She had tried not to look at the memorial opposite the main gate when she first entered. Instead she walked quickly through the historical exhibitions and out into the main part of the camp, where some of the prisoner barracks had been reconstructed. Her mind swirled with emotions. She wanted to stay as long as possible and to leave immediately. She wanted to forget about the conference in Vienna and spend the next week in the Dachau archives searching for information about her grandparents, and she wanted to forget that anyone connected to her was ever imprisoned in such a place. In the end she spent an hour or so wandering from one part of the camp to another before finally standing in front of the memorial she could no longer ignore.

On one side of the wall were the words “May the example of those who were exterminated here between 1933–1945 because they resisted Nazism help to unite the living for the defense of peace and freedom and in respect for their fellow men.” Jean stood looking at those words, inscribed in several languages, for a long time. In the light of that sentiment, the activities of Ingrid Weiss and Columbia House seemed a slap in the face. For whatever reason, Ingrid pretended to honor those words, while actually belittling them by stealing books and “returning” them to those who had lost family members in places like this.

Jean felt ready to return to Munich and confront Ingrid Weiss; she felt ready to do what she could to “unite the living for the defense of peace and freedom;” and she knew, as she looked at those words, that someday she would return and delve into the archives to learn more about her family’s past. But for now, she walked to the other side of the memorial and stood by an entombed urn of the ashes of an unidentified prisoner to see the words that would serve as her mantra as she sat in the taxi bound for Columbia House: “Never Again.”

The pilot had radioed ahead for a car to be waiting for them and the driver was happy to take cash to drive them to a nearby rental office where “Domingo Suarez” of Barcelona would rent a black minivan with tinted windows. The driver was even happier when Nemo offered him €1,000 to run an errand later that night.

“Ethnic ambiguity comes in handy,” said Nemo as they pulled out of the parking lot, their gear secure in the back. He had spoken with a thick Spanish accent to the rental clerk as Ruthie and Patton waited outside with the bags. Now he drove toward Munich as Patton showed Ruthie how to use a Luger in the back seat.

“I really have no interest in firing a gun,” said Ruthie, her hand shaking as she gripped the pistol.