Novel Full Chapter 693: Stairway to Heaven
Chapter 693: Stairway to Heaven
The sound of gunfire was different now.
Measured. Purposeful.
Not the frenzy of war, no longer the cacophony of resistance, but the cold inevitability of reckoning.
Eighteen hours had passed since Berlin had issued its final ultimatum to the French Armed Forces.
Six remained.
Outside the barricaded Hôtel de Matignon, where De Gaulle and his loyalists had entrenched themselves behind sandbags and steel, the men of the 12th Armored Infantry Division, or what was left of them, stood in a line that no longer faced the enemy.
They faced their own.
“Captain, this is madness,” said Lieutenant Baudin, cradling his Mas 49 rifle like a man holding an heirloom about to be broken.
“Less than a week, that is how long it took the Germans to push to Paris. What good is this now?”
Captain Marchand didn’t answer at first.
He simply looked toward the palace, where the tricolor still hung, limp and rain-soaked, over a building that might soon be rubble.
“He’s not going to surrender,” Marchand said finally. “We all know it. He’ll take the whole city with him.”
A silence passed between them, one that felt like guilt.
Then came the murmurs. Quiet at first. Then louder.
Militiamen. Reservists. Even Gendarmerie officers, who had once sworn undying loyalty to the Republic.
“Enough.”
“We’re done dying for him.”
“This isn’t patriotism. This is suicide.”
And somewhere in the crowd, someone shouted it:
“Take him alive.”
It spread like fire through dry timber.
Inside the war room, the sounds of betrayal grew louder.
Explosions. Small arms. French voices shouting French names.
Not Germans.
De Gaulle stood at the long oak table, hands trembling.
Around him, the last officers of the Fifth Republic, the ones who were either still breathing or had not deserted outright, looked to him not with reverence now, but with despair.
“General…” Colonel Lafitte’s voice cracked. “They’re not the enemy. They’re us. Your own men.”
De Gaulle turned his gaze to the windows, where flames danced beyond the courtyard walls.
He knew it was over.
Knew it in the way a dying man knows his time without being told.
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “this is the price of principle.”
Another explosion. Closer this time.
Then the crash of a barricade collapsing.
“You can still surrender, sir,” said General Reynaud, eyes wide with pleading.
“They won’t execute you. We can negotiate terms. We must.”
De Gaulle’s face twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.
“Negotiate? With them?”
“No… if I surrender, they will hang me like a dog. In front of the cameras. In front of the world. I will be France’s final humiliation.”
He walked slowly to the far end of the room, where his coat and holstered pistol lay upon a chair untouched since dawn.
The shouting in the halls drew closer.
Boots now, not bombs.
Then he turned back to face them, his last faithful few.
His voice, for the final time, carried the same gravel-lined certainty that had once rallied millions.
“Gentlemen… the fact that you stood here to defend me until the very end… means that perhaps France and its Republic will rise again. It has been the greatest honor of my life to stand by your side.”
He reached for the holster.
No one stopped him.
There was no ceremony in the shot.
Just a flash.
A crack.
And silence.
When the door finally burst open, the soldiers found only the dying embers of a dream that had already ended hours before.
The Republic was dead.
But France… France might yet live.
—
The white flag flew at dawn.
Tied not to the tricolor, but to the broken barrel of a French tank, still smoldering on the Boulevard Saint-Germain.
A homemade banner, torn from a hospital curtain, fluttered weakly in the morning wind, its meaning unmistakable.
By 07:43, what remained of the French Army had laid down its arms.
The order was delivered in clipped tones, on open frequencies, without pride and without protest.
“This is Commandant Leclerc. De Gaulle is dead. We surrender. I repeat… we surrender.”
No callsign.
No coded phrase.
Just the final breath of a war that had already died the night before.
They came in columns, steel and soot.
From the east, Germany’s 3rd Army rolled through the shattered outskirts like wolves returning to a long-forsaken den.
Their E-50s growled down avenues still stained with blood and lined with burnt-out APCs.
From the east, the Russian 2nd Guards Armored Regiment advanced with brutal elegance.
Their own locally produced variants of the E-50 tank moved in formation, flanked by infantry, their helmets gleaming beneath the gray Paris sky.
In the air above, wings of turboprop-powered fighters flew in standard formation.
There would be no final stand.
No romantic suicide charge.
The war was over.
At the Place de la Concorde, the last French officers stood in formation.
No fanfare.
No flags.
Just uniforms stained with sweat, ash, and humiliation.
German Generalfeldmarschall Heinrich von Koch dismounted from the rear of an armored command vehicle.
He stepped forward as French Commandant Leclerc offered his sidearm without a word.
He took it, ejected the magazine, and racked the slide, locking it back before handing it over to his nearby adjutant.
Behind him, Russian General Sokolov approached, removing his gloves with the air of a man disarming a landmine.
“Let the record show,” he said, in perfect French, “that the occupation of Paris begins today, but the death of your Republic happened yesterday.”
Leclerc said nothing.
But the look in his eyes was enough: tired, broken, relieved.
Maybe now the bleeding would stop.
The streets filled with soldiers, German and Russian alike.
Checkpoint by checkpoint, intersection by intersection, Paris was divided with mechanical efficiency.
The Eiffel Tower was draped in temporary scaffolding, half its upper frame blackened from fire.
Notre-Dame stood scarred, but intact.
Only the people, the Parisians who had yet to flee the city remained uncertain.
Silent. Watching.
Some wept.
Some cursed.
Some simply stared at the foreign flags now flying where once the Republic had claimed its birthright.
And above it all, in the bitter wind, the crows circled.
Watching. Waiting.
History would write of conquest.
But those who lived through it would remember the silence.
—
The fire crackled in the hearth, but the room was cold.
Bruno von Zehntner stood at the tall windows of his war office, staring out at the dying dusk above Berlin.
The horizon bled red with winter light, and somewhere in the distance, the first bells of surrender were tolling from the city’s church.
He said nothing at first.
The room was silent, save for the muffled tick of the grandfather clock and the subtle rustle of papers behind him as aides and ministers waited, none daring to speak first.
On the desk beside him, a secure communique lay unopened.
It didn’t need reading. He already knew.
Charles de Gaulle was dead.
By his own hand. A pistol.
A single shot… right temple.
His most loyal officers had surrendered not long after.
Bruno’s jaw clenched.
“Coward.”
The word was sharp enough to silence the room all over again, though no one had spoken.
He turned slowly, eyes colder than the steel he’d worn into battle a thousand times.
The firelight caught the scars along his face, etched into him long before this war ever began.
In this moment, he looked far older than his years.
“That man… that man… did not have the right.”
His voice remained even, almost calm. But the heat beneath it was volcanic.
“He did not have the right to end his own life. Not after what he did. Not after what he failed to do. Not after what he led the world into.”
No one dared interrupt.
Bruno took a slow breath, grounding himself before continuing.
“Had he stood to the bitter end… had he watched Paris burn… fought for every street…”
He paused, letting the memory of 1945 from another lifetime flicker across his expression just long enough to be felt.
“Then perhaps… perhaps… he might have earned the right to snub his enemies with a bullet.”
“But this?” He spat the word like venom. “This was not courage. It was convenience. He ran. He ran from the gallows. He ran from the cameras. From the historians. From his own people.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly, almost bitterly:
“And from me.”
He stepped away from the window and approached the heavy oak desk in the center of the room.
“There’s nothing to be done about De Gaulle’s death now. But history will not honor him. Not as a martyr. Not as a rebel. Not as a ’man of principle.’”
He turned to his adjutant, voice hard and absolute.
“I want a speech drafted. Tonight.”
“It will be read before the Reichstag and broadcast globally.”
“We will name him what he was… a dictator, a despot, a provocateur. A man who plunged his nation into war for the sake of his shattered ego. A man who refused accountability. A man who lacked the nobility to face his end like a soldier.”
“He will not be remembered as a hero. He will not be remembered as a revolutionary. He will be remembered as a cowardly rat, one who tried to plunge the world into chaos from his self-made throne of paranoia and failure.”
“And his allies… across the oceans and seas… will watch as we do not honor him with a state funeral.”
“There will be no flags. No procession. No rifle volleys.”
“He will be buried in a mass grave. With the rest of the idiots who followed him into this foolish war… if you can even call it a war.”
“It was a tantrum.”
Bruno’s voice dropped to a final, seething whisper.
“And France paid the price.”
Then, more quietly, to no one in particular:
“And still… I would have preferred to hang him myself.”