The Man Who Saved Paris

Although I do re-read some books, there are only two that I have actually read three times. And they are both about Paris. One is Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables," about the French Revolution. The other is "Is Paris Burning?" about the end of WWII.

The first one I admire because Hugo tells five different stories and then manages to weave them all together at the end. I remain in awe of this magnificent accomplishment. I secretly plan to read it again, trying to outline each of the five strands, graphically plotting how the weaving works.

The second one I admire for its true story of The Man Who Saved Paris. At the end of WWII, Hilter, now mad and suffering from Parkinson's, ordered Dietrich von Choltitz to destroy Paris before the Allies arrived. Choltitz refused. Paris was saved.

But it's an interesting adventure when you re-read a book. You find more, not in the book, but in yourself. Your prior experiences, your knowledge, your point of view change with each reading. Sometimes your reactions to the book are the same. And sometimes, very surprisingly, they are not.

Such was the case when I re-read "Is Paris Burning?" I found Hamlet, not Tienneman-Square-Guy, this time around. Choltitz did, indeed, prevent the complete distruction of one of the world's most beautiful cities. But he seemed nearly passive-agressive. Nearly co-dependent. Melancholy. Indecisive. He suspected Hitler was insane, but he still planted massive amounts of dynamite around the city. He would follow orders. He would not follow orders. He was afraid of Hitler. He was afraid of being remembered as the man who destroyed Paris. In the end, he simply ran out of time.

At least, that's what I read this time around.

On the other hand, Major General Spiedel, when ordered to rain down bombs on Paris, decided to forget the message.

Any good historical account always includes snapshots that tickle. Here are some from this grand account of WWII:

Ernest Heminway was one of the first Americans to re-enter Paris, a good two hours ahead of the American Army. He and two colleagues sneaked in silently.

After capturing several German solders, Hemingway also captured their pants, knowing that they would not escape in the raw.

He also liberated the Ritz, his old stompping grounds from the literary '30s. With a very large group of Allies, Hemingway stromed to the bar. The bartender asked him what he would like. Hemingway replied

"How about 72 martinis?"