Liberation

Gaspard d’Estiang was in a pickle, for like any sensible businessman responsible for a family of five — he was a good Catholic after all — he had collaborated with the Nazis and the Vichy regime of Marshal Pétain, providing the German Wehrmacht with entertainment by running the three classiest brothels in Paris, even bringing in some exotic girls from the colonies, catering to every possible perversion and whim while secretly filming his clientele in the act and listening in on their conversations, all of which he happily turned over to the Gestapo, the German secret police, for a substantial fee which they happily paid because they used it to blackmail the enemies of Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, Hitler’s private army, and to catch any resistance fighter who fell into the snare of his honey traps, who perhaps wanted to forget his woes for one night and got a little too drunk and spilt the beans in the arms of a beautiful woman, causing his fellow freedom fighters to be rounded up and shot like they deserve, and he also helped the German leaders obtain priceless pieces of art, since he was an art historian after all with a degree from the Sorbonne, an art historian who once even had drinks with Hermann G?ring, the head of the German Luftwaffe, a man of great appetites and a broad vision, who thanked him and complimented him for being a good Frenchman, even calling him an ally, a friend, him who had so few friends among his own countrymen, but now Paris was falling and the Germans were scrambling to get out and he might not be treated so well by the newly arrived Allied occupiers, even though he was sure he could provide the same services to them since their troops also needed entertainment after all and since he knew some of the German high command so well, the allies might find his insights valuable, but he heard that some resistance fighters, those filthy Communists, were killing upstanding citizens who obeyed the law under Pétain, Pétain who was the head of the French government after all, he had to be obeyed for surely he did what was best for France and just because there was a war on did not mean you should not obey the law for what is civilization without its laws after all? but now Gaspard realised he had to do what was best for him, him and his family, and that was to get out of Paris as soon as possible with the Germans and make sure that those damn Communists don’t get him first because he was a capitalist and they hate men of means, men who manage to build a profitable business by providing goods and services that are in demand, men like him.

The only problem was that as he walked from his business after he counted his money, took out a bag of diamonds that he kept for a situation just like this (who can resist the glitter and glare of a diamond after all?), and headed towards the Germans to convince them they should take him with them, he rounded a corner and found himself in the middle of a street battle between a group made up of members of the French resistance and the Free French army and a platoon of Germans who were holed up in the Gestapo headquarters.

“Merde” he thought, “this is just my luck.” Behind a Citro?n a resistance fighter was firing up at the Germans with a sten gun, a notoriously unreliable weapon that often jammed, but for some reason this time fired smoothly, stinging his ears and making Gaspard winch. He looked longingly toward the door of the Gestapo building, a door he knew so well, a door he entered often. Perhaps he could make a run for it. The sten gun of the resistance fighter might jam, giving him enough time to get to Captain Ficht, Captain Ficht who knew him so well and who might help him get out of the City of Light that was quickly turning dark for him.

“Get back” a French soldier shouted at him, and Gaspard took shelter behind some cars. Bullets tore into the cobbled street, ricocheting against the car, thudding into the bodywork and ruining its paint. “I hope the owner has insurance” Gaspard thought.

A soldier dashed over the street, but he is shot down. A medic tries to reach him, but the Germans mow him down as well. There is no mercy on the streets of Paris today.

“Perhaps I could wave at them” thought Gaspard, “surely they will recognize me, me who they know so well.” Gaspard gets up onto a ledge which provides him scant cover and he peers at the German sniper in the building ahead.

“Get down you fool” shouts one of the Commies.

“You are the fool” Gaspard says.

Gaspard waves at the Germans, but nothing happens.

“What the hell are you doing?” shouts a Gendarme.

“Perhaps I should go around and approach their building from the other side” thinks Gaspard.

He drops down from the ledge and lightly sprains his ankle. The Gendarme grabs him and pulls him down, just in time to avoid a spate of bullets fired in his direction from above.

“Merci, merci” says Gaspard.

“Now stay put” says the Gendarme, as he crawls forward and looks up at the Gestapo Headquarters.

Gaspard sneaks back towards the corner. A loud shot rings out and he hears a groan. Gaspard turns around and sees the Gendarme holding his arm and rolling in pain. Since all eyes are on the wounded man, Gaspard gets the chance to dash around the corner.

He brushes off his jacket, straightens his tie, and quickly walks down the road, hoping to approach the Germans from the other side. As he passes an alley a homeless man approaches him and shouts:

“Gaspard!”

Gaspard looks in his direction, just in time to see a blade flashing and slashing down at him, giving him just enough time to jump back and avoid being cut. Gaspard runs down the street as fast as he can.

“Come here, you cretin,” shouts the hobo, “you sold out my sister and the Boche took her to Buchenwald.”

Gaspard no longer listened. He ran as fast as he could. On the far corner of the block he turned towards the Gestapo Headquarters. Behind him he could hear his assailant coming for him, but fear gives you wings, fear makes you fly. He sees the door, the door he knew so well, and he dashes inside. As he enters the building the German soldiers fire a full burst of 7.92x57mm Mauser bullets into his chest with a MG-42 machine gun, ripping out chunks of his flesh and sending him reeling backwards.

As Gaspard lies bleeding out on the ground, he looks up at the church across the square and he sees the cross and then the gargoyles on the roof and he consoles himself that he is going to heaven because he is a good Catholic after all.

The End

This was a fiction-writing exercise where we had to look at the photo above and come up with some short story, any story, and this is my take. I watched the new Guy Ritchie movie The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare last night, so that might have influenced my writing, but have a look at that guy in the jacket standing on the ledge of the window. Isn’t that extraordinary? Perhaps it is a very brave man acting as an observer. Who knows? But my mind made him a quisling. What story can you come up with?

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