by Len Levinson
The only way to stop the Krauts, Mahoney decided, was to get into that building. Because it would be difficult for them to hit a fast-moving target, he sidestepped from behind the car and dashed into the street, keeping his path irregular.
Holding his helmet with one hand and carrying his submachine gun with the other, he ran in a zigzag pattern across the wide boulevard. He heard the crackle of rifle fire above him and the rattle of the machine gun from the French armored car. A bullet ricocheted off the cobblestones near his feet, and after ten more yards a hail of bullets zipped past him. He leapt over the barrier of hedges that separated the two lanes of the boulevard and sped toward a side entrance to the opera house. Reaching it, he paused to catch his breath, then aimed his submachine gun at the lock on the door and blew it apart. He kicked open the door and entered the darkness of the huge building.
Private Gratz stood near the door that led onto the rooftop. Although Lieutenant Zoller had commanded him to stand guard at the door to warn the others when the French came up the stairs, he wondered if he shouldn’t run down the stairs and try to get away. He had no wish to die for the Fuehrer and the Reich on the rooftop of the Paris Opera House, and surely, he thought, there might be some civilian clothing in the opera’s dressing rooms. If he could just get rid of the S.S. uniform, he was certain he could save his neck.
Glancing behind him, he saw his comrades still bending over the parapet and shooting down into the streets. Occasionally bullets from below had chipped into the concrete balustrades, but he knew there couldn’t yet be much organized resistance below. Gratz realized it was now or never. If he waited too long, it would be all that much harder to get away.
Gratz took a deep breath and broke into a cold sweat. Although he was not the most dedicated of Nazis, he had never before disobeyed an order. He had always tried to be a good S.S. man, even when compelled to do things he didn’t like— such as pushing around French civilians and making arrests in the middle of the night. But he was only twenty-one years old and he didn’t want to die...
He knew he couldn’t dawdle much longer. The door was wide open, so he jumped like a rabbit, ran through the open doorway, and flew down the stairs to what he hoped would be safety.
In the darkness of the opera house, looking at the vast auditorium and stage, Mahoney could still hear, faintly muffled, the sounds of the fighting outside. Crouching instinctively, he walked down an aisle and headed for the stage. He knew something about the layout of theaters because his Uncle Charlie had been a stagehand at the Belasco Theater in New York City, and Mahoney had visited him backstage a few times. He knew that a theater was just a big hall and stage except for the backstage area, where all the complicated sets and drops and lighting equipment and dressing rooms were, as well as fire exits and steps that must lead to the roof.
Mahoney reached the orchestra pit and from it found his way to the stage. The main illumination seemed to come from a skylight. Looking up he saw scenery, scrims and sandbags hanging above him. The stage had a few props and pieces of furniture on it, and Mahoney headed toward the wings, to search for the stairs that led to the roof. As he moved stealthily through the shadows, he heard a sound ... a metallic knocking.
Mahoney froze in his tracks and tried to figure out where the sound was coming from.
Gratz opened another locker and it, too, was empty. Cursing, worried that Zoller would send someone for him, Gratz opened a third locker and this time he smiled.
Inside was a tuxedo. Of course he would look bizarre walking through Paris in a tuxedo which might not even fit, but it would be safer than walking around the city in an S.S. uniform. If he was lucky, people might think he was going to a wedding or a funeral. He would have preferred an inconspicuous civilian outfit, but he’d learned long ago that you had to make the best of all situations.
He put aside his rifle and took off his helmet; unbuttoned his tunic, took it off and sat down in a chair, removing his boots so he could change his pants. His mouth was dry. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his forehead. He hurried, for he realized that he was in a race against time to save his life.
He put his S.S. uniform in the locker and closed the door, then placed his Mauser rifle inside. He felt naked without a weapon, but the Mauser would identify him beyond doubt as a German, and he didn’t want that. He adjusted the black bow tie. The shirt was too big for him, in fact the whole suit was too large, and he could only hope no one would notice.
He left the dressing room and walked down a dark corridor. At the first exit he planned to slip out of the building and then run like hell. It wasn’t much of a chance, but it was the only chance he had...
Suddenly an arm lunged at him from the shadows and grabbed hold of his throat. A powerful force flung his body against a brick wall, and in the gloom he found himself looking at an American soldier with a nose slightly out of kilter and an ugly grimace on his face.
“Who in the hell are you?” Mahoney said.
Terrified, Gratz tried to think fast. “I ... I am an actor here,” he said. “A singer.”
Mahoney could discern the German accent overlaying the French. He squeezed the man’s throat more firmly.
“You’re a Kraut,” Mahoney said between clenched teeth. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
Gratz was ready to give up. His plan, so carefully constructed, had been foiled by another American. Because he couldn’t think of a second plausible lie, he decided to tell the truth.
“I’m a deserter,” he said. “I was up on the roof with the others, but I saw a chance to desert and I took it.” He stared into Mahoney’s eyes. “I didn’t want to shoot anybody,” he said in a quavering voice, filled with self-pity. “I didn’t ask for this war.”
Looking at him, Mahoney wondered what to do. He didn’t dare shoot the Kraut because the sound of the bullet might alert the Germans on the roof to his position.
“How do I get to the roof?” Mahoney asked.
“The stairs . . . back there.” Gratz pointed.
Quickly, Mahoney hit him over the head with the butt of his rifle. Gratz collapsed to the floor. Mahoney took his bayonet from its scabbard and looked once more at the unconscious German. There was only one thing left to do, and Mahoney didn’t hesitate. He slashed the German’s jugular, and watched the blood gush onto the white shirt and black tie.
Lieutenant Zoller fired at a head above a parked automobile. When the head dropped out of sight, Zoller didn’t know whether he’d hit it or the target had ducked. He looked around for someone else to shoot at, but everyone was hidden now and the street was suddenly crowded with tanks and other armored vehicles. Although French soldiers continued to fire at the Germans, so far they hadn’t been hit.
Zoller took a moment to glance at his men on the parapet; they were still in position. He was proud of them. They were stalwart S.S. men and someday when the annals of the war were written, mention would surely be made of the gallant ones who fought to the death atop the home of the Paris opera.
When he turned to check on Gratz, he was astounded to discover that Gratz wasn’t there.
“Where the hell is Gratz?” he asked.
“He was there two minutes ago.” Sergeant Kiesel looked toward the door.
“He must have decided to run.” Corporal Schulz frowned.
“Nonsense!” shouted Zoller, unwilling to believe that an S.S. man would desert his post. Gratz, he figured, was probably taking a leak somewhere. “Gratz!”
Zoller’s voice resounded across the dome of the Paris Opera House, but Private Gratz didn’t appear.
“Gratz!”
Still there was no sign of the young S.S. man. Zoller scowled.
“I told you he’s gone,” Corporal Schulz said. “He’s run away.”
Zoller could feel the rage building inside him. It was a reflection on the whole company for an S.S. man to desert. If they ever lived through this experience, Gratz would have to be punished.
“Sergeant Kiesel!” Zoller
shouted.
“Yes, sir!”
“Take Hoffman with you and try to find Gratz. He couldn’t have left very long ago and may not have got far. Take a quick look backstage. If you don’t find him, come back.”
“Yes, sir!”
Kiesel motioned for Hoffman to follow, and together they headed for the stairs. Zoller looked back down at the street. Running soldiers could be spotted here and there, going from hydrant to tank. They’re deploying, Zoller thought, a chill running up his spine. It won’t be long now.
A machine-gun burst rapped into the wall near him, and he ducked. Corporal Schulz wasn’t so lucky, and a bullet hit him in the head. Zoller watched in horror as Schulz collapsed on his back, his face a bloody mask. More machine-gun bullets hit the parapet of the roof, and Zoller didn’t feel much like raising his head again. The French had now set up machine guns high up in the building across the street. It would be suicidal to raise his head again.
He was alone. He crouched behind the parapet and tried to plan his next move. Sooner or later, he knew, the French would climb up to the rooftop and try to kill or capture him. That meant he should find a position where he could defend himself from an attack coming from the doorway. He spotted a raised skylight as large as a bed and crept toward it, keeping low. As he passed Schulz, he nearly gagged at the sight of the corporal’s mangled face and bloody brains. Suddenly Zoller felt faint. As he put the skylight between himself and the door, he was beginning to think that death could be gruesome and painful, not at all like the beautiful orgasm he had fantasized.
He peered over the top of the skylight and looked at the doorway. He reminded himself that he’d better not fire at the first figure he saw, because it might be Kiesel or Hoffman returning. His teeth chattered. He hoped that when the fatal bullet came, it would kill him quickly... with no pain.
Kneeling over the unconscious body, Mahoney heard a clamor of footsteps. He moved into the darkest shadows of the narrow corridor. A lone ray of light from somewhere shone down on the lifeless body of the blond German youth in the tuxedo. The whole front of his white shirt was crimson.
As he heard the footsteps come closer, Mahoney could discern two voices speaking German. Back to the wall, he lowered the submachine gun and pointed it in their direction.
Kiesel and Hoffman moved quickly through the backstage labyrinth, searching for Private Gratz. Hoffman considered suggesting to Kiesel that they both run away, but he lacked the courage to do so. He told himself that all he could do now was follow orders and hope for the best.
Turning a corner, they froze in their tracks. Before them, halfway down a dark corridor, was the reclining body of a man wearing a tuxedo—a man who looked very much like Gratz. Sergeant Kiesel motioned with his hand, and Hoffman followed him toward the body.
“It is Gratz,” said Kiesel. “I wonder where he found the tuxedo.”
“I wonder too ... ” Hoffman said, as they kneeled over Gratz’s prone body.
Then, suddenly, their world was exploding with thunder and lightning. The two Germans screamed and writhed in agony as bullets ripped their bodies apart. They collapsed, twitching and spurting blood, onto the well-dressed corpse of Private Gratz.
Mahoney came out of the shadows, his submachine gun smoking. He walked toward the two uniformed S.S. men and kicked them over onto their backs. Both men were bleeding profusely, no longer posing a threat to anyone.
Mahoney stepped over their bodies and headed for the stairway down which they had descended.
Huddling behind the skylight, Lieutenant Zoller wondered what the commotion from below signified. Had Kiesel and Hoffman shot Gratz escaping, or had they engaged the French. Zoller wiped his face with a trembling hand and wondered what to do next. He knew his time on earth must be drawing to a close, but he was determined to take as many of the enemy with him as he could. He wished Kiesel and Hoffman would return. He didn’t want to die alone...
He pointed his rifle toward the door, his guts twisting and churning. He didn’t mind dying so much, but the suspense was driving him mad. He thought he probably should turn the rifle around, stick the barrel in his mouth, and blow his brains out. That at least would be a quick, clean death, but of course it wouldn’t be honorable. And because he was an S.S. officer he would have to die honorably. Somehow, he knew, he must hold out and face his end like a man.
Suddenly a figure in khaki burst through the doorway, firing a submachine gun from the waist. It was, Zoller saw, an American soldier and he ran forward some distance, then dove to his stomach. As Zoller peered at the American from behind the skylight, the Yank jerked his head to the side and looked directly at the German, who ducked.
The American opened fire on the Kraut, and his bullets sent shards of glass flying in all directions. Crouching low behind the wooden base of the skylight, Zoller took a hand grenade out of his boot top. He pulled the cord in the handle and tossed it in the direction of the khaki-clad soldier.
When Mahoney saw the grenade flying toward him, he knew instantly that he must catch it and throw it away before he was killed. Jumping to his feet, he caught the grenade on its first bounce, lobbing it back at the German.
But his aim was short and the grenade fell into the open skylight, exploding below. The roof shook and Mahoney grabbed his submachine gun, charging the German. He fired as he ran, to keep the German from raising his head and shooting back, but as he rounded the skylight and caught a glimpse of the German, his gun, he discovered, was out of bullets.
Zoller blinked in surprise. He had expected to be dead. He’d thought the big American would shoot him, but apparently he had no more ammunition. With a victorious smile, Zoller raised his Mauser to shoot his brave captive.
But Mahoney threw his own gun at Zoller, upsetting his aim, and then charged him. Zoller tried to aim again, but Mahoney dove through the air and grabbed the Mauser with his two big hands. He collided with Zoller and both of them fell to the surface of the roof. They wrestled with each other over possession of the rifle. Kicking, kneeing each other in the groin, trying to gouge out the other’s eyes, neither man seemed to have enough strength to wrest the rifle away from the other.
When Zoller realized that he and the American were at a stalemate, he decided to take a chance. Letting go of the rifle with one hand, he pushed his stiffened forefinger toward Mahoney’s right eye, but the American’s reflexes were quick. He ducked, and Zoller’s finger crashed into Mahoney’s steel helmet, while Mahoney pulled hard on the rifle. It broke loose from the hand of the Kraut and Mahoney brought the butt around, slamming it into Zoller’s face. Zoller was stunned for a moment, then fell limp onto the roof.
Mahoney got to his feet and pointed the barrel of the Mauser at the German, who was trying to clear the cobwebs out of his head. When he looked up he could see that the big American had the drop on him.
“On your feet!” said Mahoney in German.
Rising unsteadily, Zoller realized that he was being taken prisoner. Although, he had sworn to fight to the death, he had failed. His oath was invalid.
“Anybody else up here?” Mahoney said.
“Only him.” Zoller pointed to Corporal Schulz.
“Anybody alive?” Mahoney looked at the corpse.
“No.”
Mahoney gestured toward the door with the Mauser. “Get going.”
Zoller didn’t move. “The crowd down there will tear me apart.”
“It’s what you deserve. Now move!”
Imploringly, Zoller gazed into Mahoney’s eyes. “As one soldier to another... I ask you ... please shoot me.”
Mahoney shook his head. “No.”
“Please.”
“Fuck you, Kraut. Get moving!”
Zoller thought of the swarms of angry French citizens flaying him, gouging out his eyes. He wasn’t afraid to die but he knew he couldn’t bear the pain of torture.
“I’m not going to tell you again.” Mahoney nudged him with the barrel of the Mauser.
“I
’m not moving ... ” Zoller said. “You’ll have to shoot me.”
“I don’t have to shoot you,” Mahoney said. “I can bop you on the head and drag you out like a dog.”
“No!” screamed Zoller, breaking into a run and heading for the edge of the parapet.
“Halt!”
But Zoller kept running. When he came to the edge of the parapet he leapt over. Mahoney aimed quickly and took a wild shot, but Zoller had dropped out of sight. Mahoney dashed to the ledge and saw the German officer toppling to the ground. When the German hit the cobblestones, the bones of his body and head shattered and broke through the skin. A red puddle formed around him.
Mahoney heard footsteps behind him and turned. French soldiers were running onto the roof from the stairway, a black-bereted lieutenant leading them. They were surprised to discover one dead German and one live American sergeant.
“What happened?” the lieutenant said. He almost felt like saluting the sergeant.
“It’s over now,” Mahoney replied.
The lieutenant pointed to the dead corporal lying in front of the parapet. “Is he the only German up here?”
“I think so,” Mahoney replied. “Three more dead ones are in the theater below and one tried to fly away... but he didn’t get very far.”
The French soldiers approached the parapet, they looked down at the crowd forming around the dead S.S. officer. The lieutenant turned to Mahoney.
“Who killed the Germans in the opera house?”
“Me, sir.”
The lieutenant pointed to the dead German on the roof. “What about the one over there?”
“He was dead when I arrived.”
“And the Kraut on the street jumped off the roof?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did he do that?”
“He didn’t want to be taken prisoner, sir.”
“You attacked all these Germans by yourself?” The lieutenant scrutinized Mahoney’s face, looking for answers and possible motivations.
