The Traitor's Emblem (38 page)

When I said good-bye to Juan Carlos, before getting into the car with a good journalist friend of mine, Moncho Paz, I told both of them that, though it was a good story, it would never be enough to sustain a whole novel. When I arrived home I told the story to my wife, Katuxa.

“I can tell you’re going to change your mind,” she said, shaking her head.

“It’s impossible to write a story with only those elements. There’s no human interest, no conflict. It’s just an anecdote. Besides, I’ve already finalized the paperwork for {...}.”

“Trust me . . . you’ll write this one,” said Katuxa with the patronizing certainty that makes me hate and love her so very much.

I’ve discovered, thanks to her, that when I insist on how little I want something or how little something interests me, everyone around me immediately knows that it is the only thing on my mind. So I spent the next ten weeks trying to demonstrate to everyone how wrong they were.

I was, of course, the last person to understand that the only one who was wrong was me.

Fortunately, by then I had already read a hundred books and taken a thousand pages of notes. Most important of all were the following two paragraphs:

The Masons were the object of persecution during the Nazi dictatorship in Germany: more than eighty thousand of them died in the concentration camps. An ancient Masonic legend claims that the fall of all the lodges was the fault of one single Mason who sold all the others out to the Nazis.

As payment, they say that Hitler commissioned his personal goldsmith to make a gold cross, a mocking replica of the brass medal of the treacherous thirty-second-degree Mason. In it, the goldsmith set a very special diamond, which had been part of an unmatched set of diamonds that had belonged to Hitler’s niece—and lover—Geli Raubal.

Could Juan Carlos González’s chunky gold object really be the famous traitor’s emblem? We don’t know for sure, but the way it was made and the independent expert’s evaluation suggest that this is possible. This is in addition to the fact that Juan Carlos has received offers of vast sums from distinguished Masons who have come to learn of the object’s existence “by chance.”

Whether legend or truth, I suddenly understood that this story would indeed be enough to sustain a novel. It was lacking one essential component, however, which was why anyone should commit such an act of betrayal. That is where my story parts company with the legend and enters the souls of Paul, Jürgen, and Alys, who, as they fight against the sins of their fathers, commit a number of sins of their own. Eventually, as in all good stories, the characters and their problems end up devouring the premise from which they sprung.

There were four sources of inspiration for The Traitor’s Emblem. The first was Juan Carlos González’s own story, his emblem, and the legend. The second was the autobiographical writings of Sebastian Haffner and Viktor Klemperer, who helped me penetrate the hugely complex mentality of Germany between the wars. The third inspiration is predominantly for my female readers. The character of Alys is my way of expanding the feelings contained in the song “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses,” one of the best songs from the greatest rock band of all time: U2. It was between the wars in Germany when the independent woman first appeared in Europe—sexually liberated, with equality of opportunity, or reasonably close, given the circumstances. She attained this position herself, though there were many who tried to place obstacles in her way.

The fourth and final inspiration for this story was Alexandre Dumas’ novel The Count of Monte Cristo, which mine does not even remotely resemble (to my misfortune), but which starts off from the same idea: a need for vengeance that has lain dormant for decades.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following people:

In Barcelona, Antonia Kerrigan, the best agent in the universe.

In Vigo, Juan Carlos González, who gave me the idea for this novel by telling me about his father’s real-life quest.

In Munich, Isold and Berdy Brugmann, who never tired of showing me around the city; the stranger on the bus who stole my wallet, for this led me to discover the police stations of Bavaria and agents Schmidt and Ziegler who, when I told them about my research, showed me Hitler’s apartment in Prinzregentenplatz, one floor below that of the Tannenbaum family. The apartment now belongs to the police and the only piece of the dictator’s furniture that remains is a set of shelves housing the station’s sports trophies.

In Brooklyn, Tom and Elaine Colchie, to whom I am indebted not only for the privilege of being published in the English language, but also for all their valuable advice.

In Manhattan, I have the greatest thanks to Judith Curr, David Brown, Rachel Bostic, Amy Tannenbaum—yes, what a coincidence!—and the whole team at Atria Books. But very specially to my tireless editor, Johanna Castillo, who always knows best.

And, as always, Katuxa, Andrea, and Javier. Without your love I would be nothing.