Fieldnotes: Fascism, women, and the Spanish Civil War

WARNING: If you’re upset by violence, you might want to skip this post, because this one is ugly.

In order to simplify the opposing forces in the Spanish Civil War for my American readers:

The elected Republican government was roughly the equivalent to today’s Democratic Party. Franco’s fascists referred to the Republicans as “leftists,” or as “reds” even though most Republicans did not consider themselves to be communists.

The rebels (Franco and his military junta) were backed by the Church, industrialists, the rich, and fascists, which can be likened to today’s evangelicals, the one percent, and Trump’s fascist party, the GOP. They consisted of members of the hard-right and fascists.

Before anyone accuses me of misrepresenting the GOP’s fascist mentality, their current philosophy was initially made clear in a speech by one of Franco’s more flamboyant generals, Juan Yagüe y Blanco (more commonly known as the Butcher of Badajoz):

“… We have decided to redeem you and we will redeem you whether you want to be redeemed or not. Do we need you for anything? No, there will never again be any elections, so why would we need your vote? The first thing to do is to redeem the enemy. We are going to impose our civilization on them and if they don’t accept it willingly, we will impose it by force …”

That attitude, expressed by Yagüe in October of 1937, exemplified the rhetoric behind Franco’s war of annihilation, which was especially brutal on women. Republicans, who weren’t able to flee Franco’s advancing forces, were shot or taken into custody, not as prisoners of war but as common criminals. If the men couldn’t be found, their mothers, wives, and daughters were imprisoned in their stead. In Huesca, seventy-four women were executed for the crime of being the wives of men who had either fled or been shot.

Falangists (fascists) raped Republican women at will. They were also known to brand their victims’ breasts with the Falangist symbol of yoke and arrows. In one case, Falangists raped two women and when they were done, they placed hand grenades between the women’s legs and pulled the pins.

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Executions were commonplace and had no regard to either gender or age. In Madrid on 5 August 1939, “fifty-six prisoners were executed including a fourteen-year-old boy and thirteen women, seven of whom were under the age of twenty-one. They came to be known as the Trece Rosas, thirteen roses whose fate symbolized the cruelty of the Franco regime. They were members of the United Socialist Youth, the JSU. Their capture in the spring of 1939 had been facilitated because the Casado Junta had seized JSU membership lists then left them for the Francoists. The excuse for the executions was a non-existent plot to murder Franco.”

The repression in Jaca was exceptionally brutal and was quite often led, not by the military, but by the priests. One in particular, Father de Fustiñana, who was the Chaplain to the local Requetés and liked to walk the streets carrying a gun, was especially feared. Called a ‘bird of ill omen,’ the prisoners knew that when he entered the prison, death followed. On 6 August 1936, Fustiñana, an army captain, and two Falangists “seized two women from the Jaca prison, took them out into the countryside and shot them.” The women were Pilar Vizcarra, who was twenty-eight-years old and pregnant, and Desideria Giménez, a member of the Socialist Youth. Giménez was sixteen.

Fustiñana enjoyed these executions. “He offered confession and the last rites to those about to be shot. Then, his shoes caked with blood, he would visit the families of the few that accepted.” Fustiñana maintained lists of those executed and whether or not the condemned decided to make confession at the end. Over four hundred people from Jaca and its surrounding villages were murdered during this purge.

Those arrested were often members of the Republican middle class, especially doctors and schoolteachers. Women weren’t allowed to take children older than three into prison with them. Since family members were also either imprisoned, executed, or in exile, the women had no one to care for their children. In other cases, babies were taken away (often by force) from their mothers immediately after birth in prison.

The Republican children were placed orphanages, often while the parents still lived.

The justification for removing children from their parents was precipitated by Major Antonio Vallejo Nágera, who was appointed by Franco to oversee the Psychiatric Services of the rebel army. Vallejo spent his time searching for the “‘red gene’ and the links between Marxism and mental deficiency on Republican prisoners.” He justified “the sequestration of Republican children in a book entitled The Eugenics of Spanishness and the Regeneration of the Race.” Vallejo’s theory was that race “was constituted by a series of cultural values” such as hierarchical, military, and patriotic.

Of course Vallejo noted that the values of “the left” were inimical to the fascist idea of Spanishness, and therefore had to be eradicated. “Obsessed with what he called ‘the transcendent task of cleansing of our race’, his model was the Inquisition, which had protected Spain from poisonous doctrines in the past.” To his way of thinking, the “health of the race required that children be separated from their ‘red’ mothers.”

His work eventually led to the 1941 law that “legalized the changing of the names of Republican orphans.”

After the war, roughly twelve thousand children were placed in state or religious orphanages. These orphanages brainwashed the children by telling them that their parents were criminals. One woman recounts how her husband was shot before her and her small daughter. She was arrested and the child was given to a Catholic orphanage. “The mother wrote regularly until one day her daughter replied saying, ‘Don’t write to me any more about papa. I know he was a criminal. I am taking the veil.’”

Likewise, other children were brainwashed into denouncing their fathers as assassins. They were “forced to sing the songs of the murderers of their father; to wear the uniform of those who have executed him, and to curse the dead and to blaspheme his memory.”

When women were allowed to take their small children with them into prison, it usually resulted in a death sentence for the child. In Ventas, Paz Azatí recounted that each day “on the floor of the Ventas infirmary you would see the corpses of fifteen to twenty children dead from meningitis.” The notorious prison in Saturrarán prison in the Basque Country murdered more than one hundred women and fifty children with disease alone.

Rather than outcry, the Francoists applauded his atrocities at every turn. Propagandists “presented the executions, the overflowing prisons and camps, the slave-labour battalions and the fate of the exiles as the scrupulous yet compassionate justice of a benevolent Caudillo. In 1964, they launched a highly choreographed, nationwide celebration of the ‘Twenty-Five Years of Peace’ since the end of the war. Every town in Spain was bedecked with posters rejoicing in the purging of the atheistic hordes of the left.”

In an interview with ABC, Franco “made it clear that the celebrations were not for peace but for victory … The unspoken message of the elaborate celebrations was that the return on Franco’s investment in terror could not have been more successful.”

For the sake of ourselves and our children, we should take care the past does not become the present.

________
All quotes taken from The Spanish Holocaust: inquisition and extermination in twentieth-century Spain by Paul Preston.

Fieldnotes: the Great War in Where Oblivion Lives

It's been a while since I've given you some Fieldnotes, so I thought I'd show you a quick one. Some of the most dramatic moments in Where Oblivion Lives come from Diago's flashbacks to battles of the Great War, which was how World War I was known during the 1930s.

During my early research, I came across the following account by Private Wilf Wallworth from the South Lancashire Regiment:

There was a little tramway up the back of the bank leading up to the Bluff trenches. You couldn't be seen by the Germans there, but they had it taped. For a while it was my job to take up ammunition, water, supplies, food and that, to a place just behind the trenches where it would be unloaded. This was at night of course.

For the return trip they put bodies on the trolley -- men who had gone west that day I suppose. I hated the homeward journey. I don't know why because I must have seen thousands of dead men, dead horses, mules, by then, and I was properly hardened to it. But pushing the tram back . . . well, I wasn't comfortable.

You had shells and mortars and starshells going off regular, and in the flashes, especially the starshells which burned for a bit, I couldn't stop myself looking at my load. I didn't want to, but I was drawn to it. The track was uneven and wobbly, and it looked like they were moving, coming back to life. It made my skin creep, but I just couldn't keep my eyes off them when the lights went up.

Everything in that war was down to luck. Although Minnies landed pretty close a few times -- a hell of a crash, they made -- and shook us about a bit, they never got me, and I never had anyone [a body] tumble off; I think I would have left him there for someone else if I did. I had been told of other blokes and their load just disappearing; just a smoking hole there in the morning.

Funny what your mind does. If I hadn't been alone it wouldn't have been so bad, I suppose. It probably sounds ridiculous [to you], but my obsession with looking at those lads -- who couldn't do me no harm, could they -- took away the fear of the shelling.

--The Battlefields of the First World War by Peter Barton

That image--of a soldier wheeling bodies away from the battlefield--remained with me as I worked on the early drafts of Where Oblivion Lives. The scenes took several forms until the final draft, where it's been trimmed and polished to be seen in Diago's first nightmare scene.

In this excerpt, Guillermo's wife, Juanita, who is an angel and Los Nefilim's doctor, has persuaded Diago to let her hypnotize him. They dream his dream together:

“This is similar to hypnosis,” Juanita murmured. “I will take you down into sleep by adjusting my voice until I find the vibrations that best affect your brainwaves.” Her timbre changed as she elucidated through one set of vocalizations and then another. Diago could tell by the subtle variations that she utilized all three sets of her vocal cords. “When I find the correct pitch, you will begin to dream, and then I will follow you into your subconscious. Now close your eyes.”

It wasn’t hard to obey her.

“Think about the music you hear when you sleep. Try and conjure the song.”

Engulfed by darkness, he listened. Silence met him, as deep and impregnable as the void. Then, from faraway, he caught the first isolated notes of the violin. It was his Stradivarius.

Louder now, as if sensing his presence, the music drew near. The bow attacked the strings (Diago recalled making those quick jabs: strike, strike, strike, followed by a smooth pull) before slurring the chords into decay. The intro descended into pallid notes, gray and soft like fog (no, the smell of cordite is strong in the air . . . it is not fog but smoke) drifting over the muddy ground.

The dream solidified, taking him deeper into his subconscious. The faint outline of a château appeared behind broken (burned) trees, shrouded in fog . . .

“Smoke,” Juanita whispered.

Smoke.

The song’s tempo slowed to become a dirge. Diago walked the scorched field. Lumps of clay (bodies) littered the ground. In the distance came the steady percussion of drums (bombs), shaking the earth with furious thunder.

Squinting through the smoke, he perceived a shadowy figure pushing a tram filled with corpses. The arms and legs trembled as the wheels jittered along on the hastily laid tracks of war. One hand opened to release a silver disc that sank into the mud.

Then the bow resumed its attack and punch against the strings (quick jabs: strike, strike, strike) and the night came down and the world went black and silence descended quick and hard, like the stillness that follows the falling of a bomb.

Diago opened his eyes. His heart pounded and for one wild moment, he thought of Guillermo’s Creed Model 7, churning out messages in staccato beats. He became aware of Juanita’s strong hands, pinning his shoulders to the cushions.

This is the first foray into what Juanita refers to as Diago's "prolonged battle stress," because during the 1930s it wasn't called PTSD, but rather battle fatigue or shell-shock. In the original draft, Diago never spoke of his experiences in the trenches, and probably wouldn't have, but my editor placed a sentence in Diago's mouth that ignited my imagination.

In that first draft, Diago didn't have the second flashback. Juanita asked him if anything else noteworthy happened, and Diago blew off her question. Then my editor had Diago answer her by inserting a single sentence into Diago's mouth: "You mean other than all the killing?"

And I realized I'd missed a huge opportunity with both the scene and the novel. So I went a little deeper into my character's psyche and the result was a much stronger scene that set the stage for everything that follows:

Juanita touched his shoulder. “It’s not unusual to be tormented by past engagements. Nefilim suffer from prolonged battle stress just as mortals do. Did anything noteworthy happen during that fight?”

“Noteworthy,” he repeated dully while rubbing his forehead. He found it hard to keep venom from seeping into his words as he answered her question. “Aside from the sheer magnitude of the death toll?” A sudden image flashed through his mind: huddling in a trench as shells exploded around them. Cold and wet and eaten alive by lice, he’d shut his eyes against the mud falling like rain and when he opened them again, someone’s scalp landed at his feet . . .

“Diago?”

He jerked himself free of the memory, uncomfortably aware of his clammy palms. “I don’t know what you want from me, Juanita. After so many days of battle, they all seemed the same.” A never-ending misery.

And that, my friends, is the story of how a tram full of corpses and Diago's PTSD became a huge part of Where Oblivion Lives.

(Obligatory book plug: you can preorder it here: Amazon | B&N | Books-A-Million | HarperCollins | IndieBound or add it to your Goodreads list)

Fieldnotes: Juan Pujol Garcia, code name GARBO

This week's Fieldnotes pays tribute to an unsung Catalan hero of World War II, who does not feature in any of the Los Nefilim novels, but his whole story is so weird and unusual that I absolutely cannot forgo bringing him to your attention. My original search was for Spanish spies who were famous for their work either during the Spanish Civil War or World War II. While I found many worthy spies, the one who snagged my attention was Juan Pujol García (14 February 1912 - 10 October 1988).

Be forewarned that all of my information in this post comes from Wikipedia, which I always advocate as a cool starting point, but I usually caution people to back that information with other sources. Since neither Pujol nor his adventures feature in my novel, and since my research is already clogged with things I must know, I haven't taken the time to delve deeper into Pujol's history.

Also, I am leaving out a lot with this post. If you want to read more about his adventures and life, I do recommend the Wikipedia article (linked above) because there is a brief bibliography at the end.

With those caveats in mind, we begin:

Pujol came from a wealthy family, his father owned a dye factory and he endeavored to send his son to school in Barcelona. Unfortunately, by the age sixteen, Pujol got into an argument with one of his teachers, decided to leave school, and took up an apprenticeship in a hardware store.

But he didn't stay there.

 Juan hated the military.

Juan hated the military.

With retail not being in his blood, he decided to study animal husbandry at the Royal Poultry School in Arenys de Mar. His father died in 1931 but left the family well-provided for through the income generated by the family's dye factory. Also in 1931, Pujol was conscripted into service. He served in the 7th Regiment of Light Artillery in the cavalry unit in order to fulfill his six month compulsory service to the Republic.

Don't let that happy face fool you. Pujol hated horseback riding and claimed that he lacked the "essential qualities of loyalty, generosity, and honor" to be a good soldier. So as soon as his very brief stint in the cavalry ended, he turned to poultry farming, and if wars had not set the world on fire, most likely Pujol's story might have ended here.

But it didn't.

In 1936, the Spanish Civil War broke out. The family dye factory was taken over by the workers. At one point, Pujol's immediate family members, including his mother, were taken by Republican forces and charged with being counter-revolutionaries. Another of their relatives, who happened to be in a trade union, arranged the family's release; however, by this point the damage was done.

Because the Republicans treated his family so shabbily, Pujol wasn't eager to fight for them when they called him into service for the war. So he hid at his girlfriend's house rather than enlist. Of course, the police found him, because we all know the first place they look for you is at your girlfriend's house, and Pujol spent a week in jail. He was eventually freed by members in the Traditionalist resistance group Socorro Blanco. They hid him and helped him produce fake identity papers, which showed him as being too old for service.

Pujol learned to be sneaky.

Although at this time, he wasn't interested in spycraft. Instead he managed a poultry farm. He soon found that farming by committee was not economically feasible, and this in turn soured him on communism, which led him to produce MORE false papers so he could re-join the Republican army.

Because now he had a plan.

He intended to join the Republican army and desert as soon as possible. In an effort to reach the Nationalist side, he volunteered to lay telegraph cables near the front lines. During the Battle of the Ebro, Pujol managed to sneak across the lines and join the Nationalists.

This worked spectacularly UNTIL ...

One day Pujol expressed sympathy for the monarchy. This attitude didn't sit well with a colonel, who struck Pujol, and then to add insult to injury, he had Pujol imprisoned. By the time his service with the Nationalists ended, Pujol decided that fascism was as repugnant to him as communism.

However, he did learn valuable skills in subterfuge, which would eventually help him in his career as a spy. This being the part I'm sure you're all here for.

So now we'll talk about how Pujol became Garbo.

During the early days of World War II, Germany's main adversary was Britain. Since Franco supported Germany, and Pujol hated Franco, Pujol offered to spy for Britain. He offered on three different occasions.

But alas, M-15 did not want Pujol as a spy.

Being something of a self-starter, Pujol took it upon himself to start spying on his own. He created the character of a Spanish official, who was fervently pro-Nazi, and who could travel to London on official business. Using the skills he learned during the Spanish Civil War, he procured documentation for this new identity, and contacted Friedrich Knappe-Ratey, an Abwehr agent in Madrid.

Unlike the British, the Nazis were thrilled to have Pujol on board. They gave him the code name Alaric Arabel and a crash course in espionage, cryptology, and (I'm not making this up) "a bottle of invisible ink, a codebook, and £600 for expenses." The Nazis wanted him to move to London and recruit a network of British spies.

Pujol was finally in the spy business.

So he moved to Lisbon.

Which is not in Britain.

Lisbon is in Portugal.

In order to make the Nazis think he was in London, Pujol used a tourist's guide to Britain, reference books and magazines from the Lisbon Public Library, and newsreel reports from the cinemas to create credible reports for the Germans. He also created an extensive network of "sub-agents," who "lived" in different parts of the UK. By the time it was all over, Pujol had created a total of 27 fictitious identities, or sub-agents (there is a great chart over at Wikipedia that lists them all).

Then, using these various identities or "sub-agents", Pujol began feeding the Germans misinformation.

Pujol reached M-15's attention when he reported a non-existent convoy to the Kriegsmarine (Nazi Germany's navy), which resulted in the Germans wasting considerable resources hunting down something that didn't exist. Someone in M-15 finally decided that Pujol had some serious potential here, so they brought him to London, gave him a security check, and turned him over to Tomás (Tommy) Harris, an M-15 agent who spoke fluent Spanish.

Because Pujol was such a marvelous actor, his code name was Garbo. Pujol, along with his handler Harris, worked together and produced 315 letters, which were essentially a mix of complete fiction, genuine information of little military value, and valuable military intelligence artificially delayed. For example:

Garbo's agent on the River Clyde reported that a convoy of troopships and warships had left port, painted in Mediterranean camouflage. The letter was postmarked before the landings and sent via airmail, but was artificially delayed by British Intelligence in order to arrive too late to be useful. Pujol received a reply stating "we are sorry they arrived too late but your last reports were magnificent."

Pujol's "spy network" was so efficient and expansive that the Germans didn't bother recruiting anymore British spies. Which made Operation Fortitude South much easier for the British to handle.

What was Operation Fortitude?

Operation Fortitude South* was the military misinformation campaign utilized to distract the Germans from the actual location of Operation Overlord, which was the code name for the Battle of Normandy. Operation Overlord was launched by Operation Neptune, which is more commonly known as D-Day.

I think you can see where this is going.

Here Pujol played a major role in deception. His job was to convince the Germans that Allied forces would be landing at Pas de Calais, rather than on the beaches of Normandy. They couldn't blow Garbo's credibility with the Germans, so they decided to forewarn the Germans with some of the actual details of the Normandy invasion. The key was to send the information too late for the Germans to act on it.

Pujol told German radio operators that sometime during the night of June 5 or the early hours of June 6, 1944, a sub-agent was about to arrive with important information. The Germans were supposed to be standing by. Garbo made the call at 3:00 a.m., but no reply was received from the German operators until 8:00 a.m.

Turning this piece of bad luck on its head, GARBO was able to add more operational details to the message when finally sent and thus increase his standing with the Germans. GARBO told his German contacts that he was disgusted that his first message was missed, saying "I cannot accept excuses or negligence. Were it not for my ideals I would abandon the work."
 This is an inflatable Sherman tank. great fun at the beach but a bit large for the local pool.

This is an inflatable Sherman tank. great fun at the beach but a bit large for the local pool.

On 9 June (three days after D-day), Garbo sent missives that were passed to Hitler and his High Command. Garbo convinced the Germans of a fictitious order of battle. The Allies supported the deception with "fake planes, inflatable tanks, and vans travelling about the area transmitting bogus radio chatter."

Garbo told the Germans that the first landing at Normandy should be considered a diversion and that the Allies would be pushing the main body of their forces through the Strait of Dover toward Pas de Calais. The German High Command accepted Garbo's reports so completely that they kept armored and infantry divisions in the Pas de Calais and waited for a second invasion throughout July and August 1944. The German Commander-in-Chief in the west refused to allow General Rommel to move these divisions to Normandy, where the actual invasion was taking place.

Pujol's career as Garbo came to an end in late June 1944. The Germans wanted him to report on V-1 flying bombs. Unable to give them false information without blowing his cover, and unwilling to give them correct information that would endanger the operations, Garbo's handler, Tommy Harris, arranged for him to be "arrested."

A few days later, Pujol notified the Germans of the arrest and claimed he had to leave London.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Pujol received two awards as the result of his service:

  • The Most Excellent Order of the British Empire from King George VI for his service as Garbo.
  • An Iron Cross Second Class for his service as Alaric Arabel (his German code name)

Fearing Nazi reprisals, M-15 helped Pujol travel to Angola, where he faked his death from malaria in 1949. After he "died," he moved to Venezuela, where he ran a bookstore and gift shop.

And that, my dear readers, is the story of Juan Pujol García.

_______
*Operation Fortitude was divided into two sub-plans with Operation Fortitude South creating a diversion at the Strait of Dover and Operation Fortitude North directed its phantom army toward Norway.

Fieldnotes #3: angels drinking from rivers of fire

Today's Fieldnotes will be brief, because I'm working on several things at the moment: beta reading a manuscript for a friend, reading another friend's series in order to blurb her book, and working on the next Los Nefilim novel due in February 2019. That's all in addition to life as we know it and all of the weird little things that happen on a day-to-day basis.

What I'm trying to do with this series is show you all the things that go into writing a novel. Some of it will bore you, other posts might enlighten you, and if you're an author too, a few might inspire you in your own creative endeavors. Today's post is in the latter category.

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I'm not even sure where I was going with all of that, but you can rest assured that none of this appears in Where Oblivion Lives. I seem to recall the line about angels drinking from rivers of fire comes from 1 Enoch but don't quote me on it. I just thought that angels drinking from rivers of fire was kind of badass:

The archangels Gabriel and Michael sidle up to the River of Fire for a drink.

Careful, Mike, last time we were here, you got drunk and wiped out Pompeii.

Shh, Michael says as he licks flames from his fingertips. I thought we agreed to blame the volcano for that.

Uh-huh. Gabriel sips sparks. And let's not forget Rome ...

Nero was a bastard. Michael belches. Fire and brimstone roll past his lips.

Chicago burns.

Gabriel stares in horror. Oh shit, not again.

Michael points at a cow. Kicked over a lantern, she did!

So now you know the intellectual thoughts that roll through my head while I'm conducting research.

Most of the time I'm looking for specific facts, but there are other times that I just read along and jot down points of interest. This seems to be one of those times.

See?

It's not all boring, boring, boring.

Fieldnotes #2: secret cults

Nothing is more fun than researching secret cults. Okay, seriously, there are a lot of things more fun than researching secret cults. However, a writer has to do what a writer must do, so in this second installment of Fieldnotes, I'm going to briefly talk about one aspect of secret cults that finally found it's way into Where Oblivion Lives.

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There are quite a few books on the Nazis and the occult, but the one most referenced is The occult roots of Nazism: secret Aryan cults and their influence on Nazi ideology by Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke. This book is simultaneously the most thorough and driest examination of the subject that you will find.

Dry.

Desert dry.

But thorough. Very thorough and very informative. Three pages of notes informative.

How much of this information made it into the novel? Probably a quarter of those notes actually landed in the story.

The practice of vehmgericht played a large role in the initial draft of Where Oblivion Lives. The idea of secret courts went hand-in-hand with my nefilim, who operate undercover within the mortal realm.

What is vehmgericht?

According to Goodrick-Clarke:

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The vehmgericht constituted the last of List's guilds and was supposed to have translated the holy Armanist gnosis into a 'kalic' form so that it might survive the Christian epoch. Since the vehmgericht really was a a secret institution, founded to administer law in the Holy Roman Empire between the early thirteenth and sixteenth centuries, it seemed a most effective agent for List's occult heritage. Vehmic law most probably originated in pre-Carolingian times, but it was not until the late twelfth century that it assumed historical significance. At this time the imperial jurisdiction was being usurped by the new territorial princes, who were striving to assume the political authority of the old feudal estates. To counter this modern tendency the Archbishop of Cologne placed himself at the head of a long-standing system of local courts, which were to pass capital sentences in the name of the Emperor. An old parochial institution thus assumed a new historical role. From their origin in Westphalia these vehmgerichts soon spread through the Empire wherever conservative men sought to hinder the power of princes.

That is the historical basis for vehmgericht. Due to the secretive nature of the proceedings, vehmgericht later slipped into the realm of Gothic novels written between 1780 and 1820, which redefined the vehmgericht to represent a powerful secret court that exercised justice against "local despots and their lackeys." Resurrecting this mysterious court for my own novel, I added a few twists, but maintained the name vehmgericht primarily due to the location of the novel's events, which are in Germany.

Like my Gothic predecessors, I kept the essential structure of vehmgericht, but reshaped other parts of the practice to meet my own story's needs. In the Los Nefilim series, vehmgericht are secret courts used by the nefilim to judge those members who betray the angels. The kings and queens of the nefilim's Inner Guards administer these courts, and they may pass capital sentences in the name of the Thrones, the angels who rule the celestial realms.

Vehmgericht.

Hold onto that word.