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Admiral Doenitz went on the radio to declare that "the military struggle continues [against] the spreading of Bolshevism." But German soldiers were now surrendering by the tens of thousands. Two days after Hitler's suicide, all German forces in Italy gave up. On May 4 all Wehrmacht troops in northwestern Germany, Denmark and the Netherlands surrendered to the British. On May 5 and 6 Doenitz sent Admiral Hans von Friedeburg and General Alfred Jodl to negotiate complete surrender to Eisenhower. The Germans' only goal now was to yield as much territory and as many troops as possible to the Western Allies rather than the Soviets. Eisenhower refused any deal and told the Germans that "unless they instantly ceased all pretense and delay I would close the entire Allied front and would, by force, prevent any more German refugees from entering our lines."
At 2:41 on the morning of May 7, in a red schoolhouse in the French city of Reims, the Germans signed the surrender. But it remained secret.
At Supreme Allied Headquarters in Paris, reporters had been rounded up on 15 minutes' notice the previous afternoon and loaded onto a plane. Only after they were airborne did a general tell them that they were to cover the surrender and that the story was off the record until the Allied governments announced it. "I therefore pledge . . . you on your honor," he said.
Edward Kennedy, the A.P.'s chief European war correspondent, got all the details into his notebook and flew back to Paris with the other reporters. Then, 24 hours before the formal announcement, he called his agency's London bureau. "Germany has surrendered unconditionally," he said. "That's official. Make the dateline Reims, France, and get it out." (The A. P. at first boasted of Kennedy's exclusive and protested vehemently when Eisenhower temporarily gagged all A. P. correspondents, but six months later Kennedy was fired for his breach of the rules.)
By noon on Monday, May 7, millions had heard the news, but the Allied governments still refused to confirm the story, apparently because of a Soviet request for a delay until a formal surrender in Berlin could be arranged. Several hundred thousand people milled around for five hours in New York's Times Square, sober, uncertain whether to celebrate or not. Ticker tape fluttered through the air, then stopped. Finally Mayor Fiorello La Guardia bellowed through a loudspeaker, "Go home ... or return to your jobs."
Not until the next day, on a chilly gray morning that happened to be Truman's 61st birthday, did the new President go on the radio and read his formal proclamation: "The Allied armies, through sacrifice and devotion and with God's help ..."
There was mist and rain in London too, where Churchill spoke just after Big Ben had sounded 3 p.m.: "This is your victory. It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land." Then the crowds sang For He's a Jolly Good Fellow. And God Save the King.
They sang that in Paris too. And the Marseillaise. And they danced in the streets. "We waltzed in the Place de la Bastille," says Lucie Aubrac, who was 32 then, "and the noise of the wooden shoes on the cob blestones was very pretty. They were playing accordions, and there were Chinese lanterns. There were also church bells. It was a happy sound. It was marvelous. Oh, we drank. We drank a lot. Everybody was kissing. There was such a feeling of joy."