Munich Signature (Zion Covenant) by Thoene Bodie & Thoene Brock

Author:Thoene, Bodie & Thoene, Brock [Thoene, Bodie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: www.FamilyAudioLibrary.com
Published: 2009-06-11T16:00:00+00:00

21

The Turtle and the Barking Dog

Just behind the quay along the River Seine was the winding little street where Thomas spent much of his free time in Paris. The rue de la Huchette ran from the place St. Michel and ended at rue du Petit Pont. The street was only three hundred yards long, but it was long enough for the decrepit Hotel du Caveau, the Bureau de Police, and three of the most famous bordellos in Paris.

Eventually, every tourist managed to wander up the rue de la Huchette. The street had been made famous by the patronage of a host of American writers who had lived in Paris during the twenties. Just steps from the stalls of the open market booksellers, it seemed to embody every cliché about the city. The police station existed in harmony with the maison de joie across the street, the house known as le Panier Fleuri, “The Basket of Blossoms.” “Only in Paris!” the American tourists would exclaim loudly.

Often tourists from every nation would enter the Café d’Eiffel for strong espresso or a glass of chilled white wine. Thomas, dressed in street clothes, took his place among a group of regulars—writers, artists, Bohemians, and exiles. They gathered in that place each evening for no other reason but to talk and drink the night away. Students of the Sorbonne often joined the ranks of malcontents. Long-legged, dark-eyed girls smiled at Thomas with sensuous mouths. They tossed their long black hair like the manes of wild horses, beckoning him closer. Chianti splashed onto the tablecloth. Art. Music. Literature. Philosophy. The politics of the day. Everything was discussed in the fluid accent of the French language, a prelude that sometimes led to talk about love. It was empty talk, as short as a stroll up the rue de la Huchette, as meaningless as a visit to the Basket of Blossoms. Yet it filled the empty hours, even though it could not fill the emptiness inside Thomas.

Two trips to Berlin had etched the German Führer’s madness more deeply into Thomas’s mind. Torchlight processions to the accompaniment of slowly tolling church bells resembled the march of dead men toward the brink of a glowing inferno. In such dark ceremonies, Hitler administered the blood oath: “I vow to remain true to my Führer, Adolf Hitler. I bind myself to carry out all orders without reluctance . . . ” As the hour tolled midnight, men sold their soul to this vow. And the whole world, Thomas knew, was drawing near to midnight as well.

Each day he had hoped for some contact from the British, from Churchill. He did not trust the French, so when a dark-eyed beauty had claimed to be allied with those opposing Hitler, he had clicked his heels and bowed and left the little hotel room with a brisk, “Heil Hitler!” He played the game well for the Gestapo agents he sensed were omnipresent in Paris. But he held out hope that at some point, as the

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