The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  Grunberger tried to smile. “I’m sure she went there for some harmless reason. The countess is not political at all.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Richter said, a new, hard tone in his voice. “Particularly now that I see you here. You say you are on General von Choltitz’s personal staff?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then perhaps you have told something of importance to the Countess de Chaulieu, which she wanted to relay to Andre Sechard the terrorist. Perhaps you’ve been giving secrets to the Countess de Chaulieu all along!”

  “How dare you say such a thing to me!” Grunberger screamed.

  Richter looked at the SS men. “Seize him!”

  The SS men grabbed Grunberger by the arms.

  “You can’t do this to me!” Grunberger shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Oh no?” asked Richter, his mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

  “I demand to speak with General von Choltitz immediately!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Richter told him. He looked at the SS men again. “Take him away.”

  Grunberger struggled to get loose as the SS men dragged him to the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The French 12th Armored Division veered away from the Allied lines and charged toward Paris. Its tanks rolled down the dusty roads, passing apple orchards in bloom and fields of beans and corn. They met only scattered resistance at first and soon came to the little town of Moyteux, where the citizens poured out into the streets and jumped onto the tanks, giving bottles of champagne and loaves of bread to the French tankers.

  Within minutes, the 12th Armored Division was stopped cold in the town of Moyteux. The French tankers didn’t want to take the chance of driving over citizens of the town, and in addition it was nice to be hailed as liberators. French girls jumped onto the tanks and kissed the greasy-faced tankers, who squeezed the girls and pinched their behinds. Battle-hardened French officers soon found themselves in local bistros, toasting De Gaulle and the Cross of Lorraine with local politicians and dignitaries, some of whom had been drinking in the same bistros with German officers only days before.

  On the edge of town, Mahoney craned his neck around the tarpaulin covering the deuce-and-a-half to see what the holdup was. There was a huge commotion ahead but he couldn’t understand what it was all about. He jumped out the rear of the truck and walked forward to the cab, where Major Denton was peering ahead through his binoculars.

  “What’s going on up there?” Mahoney asked.

  “Appears to be a celebration of some kind?”

  “Really?” Mahoney asked, grinning like a baboon. “Do I have permission to go investigate, sir?”

  “No, because if you do you’ll never come back. Tell Goldberg to set up the radio. We’ll have to contact headquarters about this.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mahoney walked around to the rear of the truck and let down the tailgate.

  “Goldberg—set up the fucking radio,” he said.

  Goldberg and Bates took the radio out of its case and pushed the aerial through a hole they’d made in the tarpaulin covering the rear of the truck. Bates got out the codebooks and Washington looked on. Mahoney had learned from a conversation with Major Denton that Goldberg and Bates were highly trained communications technicians who also could speak French, and Washington had been selected because he could climb telephone poles quickly as well as speak some French. In other words, Washington was supposed to do all the dirty work.

  Major Denton got out of the cab and walked back, climbing into the rear of the truck. He sat on one of the benches and quickly wrote out a message, which he handed to Sergeant Goldberg.

  “Send this to headquarters right away.”

  Goldberg thumbed through a codebook, found the page he wanted, and encoded the message. Then he began tapping the key of the radio, sending the message to General Bradley’s headquarters in Laval.

  Standing outside the truck, Mahoney heard the dots and dashes as Goldberg hit the key. He took out a cigarette and lit it with his trusty Zippo, looking around at the trees and bushes on either side of the road. Ahead of his truck was a long line of tanks leading into town, and most of the tankers had dismounted and were walking that way with their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing happy French songs. Mahoney looked at them enviously and wished he could go into town with them and maybe get some pussy.

  Cranepool jumped down from the truck and walked up to Mahoney. “Hi Sarge,” he said.

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “Major Denton is radioing headquarters that Duloc’s division has stopped for R and R in that town.”

  Mahoney grunted. “I don’t imagine General Bradley will be too happy to hear that.”

  “No, I don’t guess he will.”

  They heard a rustle nearby, and both unslung their carbines quickly. A little boy in raggedy pants and no shoes came out from behind a bush.

  “You American G.I.s?” the boy asked.

  Mahoney and Cranepool nodded.

  “Five cigarette for my sister,” the boy told them solemnly.

  Mahoney looked at Cranepool, then at the boy again. “Where’s your sister?” he asked in French.

  The boy pointed back to the woods. “Over there,” he replied in French.

  “It’s a deal.” Mahoney turned to Cranepool. “Come get me when it’s time to move out.”

  Cranepool turned up a corner of his mouth. “Where you going, Sarge?”

  “Never mind where I’m going,” Mahoney replied, strolling into the woods. “Just do as I say.”

  “But you might get venereal disease, Sarge!”

  “Sshhhhh.”

  Mahoney and the boy walked into the woods, and soon they no longer could see the truck behind them. Mahoney was aware that it might be a trap, that he might be walking into a patrol of German soldiers who would cut his throat, but he was willing to take the chance for some quick pussy. He carried his carbine at the ready, listening for sounds of danger. They came to a big maple tree, and sitting on a stone behind it was a chubby young French girl, twirling her fingers through her long brown hair. She looked up at Mahoney and he could see that she was cross-eyed.

  “Hello,” he said to her.

  “Hello,” she replied in a disembodied voice that led Mahoney to suspect she was retarded as well as cross-eyed.

  Any old port in a storm, he told himself, reaching into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He took out five and handed them to the boy. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, selling your sister this way,” he said.

  The boy snatched the cigarettes out of his hands. “She really ain’t my sister,” he replied and ran off into the woods.

  Mahoney looked at the girl. She stood up, smiled shyly, and raised her skirt. Mahoney licked his lips because she didn’t have anything on underneath it.

  “Lie on the grass over there,” he said, unbuckling his belt.

  She lay on the grass and pulled up her dress, spreading her thickset legs.

  Mahoney dropped his pants and dived on top of her.

  In the dining room of Moyteux’s only hotel, General Duloc was drinking champagne and eating pate with the mayor and various local dignitaries.

  “Ah mon general,” said the major, “I imagine you have been through some very hard fighting on your way here?”

  “Not yet,” Duloc replied.

  Lieutenant Grévin rushed into the dining room, a piece of paper in his hand.

  “Mon general!’ cried Grévin. “A message has just arrived from General Bradley!”

  Duloc waved his hand. “I’ll read it later.”

  “It’s urgent, sir! I think you’d better read it now!”

  General Duloc held out his hand to receive the message and moved toward the light coming from a window.

  TO:

  GENERAL GEORGES DULOC

  12th ARMORED DIVISION

  Word has been received that your attack has stalled in the village
of Moyteux. If your attack does not proceed at once, we shall be forced to terminate all shipments of fuel, food, supplies, and ammunition to you, and the American 33rd Division will liberate Paris.

  Very truly yours,

  OMAR BRADLEY General, U.S. Army

  Duloc scowled as he read the message.

  “Anything wrong?” asked the mayor of Moyteux.

  “I’m afraid we must leave right away.” Duloc raised his glass and drained it dry, then placed it on a table. “Good day to you, my fellow countrymen.”

  Duloc turned and marched out of the dining room with Lieutenant Grévin at his side.

  “I know why that message was sent,” Duloc grumbled. “Our American liaison team must have radioed General Bradley that we’ve stopped for a little refreshment in this town.”

  “The swine,” Lieutenant Grévin said, as they crossed the lobby of the hotel.

  “Well,” said Duloc philosophically, “we have to tolerate this sort of thing from the Americans right now; but who knows—a day might come when they’ll need us, and then the shoe will be on the other foot.”

  Duloc and Grévin stepped out of the hotel into the bright sunshine. Duloc put on his kepi and motioned with his arm toward Paris. “Move out!” he shouted.

  His orders were relayed throughout the town, and soon the soldiers returned to their tanks. An hour later the tanks were rolling again toward Paris.

  Chapter Fourteen

  General Dietrich von Choltitz, seated at his desk, was reading an intelligence report that said enemy armored columns were heading toward Paris. He arose and walked to his map table, noting the position of the columns, their direction, and the German units that stood in their way. Choltitz could see that the enemy thrust had not met much resistance yet, but soon it would run headlong into well-fortified German troop concentrations. Deep in his heart, Choltitz hoped the Allies would smash through easily and capture Paris before some maniac from Hitler’s headquarters showed up to relieve him from command and start blowing up Paris.

  The phone on his desk rang. Choltitz walked over and picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Major Kurt Richter from the SS is here to see you sir.”

  “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “He says it’s urgent, sir.”

  “That’s what they all say when they want to bother me. Tell him I’m in conference.”

  “Yes sir—hey!”

  The door to General von Choltitz’s door opened and a dapper SS officer strolled in, a crooked smile on his face.

  “Good afternoon, my general,” said the SS officer with a little bow. Then he held out his right hand and shouted, “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler,” Choltitz replied without much enthusiasm, raising his hand halfway in the air. “Who gave you permission to enter my office?”

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” the SS officer said. “I am Major Kurt Richter of the Gestapo.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question!” Choltitz replied heatedly.

  “I regret to inform you, my general, that I have found it necessary to place one of your aides, Lieutenant Otto Grunberger, under arrest.”

  Choltitz blinked as he stared at Richter, who stood with his hands behind his back, one leg stiff and the other bent at the knee. Choltitz walked around his desk and sat in his chair. He wheezed and wondered what Grunberger had done wrong.

  “You said your name was Richter?” Choltitz asked.

  “Major Richter of the Gestapo, my general.”

  “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you my general.”

  Richter sat and crossed his legs. “I regret to be the one to deliver this bad news to you.”

  Choltitz was bewildered and scratched his head. “What is it that Lieutenant Grunberger is supposed to have done?”

  “He has been consorting with a woman who has links with the terrorists, sir.”

  “Grunberger?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Choltitz was surprised, because he never would have suspected that Grunberger was a ladies’ man. But you never could be sure of those things, he thought. One sees the most beautiful women with unattractive men all the time. “Perhaps he didn’t know she had links with the terrorists,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter whether he knew or not,” Richter replied. “He might have told her important information anyway.”

  “I doubt that,” Choltitz told him. “Grunberger is a good officer. He wouldn’t babble important information to a mere woman.”

  “These things happen all the time,” Richter replied. “People become intimate and say things they shouldn’t. If the woman was a spy, she probably knew how to wheedle information out of a young man like Grunberger. She is several years older than he, you know. I think that your headquarters has been seriously compromised, sir.”

  Choltitz waved his hand in the air. “Grunberger really didn’t know anything of any great significance.”

  Richter smiled. “We’ll soon find that out.”

  Choltitz stiffened in his chair. “What do you mean by that?”

  “We have ways of extracting information, you know.”

  Choltitz imagined Grunberger having his fingernails pulled out by an SS sadist in the torture chambers at 74 Avenue Foch. He banged his fist on his desk and stood up. “I demand that Lieutenant Grunberger and his lady friend be brought to me immediately!”

  “I’m afraid that will be quite impossible,” Richter said calmly. “They are prisoners of the Gestapo.”

  “I want them brought here anyway!”

  “You have no authorization to free prisoners of the Gestapo, sir. Sorry.” Richter smiled politely and took out his gold cigarette case. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Choltitz pointed his stubby finger at Richter. “If young Grunberger and his friend are not in this office within an hour, I will line up an artillery battery in front of 74 Avenue Foch and level the building.”

  Richter fingered his cigarette case and tried to think. He hadn’t realized that Choltitz would take the Grunberger matter so seriously. “If you level 74 Avenue Foch, there might be very serious repercussions. Our Reichfuhrer wouldn’t like it, and he’s very close to the Fuhrer these days, as I’m sure you know.”

  Choltitz remembered seeing Himmler slinking around during his last trip to Rastenburg. Choltitz returned to his chair and wondered what to do. “I realize that I do not have unlimited authority,” he admitted, “and that perhaps I cannot force the Gestapo to release prisoners on my word alone.”

  “That’s true,” Richter agreed. “You don’t.”

  “However, I am not without authority in Paris, as I’m sure you appreciate.”

  “Quite,” Richter replied.

  “Therefore I will make this proposition to you. I will send one of my aides to 74 Avenue Foch every day at noon to observe Lieutenant Grunberger and his friend. If one hair is harmed on their heads, then I shall blow 74 Avenue Foch to bits. If they are well treated, they may remain in your custody until I can obtain their release through the proper channels.”

  Richter pshawed. “I think you’re going to a great deal of trouble for a lowly lieutenant, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I demand complete loyalty from my subordinate officers, and in return I give them my own complete loyalty.”

  “I doubt rather seriously whether Lieutenant Grunberger has a right to your loyalty, sir.”

  “You have your opinion, and I have mine,” Choltitz said. “I have told you the way the matter stands. You are dismissed, Major Richter.”

  Richter stood, clicked his heels, held out his arm, and shouted, “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler,” Choltitz replied tepidly, not bothering to raise his hand.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The big black BMW stopped in front of a villa in Saint Cloud, and General Ludwig Felger carried his white French poodle Zizi out of the back seat. Followed by aides and flunkies, Felger entered the luxurious villa and made his way to his office. Up
on arriving, he placed Zizi on the floor, where the little dog looked up at him and wagged her tail happily as he took off his cape and handed it to an aide.

  Felger was tall and thin except for a paunch that was the result of too much good French food and drink. He had straight blond hair and an aristocratic nose, although he was the son of a shoe manufacturer from Munich. He had served under Rommel in the victorious battle for France in 1940, and since then he’d been having a good time, carrying on love affairs with beautiful French ladies and enjoying marvelous meals.

  But now the war was coming back to him, and he had to steel himself for the business of soldiering once more. Lighting a cigarette, he advanced to his map table and looked down. Zizi followed him, still wagging her tail.

  “Lubel—stay here with me!” Felger ordered. “Everyone else—leave!”

  The aides and flunkies left the office, and Major Albert von Lubel joined him at the map table. Lubel was a dark-haired man of forty with a bald spot on the back of his head and a lean frame like Felger’s. He limped, for he’d still not recovered completely from a leg wound sustained on the Eastern Front only two months ago. His eyes had a haunted look, and sometimes his hands trembled uncontrollably. He spoke seldom, but when he did his voice had a tone of intensity. Pinned to the front of his tunic was the Iron Cross First Class, which he’d won by personally leading a German counterattack against a numerically superior Russian tank force near Kharkov.

  “Hmmm,” said Felger, bending over the map table and moving around little colored blocks and triangles of wood that represented regiments and battalions. “Well, Lubel, the situation is beginning to improve, wouldn’t you say so?”

  “Yes sir,” replied Lubel in a voice that sounded as though it was coming in over the radio.

  Felger smiled as he looked at his array of military units strung out in a line in front of Paris. He and Lubel had just returned from an inspection of that line, and it had been strengthened considerably since yesterday. He’d requested ten thousand men for the defense of Paris, and to his amazement, they were actually arriving. In less than six hours he’d received a regiment of tanks from the Eastern Front and the famous Messerschmitt Sturm-Battalion, which he had placed on the western end of his line. The Fifth Army would be assigned to his command by morning, and other units were arriving every hour. The high command evidently was taking the defense of Paris seriously.