” Mahoney asked.

  “Yeah—before Kowalski fucking kills you.”

  They stopped in front of the little ladder that led to the ring, and Mahoney turned to Cranepool.

  “You don’t believe in me!” Mahoney said.

  “After what just happened, who can believe in you?”

  “You fucking cocksucker, get your hands off me!”

  Mahoney pushed Cranepool and McGhee away, then climbed dizzily into the ring where he was greeted by a chorus of boos and catcalls. He placed his left glove in the crook of his right arm and gave them all the fuck-you salute he’d learned from the Italians in Sicily, and they booed louder. Cranepool put the stool in the corner and Mahoney refused to sit down. Mahoney leaned against the ropes and rested his arms on the top strands, and the medic tried to close the cut over his eye. “It’s getting worse,” the medic said.

  “Fuck you,” Mahoney said.

  “Listen,” McGhee told hi
m, “he keeps faking you out with feints to the body, and then he hooks you to the head. You’re a sucker for it every time.”

  “Suck my dick,” Mahoney replied.

  “Don’t try to trade punches with him, because he’s stronger than you. Stay away from that left of his. Stick and jab.”

  “Stick and jab your ass,” Mahoney snarled.

  Mahoney glared across the ring at Kowalski, who was sitting on his stool and being administered to by his corner men. Kowalski’s face was purple and he looked back at Mahoney with murder in his eyes. Mahoney was angry now. He’d been humiliated in front of the whole division, and if he didn’t win this fight they’d laugh at him for the rest of the war. He thought he’d rather be dead than have everybody laughing at him.

  “You did okay, Sarge,” Cranepool said consolingly. “At least you went three rounds with him. Some guys never even got that far.”

  Mahoney held his fist even with Cranepool’s jaw. “I’m gonna knock the Polack cocksucker out.”

  “You’re all heart, Sarge.”

  The bell rang and Mahoney came out dancing. His head still wasn’t clear and that damned organ still was playing, but he was in control of himself and he wanted to beat Kowalski to death.

  Kowalski charged out as usual and threw the first punch. Mahoney blocked it and countered with a punch of his own that connected, but Kowalski shrugged it off and feinted toward Mahoney’s kidney.

  This time Mahoney was wise to the gimmick. He didn’t bother to cover; instead he launched a powerful left at Kowalski’s jaw. It landed while Kowalski was beginning his hook to Mahoney’s head, and Kowalski’s hook died in mid-air as he fell backwards.

  Mahoney went after him, feinted with his left, and threw an overhand right that hit Kowalski on the nose. Kowalski flew backwards to the ropes, bounced off them, and punched Mahoney in the mouth. Mahoney’s lights went out for a few seconds but he swung wildly and connected with Kowalski’s nose again. Kowalski clinched and Mahoney butted him. Blood oozed out the gash on Kowalski’s forehead and the referee suspected a butt, but he didn’t see it and couldn’t do anything. He separated the fighters and they went at each other again. They stood in the middle of the ring and threw leather while the crowd got to its feet and cheered.

  Neither fighter gave an inch. They just stood facing each other and threw lefts and rights one after the other, many of them missing, but each fighter managing to land solid punches. Neither backed up. Their faces became bloody masks and somebody from Stars and Stripes screamed that the fight should be stopped, but the referee was fascinated and it went on.

  Mahoney’s legs were rubbery from the punches he was taking but he stood his ground. Kowalski grunted like a pig and kept punching. Then one of Mahoney’s good punches got through and Kowalski’s head snapped back. Kowalski slammed Mahoney in the mouth but Mahoney didn’t budge. He threw an overhand right that Kowalski blocked and then a left jab that got through. Kowalski’s head was jolted again, and he took a step backwards. Kowalski swung wildly and Mahoney hit him with an uppercut, knocking him back against the ropes.

  Mahoney sensed that Kowalski was hurt, and the crowd screamed for blood. Mahoney stalked Kowalski to the ropes and began pounding his head. Kowalski tried to duck and dodge, but his timing was off. He made Mahoney miss a few, but even more were landing.

  “You got him!” McGhee shouted.

  “Put the fucker away!” Cranepool yelled.

  Kowalski ducked and Mahoney slugged him on the top of the head. Kowalski staggered forward with the blow, and Mahoney hit him with an uppercut. It looked as though Kowalski’s head would fly off his body, and his upper lip split open. Mahoney hooked Kowalski’s left ear and then his right ear, but Kowalski wouldn’t go down. Kowalski threw a wild left, but Mahoney got under it and slammed Kowalski’s gut. Kowalski wheezed and Mahoney slugged him on the nose. Kowalski’s legs buckled but he didn’t go down.

  What do I have to do to make him go down? Mahoney wondered. He jabbed Kowalski twice with his left, then reared back his right and hit Kowalski with everything he had. Kowalski’s mouthpiece flew into the air and the heavyweight champion of the 33rd Division fell forward onto his face.

  Mahoney raised both of his hands in the air, and the referee pushed him to a neutral corner. The crowd went wild, soldiers slapping each other on the shoulders and jumping around like maniacs.

  “ONE!” said the referee.

  Kowalski groaned and moved his head. His corner urged him to get up.

  “TWO!”

  Mahoney leaned against the ropes in the neutral corner, gasping for air.

  “THREE!”

  Cranepool looked at McGhee in disbelief.

  “FOUR!”

  McGhee stared at Kowalski in disbelief.

  “FIVE!”

  Kowalski tried to get up.

  “SIX!”

  Kowalski fell back on his face, and everybody knew the fight was over.

  “SEVEN!”

  Mahoney raised both his hands in the air, and soldiers from the 15th Regiment rushed the ring.

  “EIGHT!”

  The M.P.s at ringside took out their billy clubs and looked at each other fearfully as the 15th Regiment charged.

  “NINE!”

  The men of the 15th Regiment swarmed over the M.P.s and climbed onto the ring apron.

  “TEN, AND YOU’RE OUT!”

  The referee’s hand sliced decisively through the air, and the 15th Regiment poured into the ring. Mahoney held his two fists high as they lifted him into the air. He screamed victoriously at the top of his lungs, blood dripping down his face.

  “You did it, Sarge—you did it!” Cranepool yelled, jumping up and down in the bedlam that the ring had become.

  McGhee danced around the ring and waved his hands in the air. “I don’t know how he did it—but he did it!”

  The sergeant from Special Services tried to get into the ring with his microphone. “Hey—all you guys get out of here!”

  A Pfc. from Fox Company of the 2nd Battalion cold-conked him, and the sergeant from Special Services went down for the count. The men from the 15th Regiment carried Mahoney round and round the ring and Mahoney shook his fists at the sky, cheering and swearing, and trying to estimate how much money he’d win at ten-to-one odds.

  Maybe I’ll turn pro when the war is over, Mahoney thought, wiping blood from his nose. I wonder if that Joe Louis is really as good as they say he is.

  Chapter Four

  General Dietrich von Choltitz stood on a balcony of the Hotel Meurice in Paris and listened to shots being fired all over the city. He was a short stout man with a round flabby face and a monocle stuck in his right eye. Hitler had ordered him personally to burn Paris to the ground, and charges of explosives had indeed been set underneath all the Seine bridges and many public monuments; but as the great city shimmered before him in the sunset, he knew he couldn’t go through with it. He didn’t want history to remember him as the man who destroyed the most beautiful city in the world. But, on the other hand, the SS was breathing down his back and might very well put him before a firing squad if he didn’t destroy something soon.

  Choltitz looked across the Rue de Rivoli at the Place de la Concorde. He gazed appreciatively at the Tuileries Gardens and the Louvre. On the street below, beautiful young French women in flimsy dresses rode their bicycles back and forth. The shortage of food and lack of public transportation had made them remarkably beautiful, and sometimes Choltitz had carnal thoughts about them although he was a married man.

  He also was one of the bravest officers the German Army had, and he’d demonstrated his courage in battles all over Europe. He had a reputation for being the general who’d never wavered in the execution of an order, but he’d fallen in love with Paris and could not damage her for any reason.

  He gripped the railing of the balcony and thought sadly that he’d be branded a coward and traitor if he didn’t level Paris, and the SS might even shoot his wife and two daughters; but the
re was a beautiful city before him, and he couldn’t give the orders that would erase it off the face of the earth.

  General von Choltitz took out a cigarette and lit it up. He knew that if he succeeded in saving the city, someday a clever historian would say that Germany might have won the war if Choltitz had followed orders and destroyed Paris. But Choltitz doubted whether anything could save Germany now; and besides, how could Germans enjoy the fruits of victory if they had to demolish the most beautiful city in Europe?

  No, I simply can’t do it, Choltitz thought. It’s quite out of the question. If only there was somebody around here to whom I could surrender—but there’s only that French rabble down there, and how can an officer like me surrender to men like that?

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned around. It was Lieutenant Otto Grunberger, one of his aides-de-camp. “Telephone for you from the Fuhrer’s headquarters, sir,” Grunberger said.

  Oh-oh, Choltitz thought, stepping from the balcony into his high-ceilinged office. Grunberger, who had curly blond hair and a pink complexion, stepped back. Choltitz marched to his desk, sat behind it, and picked up the telephone.

  “Choltitz here,” he said.

  “This is General Jodl,” said the voice on the other end. Jodl was chief of operations for the German High Command. “The Fuhrer would like to know if Paris is burning?”

  “Not yet,” said Choltitz.

  “Why not?” asked Jodl sharply.

  “But my dear general,” Choltitz said, “the Allies aren’t even close yet. Why should I burn down the city if it’s not necessary? We might push them back, you know. Why, only the other day when I visited with the Fuhrer at Rastenburg, he assured me that victory was imminent.”

  “It’s not that imminent,” Jodl said. “I think you’d better start blowing up Paris immediately.”

  “I have faith in the Fuhrer,” Choltitz told him. “Moreover, Field Marshal von Model has reinforced the line in front of Paris with tanks. We may very well hold the Allies. I’m surprised at your defeatism, General Jodl.”

  “In other words,” Jodl said drily, “I must tell the Fuhrer that Paris is not burning.”