The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  He recalled the speech the Fuhrer had made after the plot of July 20, when treasonous army officers tried to blow him up in his headquarters in Rastenburg. The Fuhrer had said that traitors were to blame for the ills besetting the Reich, and now Richter realized that was the answer; he was quivering beneath 74 Avenue Foch because of traitors in high places.

  He remembered Lieutenant Otto Grunberger, the special aide to that ridiculous General von Choltitz. Grunberger had been consorting with French spies of the worst sort and probably transmitted many valuable and important secrets to them. Richter had not been able to squeeze any information out of Grunberger because General Choltitz sent somebody to check on him every day; but now 74 Avenue Foch was surrounded by the French, and Richter could have a free hand. Now he’d make Grunberger talk, and if he didn’t talk he’d kill him in the most gruesome manner imaginable.

  Richter picked up the phone on his desk.

  “Yes sir?” asked his secretary.

  “I want Lieutenant Otto Grunberger and the Countess Delphine de Chaulieu removed to an interrogation room immediately.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “Now, sir?”

  “Yes—NOW!”

  “But sir—the building is under attack!”

  “I don’t care! Carry out my orders! That is all!”

  “Yes sir,” said his secretary, his voice quivering.

  Mahoney and Cranepool found the pharmacy on the Rue St. Jacques, but it was closed for the day. They looked left and right on the street and saw a few civilians walking along furtively. Across the street a patrol of maquis in civilian clothes were running somewhere, carrying their rifles.

  “I guess we’re gonna have to break into the fucking place,” Mahoney said.

  “Guess so, Sarge.”

  Mahoney aimed his carbine at the lock and pulled the trigger. The door splintered and shattered, sending bits of wood and metal flying in all directions. Mahoney kicked open the door and entered the pharmacy, with Cranepool behind him.

  A door behind the counter opened, and a lean man with a rifle suddenly appeared. The man saw Mahoney and Cranepool, froze for a moment, and then smiled.

  “Ah—Americans!” he said. “I thought maybe you were Germans breaking in! Welcome to my humble shop! What can I do for you?”

  “We need some chemicals and some jars,” Mahoney replied. “We’ll pay for everything, of course.”

  The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. “Pay with what?”

  Mahoney reached into his pocket and took out his roll. “American money.”

  The Frenchman pshawed. “That’s no good. It’s only paper. But what do you need?”

  “Potassium and ether. We’re going to make some Molotov cocktails.”

  “Ah I see,” the Frenchman said, pointing his forefinger in the air. “Well, come with me. You do not have to pay for things like that.”

  The Frenchman led them into a back room and down a flight of stairs to the cellar, which was filled with crates and boxes. He walked to a door in the cellar and knocked on it. “It’s all right,” he said to the door.

  Moments later the sound of a typewriter could be heard from behind the door.

  “Who the hell’s in there?” Mahoney asked.

  “It’s nothing important,” said the Frenchman with a wave of his hand.

  “It sounds like somebody’s typing on a typewriter in there.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The Frenchman walked to a table covered with bottles of chemicals, racks of test tubes, and a Bunsen burner. He picked up one of the bottles and poured some of its contents into a measuring cup.

  “I’ll make the Molotov cocktails for you,” he said. “I know how it’s done. I must ask you not to smoke, however. I didn’t know Americans were in Paris—when did you get here?”

  “Last night,” Mahoney replied, listening to the typewriter clacking behind the door. “We’re a liaison unit with the French 12th Armored Division under General Duloc.”

  “Ah,” replied the pharmacist. “A great French general.”

  The pharmacist concocted the Molotov cocktails while Mahoney and Cranepool watched. He worked quickly and deftly, and Mahoney surmised that he’d made many Molotov cocktails before.

  The pharmacist glanced up. “Where are you taking these?”

  “To the Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch,” Mahoney replied. “We’re going to blow the place up.”

  The pharmacist appeared pleased with this news, and he finished making the explosives. He used real fuses instead of the torn cotton Mahoney had intended to use, corked the tops, and pushed them toward Mahoney. “Put them in this,” he said, picking a burlap bag off a shelf and placing it on the table.

  Mahoney gingerly placed the cocktails in. the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Well, we’d better be going,” he said.

  “Right,” replied Cranepool.

  “This way,” said the pharmacist.

  They crossed the cellar, and Mahoney stopped abruptly in front of the door where the typewriter still was clacking. “Who the hell’s in there?” he asked.

  The pharmacist smiled. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  Mahoney shrugged and shook hands with the pharmacist and thanked him for the Molotov cocktails.

  “Think nothing of it!” the pharmacist said. “It’s a pleasure to be of service! All of France is grateful for the help rendered by America!” When they climbed the stairs back to the shop, he reached under the counter. “Care for a cigar?”

  Mahoney blinked. “Sure!”

  The pharmacist raised a box of cigars from underneath the counter and held it up. “Help yourself.”

  The cigars were long, black, and greasy looking—just the way Mahoney liked them. He took one politely and winked to Cranepool, indicating that he should take one too. Cranepool picked one out and smiled politely.

  “Take more, gentlemen!” the Frenchman said. “Don’t be shy!”

  Mahoney wanted to take the whole box, but he restrained himself, taking only two more.

  Halfway down the block, Mahoney held his hand out to Cranepool and said, “Gimme the fuckin’ cigars.”

  Cranepool handed them over, and Mahoney placed all except one in his shirt pocket. He peeled the wrapper off the one, wet it with his tongue, stuck it in his eager lips, and lit it with his trusty old Zippo.

  “Ah,” he said, puffing happily as they headed back to 74 Avenue Foch.

  Fifteen interrogation chambers lay beneath the dungeons at 74 Avenue Foch, and in one of them stood Major Kurt Richter, smoking a cigarette while watching Sergeant Bruno Goerdler light the coals in the little fireplace built into the wall.

  Goerdler was a big brutal SS guard with a shaved head and cruel eyes. He was stripped to the waist, and his upper torso was covered with tattoos of girls, SS helmets, swastikas, and the like. Around the fireplaces were steel pokers and branding irons used in SS interrogations. Nearby hung whips, chains, and barbed-wire gloves.

  The door opened and four SS guards threw Delphine and Grunberger into the room.

  “Hello my little fools,” Richter said with a nasty smile.

  Their clothes were torn and their faces were pale. Their eyes bulged in horror and each looked twenty pounds lighter than when they’d entered 74 Avenue Foch a few days ago. They picked themselves up off the floor and moved closer like frightened puppies.

  Richter curled his upper lip. “Now the both of you are going to answer my questions, or else.”

  “Now see here,” Grunberger said, trying to be brave. “I demand to speak with General von Choltitz immediately!”

  “You do?” Richter asked sarcastically.

  “That’s right.”

  Richter reared back his fist and punched Grunberger in the mouth. Grunberger went sprawling backwards and fell on the cold stone floor. Blood oozed from between his teeth and lips.

  Richter turned to the guards. “Chain them to the wall,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two
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  The fighting was still going on in front of the SS headquarters when Mahoney and Cranepool returned. A few dead SS men were lying in front of the building, and some dead and wounded Frenchmen were behind the barricades with the maquis. Mahoney and Cranepool came running with their heads down, holding their steel pots steady, and stopped beside the young woman who’d told Mahoney she was in charge.

  “Hi there,” Mahoney told her. “I’m back.”

  She was reloading her Mauser behind the barricade and looked at the burlap bag. “Did you get the Molotov cocktails?”

  “Didn’t I?” he asked with a wink, puffing his cigar. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you how I think we should proceed.”

  She waved away the smoke with her delicate hand. “We have a new commander. You’d better tell him. He’s over there.” She pointed to the right side of the barricade. “His name is Colonel Chambord.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s a big man like you and he’s wearing a blue shirt.”

  Mahoney scuttled to the right, keeping his head down and puffing his cigar. He glanced at his watch and saw it was ten o’clock in the morning. If all went well he thought they could take the building within an hour. The important thing was to strike fast and hard and overwhelm the bastards.

  He passed men and women firing rifles behind the barricades and finally came to the big man in the blue shirt. Chambord was conferring with two other men when Mahoney burst in upon them.

  “Hi there,” he said, interrupting their conversation. “My name’s Mahoney and this is my pal Cranepool.”

  Mahoney looked beside him, but Cranepool wasn’t there. Turning around, he saw Cranepool still back talking with the girl. That little fuck, Mahoney thought.

  “Well, he’s not here right now,” Mahoney continued, “but anyway, I’ve got some Molotov cocktails in this bag and I think we ought to blow down the door of that building and storm it.”

  The Frenchmen looked at each other and Mahoney in astonishment.

  “You have Molotov cocktails?” Colonel Chambord asked.

  “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Mahoney blew a cloud of smoke into Chambord’s face. “Now here’s my plan, and it’s so simple I’m sure even you French people can carry it out. My friend and I will rush the door and throw Molotov cocktails at it, while you and your people cover us. Got that so far?”

  Colonel Chambord nodded, his eyes betraying a trace of anger.

  “As soon as the door blows, we all go inside and kill every German we see until they surrender.”

  Colonel Chambord spit at the ground. “Those are SS in there. I don’t care whether they surrender or not.”

  “Have it your way,” Mahoney said. “Maybe a few of your people can charge the building with us and throw Molotov cocktails through the downstairs windows to shake the Germans up a little. Got it?”

  “When would you like to get started?”

  “Five minutes from now be okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Mahoney lay the burlap bag on the ground and opened it up. He took all the Molotov cocktails except four out and lay them on the ground. “These are for you and your people, okay?”

  “Right.”

  Mahoney carried the burlap bag back to where Cranepool and the young woman were.

  “Hey Cesspool,” he said. “We got some work to do.”

  “Okay Sarge,” Cranepool replied with a whine in his voice—he clearly wanted to stay and talk with the girl.

  Mahoney took out two of the Molotov cocktails and handed them to Cranepool. “You take these two, and when I give the signal, we charge the building and throw them at the door. Got me?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “C’mon with me.”

  Cranepool turned to the girl. “Goodbye Marie.”

  She made a sad little wave with her hand. “So long, Edward.”

  Mahoney cleared his throat. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he said.

  He led Cranepool back to Colonel Chambord, who was passing out the Molotov cocktails to his men.

  “We’re ready when you are,” Mahoney said.

  “We’ll get started in just a few minutes,” Chambord said.

  Mahoney and Cranepool kneeled beside the barricade. Mahoney relit the stub of his cigar and Cranepool peeked over the top at the stone building.

  “There’s an awful lot of Krauts in there,” Cranepool said.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Mahoney jammed a fresh clip into his carbine and flicked the little switch to automatic. Then he fixed his bayonet on the end, took his cigar out of his mouth, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He felt wild and crazy, as he always did before going into battle. He knew that he might get shot down during the next several minutes, but he was also angry and frustrated and wanted to kick ass. He wished he had a pistol and an entrenching tool, because those were good weapons for hand-to-hand combat in close quarters; and he also wished he could be far away from 74 Avenue Foch in a quiet safe place where he could drink booze and smoke cigars and maybe get laid, because part of him was a little afraid.

  “Are you ready, Mahoney?” Colonel Chambord asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to start the covering fire now. When I yell go, I want everyone with Molotov cocktails to go.”

  Mahoney nodded and chewed the stub of his cigar. Chambord gave orders to open fire, and the French fired heavy volleys in unison at the building. Mahoney looked up and saw the Germans taking cover as hot lead sprayed through windows and at the roof. The volleys continued for several seconds, preventing the Germans from showing their heads and getting clear shots. Mahoney and Cranepool lit the fuses of their Molotov cocktails and Chambord raised his first in the air.

  “CHARGE!” he screamed.

  Mahoney and Cranepool leapt over the barricades and charged the building, each holding one cocktail high in his right hand, the other cocktail tucked under his left arm, and a carbine in his left hand. The Germans saw what was happening and tried to fire at them from behind the windows. Mahoney and Cranepool hollered at the tops of their lungs as they ran across the cobblestones, bullets whistling around their heads like hornets.

  “NOW!” Mahoney shouted.

  They hurled their Molotov cocktails at the door and dived to the ground. At the same time Frenchmen threw their explosives through the downstairs windows of the building. Mahoney’s and Cranepool’s cocktails hit the door and exploded with an ear-splitting roar, breaking the thick timbers apart. They lit their second cocktails and Cranepool looked at Mahoney for the order to move out.

  “HIT IT!” Mahoney bellowed.

  They jumped up and ran to the door, their legs pumping like pistols. Bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones and still they came, gasping for air, wondering if the next bullets would cut them down. When they reached the doorway they threw their second cocktails inside and darted back behind the doorjambs, hearing shouts in German inside.

  The cocktails exploded and bolts of flame shot out of the door. Screams issued from inside the building and Mahoney and Cranepool leapt through the door, firing their carbines on automatic. A German stuck his head around a corner and Mahoney aimed a stream of bullets at it, tearing it into a bloody mess. The German shrieked for a second and sagged to the floor as three more Germans ran down a flight of stairs with their Schmeisser machine guns ready to fire. Cranepool beat them to the trigger and sprayed them with bullets. They fired their machine guns at the floor and ceiling as they toppled down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood behind them.

  A German darted out of the shadows and Mahoney gave him a bellyful of hot lead. Mahoney ran to the foot of the stairs because he wanted to get one of those Schmeisser machine guns. He scooped one up and leveled a burst at a German at the top of the stairs. The German was looking to see what was going on and he didn’t have his rifle ready to fire, but that was his tough luck. He pitched forward, blood oozing fro
m his chest, and fell headlong down the stairs.

  Mahoney moved to the side to let the German land at his feet. He turned around and saw the maquis pouring into the building. Gunfights were taking place everywhere and he heard a great commotion upstairs. To the left of the stairs was a dark corridor which Mahoney wanted to explore. He was advancing down the corridor when suddenly the door at the end of it was flung open and a squad of Germans came charging through.

  Mahoney placed one foot behind him and pulled the trigger of the Schmeisser. It trembled in his hands and fire spit out of its barrel as its bullets bit into the SS men. They howled in pain and stumbled over each other, falling to the floor dotted with their blood. Mahoney kept firing until suddenly the Schmeisser ran out of ammunition just as two unscathed Germans fumbled with their rifles and tried to take aim at him.

  Mahoney hollered angrily and attacked them, using his Schmeisser like a baseball bat. He whacked one of the Germans against his face, sending him flying against the wall, and kicked the other German in the balls. The German clutched his groin and dropped to his knees, and Mahoney kicked him in the face, knocking him onto his back.

  Quickly Mahoney searched among the Germans on the floor for another Schmeisser machine gun and found one underneath a sergeant with a bullet hole through the center of his chest. He pulled the machine gun out of his hands and stomped the German on the nose, just to make sure he wouldn’t get up again.

  Mahoney pulled open the door that was now riddled with bullet holes and charged down the corridor in front of him, followed by a group of maquis. He heard bullets firing and explosions all over the building.

  Two Germans appeared in the corridor ahead and Mahoney cut them down with a long burst from the Schmeisser. He ran toward their writhing bodies and reached down to snatch up a Walther pistol from a dying captain. Mahoney jammed the pistol into his belt and a Frenchman opened the door. A flight of stairs led down to the cellar and they all descended it, holding their guns ready for any German who dared to show his face.

  “The dungeons are down here!” shouted one of the Frenchmen.

  They entered a dank stone corridor and looked to their right and left, wondering which way to go. A door at one end opened and SS men charged forward, firing rifles and machine guns as they came. The Frenchmen returned the fire and bullets zinged back and forth in the corridor. The Frenchman beside Mahoney shouted and was thrown backwards by a bullet in his gut, and Mahoney felt a sudden stinging sensation across his left bicep. He gritted his teeth and fired his machine gun at the Germans.