The Journey

By Tish Cook

Much is known about the genocide of millions in the Holocaust during World War II, how torture and murder in the Nazi concentration camps in Europe kept their ovens going 24/7. But not all murders took place in those camps. For years Romani "gypsies" felt the wrath of the twisted Nazis, gunned down in their camps, their bodies left to the animals.
In 1945, as the Allied forces advanced on Berlin, a Nazi captain who was responsible for the slaughter of thousands of Romani flees his native Germany, lighting out for a new life in Argentina.
Years later, a chance meeting brings three strangers - a Romani woman, a German Jew, and an American teenager - together, and they soon realize that not only the events of the Holocaust had an effect on their lives, but that one of the murderers had escaped capture. The three form an alliance, and begin the journey to find the Nazi criminal and bring him to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tish Cook
• Release date: Jul 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005143985

Tish Cook

Self-published author. Novels include: When You Speak My Name, The Parrot In the Parlor, Wednesdays At the Red Pepper Cafe. Also writes under pen name Hinds Beverley for her latest Chicago homicide detective Lora Cannan series.

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The Journey

Tish Cook

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 Tish Cook

Other titles by Tish Cook:

When You Speak My Name

The Parrot in the Parlor

Wednesdays at the Red Pepper Cafe

Other titles by Tish Cook writing as Hinds Beverley:

Dead Head

Dead Ringers

Dead at the Wheel

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From the author

Webster Dictionary: Gypsy - A member of a traditionally itinerant people who originated in northern India and now live chiefly in south and southwest Asia, Europe, and North America.

The word gypsy was derived from Egyptian. It stems from the one-time belief that these people came from Egypt. Today, it is considered by most to be an ethnic slur. Instead, the words Roma or Romani or Sinti are preferred. A portion of this story takes place during a time when gypsy was considered the appropriate word.

The Romani originated in the northwest regions of India, and left sometime between the 6th and 11th century to work in Middle Eastern courts of their own volition, or were taken as slaves. A small number of nomadic groups were cut off from their return to the subcontinent by conflicts, and they moved west, eventually settling in Europe, Turkey and North Africa. The original traveling Romani populations supported themselves as performers, artisans and tradespeople. They were blacksmiths, farm hands, musicians, builders, bakers, doing whatever they could to survive.

But no matter where they go, they have faced discrimination and persecution. The most devastating occurred during World War II. According to the British Broadcasting Company (BBC), the Romani were among the first targets of Nazi atrocities. It’s estimated that close to two million Romani died in concentration camps and through other means of extermination.

The Journey is a fictional story, but has roots in World War II.

I was in high school when our history class was shown footage of Russian and Western Allied military forces liberating Nazi concentration camps. The black and white images—bodies stacked on top of one another, skeletal remains in cremation ovens, and of the starving and half-clothed staring at the camera from behind barbed wire fences—were horrific, and have stayed with me to this day.

Nazi war criminals fled Germany via ratlines, a term coined to define a system of escape routes for Nazis and other fascists. Favorite destinations for these criminals were Argentina, Brazil, and Chile. Some who used the ratlines found shelter in the city of Bariloche, Argentina.

Those who helped Nazis escape:

- Swiss bankers

- The Catholic Church

- The Red Cross

This story wasn’t easy for me to write. My baby-boomer generation is keenly aware of the Holocaust and the millions who suffered and died at the hands of monsters. We read about it in school, in the newspapers, in published books. As a result, I struggled to type certain words and terms that elicit those horrific crimes against humanity. But I felt compelled to write it because, while we know about the Holocaust and the millions of lives lost (unfortunately some don’t know, and some even deny it happened), many of us don’t know about the Nazi persecution and slaughter of over 500,000 Romani.

I have used the image of an inverted triangle throughout the book. Sewn on the shirts of those in the concentration camps, the inverted triangle was the symbol used to identify gypsies.

Here are just a few Google terms I used to prepare to write The Journey:

- History of the Romani

- Ratlines

- Gypsies in the Holocaust

- Who helped Nazis escape after WWII?

- Gypsy memorial in Germany

- Bariloche, Argentina

- Nuremburg Trials

- The Berlin Wall

- Red Cross and Vatican helped Nazis escape

- The Holocaust

- Nazi concentration camp badges

Chapter 1

October 28, 2012, Berlin Germany

The day started gloomy with a brisk northerly wind, and threatened to stay that way. Emma Weiss looked out the bus window at the hoard of shoppers clogging the sidewalks. On any other late October Saturday Emma would be among them, bundled up against the cold, prowling the stores for bargains, searching the markets for the best vegetables and meat, stopping for a quick lunch somewhere close to home.

While shoppers peeled off into stores and restaurants, Emma sat quietly and waited for the bus to get to its destination. Today was to be a solemn day for her and a few others. It was the culmination of years of hard work and sacrifice. It was a day to remember the lives that were once filled with promise, but were lost before that would ever happen, a day to acknowledge atrocities done to the innocent, a day to acknowledge the resilience of the human spirit.

Eventually the bus stopped at Tiergarten Park, a sprawling 500 acres known for its beauty and closeness to the inner city. It was popular for its jogging trails, walking paths, soccer fields, picnic sites, and shallow ponds that froze over in the winter and welcomed ice skaters.

She stood tall in a thin, but sturdy frame. The lines on her face spoke of her age; her once dark hair, trimmed to just below her ear, was mostly gray now. Large gold hoops dangled from her lobes. She had hazel eyes, and wore a long, dark wool coat over a black ankle-length dress and black low-heel shoes. She was one of many who stepped off the bus. A young man ahead of her turned and offered his hand, helping her down the steps. She smiled and thanked him. He nodded, then turned and ran to meet his friends who were waiting for him at a nearby aging oak tree.

It would have been nice to spend the morning on one of the walking trails. When she was younger, she loved hiking, especially in the mountains. But she had only one thing in mind today—to walk the white stone path to a newly-built memorial, a monument that was to be dedicated to the memory of the hundreds of thousands Romani and German Senti who had been victims of the Holocaust.

Israeli artist, Dani Karavan, had designed the monument, a shallow, water-filled, circular pool about twenty meters in diameter and surrounded by a walking path of flat, white stones of different shapes and sizes. The Reichstag, seat of German Parliament, was just a stone’s throw away. A triangular-shaped stone rested at the water’s surface in the center of the pool. During the Holocaust, the inverted triangle badge had been the symbol sewn onto the clothing to identify gypsies, as well as other undesirables, in the concentration camps. The stone in the pool had been designed to be retractable, so a fresh flower would be placed on it every day.

Auschwitz, written by Italian poet Santino Spinelli, was engraved in the metal ring surrounding the pool’s rim. A chronology of the Nazi extermination campaign was carved into a large stone and mounted next to the pool.

Nearby stood twelve concrete pillars. Set three feet apart, they also formed a triangle. Each one was three feet tall, and one foot square. A clear plexi-glass cube sat atop each pillar. Inside each cube was an artifact that had been donated as a symbol of the Gypsy culture or as a remembrance of those souls lost.

She wasn’t sure what the size of the crowd would be. The event had been in all the newspapers and on social media. But the day was raw, and not very welcoming. She was surprised to see a large crowd ahead of her, all moving toward the memorial. Some in the solemn group were younger, while others bore signs of having lived through the Nazi hell. They were in wheelchairs; others gripped canes, or a loved one’s arm to help steady their weary legs. Bundled up against the cold, they moved as one toward the viewing area where rows of chairs and a tiered grandstand stood waiting.

She found a seat on the end of one of the last rows of chairs, plopped down, and shoved her hands into her coat pockets for more warmth. She was surveying the crowd when she was distracted by a young woman in a long wool coat who had pushed a wheelchair next to her. Can he sit by you? the young woman said.

Of course, Emma replied with a nod. She looked over her shoulder to see a frail, gray-haired man slumped in the chair. His head was covered with a black wool cap with earflaps. He seemed to have melted into his thick wool overcoat. A heavy gray blanket covered his lap and legs. He looked at Emma with glazed eyes. I never thought I’d see this day, he whispered.

Me either, she said, and reached out and touched his arm.

I lost my entire family. He swiped his nose with his gloved hand.

I’m so very sorry. She pressed gently on his arm. She knew the feeling all too well.

The German Chancellor spoke for several minutes using words like genocide, atrocities, suffering, responsibility, indifference. The service was capped off by the laying of a single fresh flower on the retractable stone. The applause echoed long after the flower had been placed.

She lingered a while, taking in the view, promising herself she’d be back. She walked over to the concrete pillars and found the one with the brass plaque that read: Donated by - anonymous.

Though she had just celebrated her seventy-ninth birthday, the memories would always be there. But since Bariloche, they had diminished some, like the clouds drifting away after a violent thunderstorm. She looked to the sky briefly, then shifted her gaze to the artifact inside, her eyes bringing back the past . . .

Chapter 2, August, 1945, Sixty-seven years earlier

Twilight had slid over the small, rural town, leaving the night air warm and damp. The streets and back alleys were empty; most of the residents were inside their tiny, whitewashed houses, away from windows and prying eyes.

He walked alone on the stone sidewalk. A small, ragged burlap knapsack holding all of his possessions hung over his stooped shoulders. His feet, stuffed into socks full of holes and shoes that were too small, were tired and blistered. His long-sleeved plaid shirt was torn and threadbare; the cuffs hung open at his wrists. Dark wool pants sagged on his rakish frame. His unshaven weathered face was caked with dried mud in spots. A sandy blonde mane, once neatly trimmed, drooped down the back of his neck and covered the tops of his ears.

But his gait was steady, and he scanned the area from side to side; his tired, pale blue eyes darted in every direction, looking for anybody who might be able to claim to the authorities that they had seen him.

His instructions had been clear: get rid of everything—his uniform, weapons, photos, official documents. Blend in. It was the only way he would survive. Look like any other citizen who’d been through hell. Remember to say the right words. Blend in. Use the map he’d been given. Blend in.

His eyes followed the stone stairway up to the entrance of St. Boniface Church. The Gothic-style church had been built in the early thirteenth century—stone cut from a nearby quarry, tall ornate spires, a couple of marble statues on either side of the main door, plenty of stained glass windows.

He took the steps and tried opening the front door. It was locked. He thought that was odd, since most churches left their doors unlocked for anyone seeking refuge or solace. But times were different now. People were afraid.

Then he saw a worn stone path leading to the small rectory, which stood about twenty meters north of the church on a small plot of dying grass. The white clapboard exterior was dull with age, ghostly in its appearance. A dim light from inside cast a soft glow on the curtains that dangled loosely in the front window. Somebody was home.

He slinked around the corner of the church into the darkness, dropped the knapsack to his feet, and pressed his back to the stone façade. He held his breath and listened. The only sounds were that of an accordion being played—probably at a tavern nearby, a far-away train whistle, and the lowing of cattle in the fields. Another quick scan of the street and sidewalk in front of the rectory told him he was still alone.

He grabbed his bag, stooped low, and sprinted, unaware of the painful blisters, and made it to the rectory in seconds. The weathered wooden front porch boards creaked with each step. He took a deep breath and silently blew it out, knocked on the door and waited. Nothing stirred inside. A few seconds later, he knocked again, this time harder.

Finally, the sound of footsteps; the front door opened. Father Daniel Schmidt’s eyes held the man’s gaze. How can I help you, my son?

The man leaned in close. I’m looking for the path to Heaven, Father.

Schmidt stuck his head out the door and looked around. I’ve been expecting you. Hurry, they may be watching. He stepped back and waved the man inside.

Father Schmidt was a pleasant-looking man with a pleasant-looking smile, middle-aged, short and a little on the thick side, with large intelligent eyes, a wide nose, and thinning hair at the front. He’d been the town’s only priest for the last ten years.

Before Schmidt had arrived it was Father Johan Braunschelt, an overweight, angry, demanding priest who expected the townspeople to cook, clean and do for him whatever he wanted. Braunschelt had hoped to hold a high position in the church, but was assigned to the small town shortly after leaving the seminary twenty years earlier. He took his anger out on the parishioners. Attendance at the church was lacking. Ten years ago, Father Braunschelt died in his sleep of what was probably a heart attack–given his ever-expanding girth and lack of physical exercise, though whispers circulated that the women who cooked and cleaned for him weren’t happy with his roaming hands. He was buried in the cemetery behind the church.

Father Schmidt was a fresh face, just out of the seminary, and had been welcomed by the congregation. He didn’t disappoint his flock. Pews were full every Sunday.

The rectory where Schmidt lived was simple in design, with a living room, kitchen, small bath, bedroom and an office. Aging hardwood floors creaked in spots, paint on the plaster walls was peeling in places, a few worn area rugs were scattered about. But it was clean and tidy. Pictures of Jesus and his disciples dotted the walls. A delicate wooden cross was mounted next to the small fireplace. The house smelled of cigarettes and onions. Not an unpleasant smell to the visitor.

Follow me, please Schmidt said, and led the man into the small office next to the kitchen.