Though many of my novels are set far from home, I've never been one to go somewhere and wait for the creative spirit to move me. I usually do much of my travel near the end of the process, when I need a specific touch of atmosphere or factual research. I finished a rough first draft of A Death in Vienna over the summer, then, after taking a few days off in August, I started in on the rewrite. In October I hit the road to complete the book in Europe and Israel. Here are some notes from the road: I'd spent several days in Rome and Venice researching The Confessor, so, unfortunately, I didn't have a valid excuse to go back. Instead, I went back to Vienna, one of my favorite European cities. Then it was across the border to a small town in the Czech Republic called Mikulov. My driver, a lovely Austrian named Manfred, could not remember ever being asked to take an American to Mikulov. It snowed a couple of inches the night before our trip, and the vineyards of eastern Austria looked quite beautiful. Mikulov was just as I'd imagined it, a hilltop border town with a sturdy medieval castle in the center of it. The Iron Curtain may be gone, but there's no doubt when you cross the old border. In fact, you don't even have to open your eyes-the rough road surface provides all the evidence you need. I invited Manfred to climb the ramparts of the castle with me. He shook his head and smiled. "Thieves," he said by way of explanation. "I'll stay here and look after the car." The next day I flew to Warsaw. My final destination in Poland was Treblinka, the setting for the climax of A Death in Vienna. It is a couple hours northeast of Warsaw by car. My driver was a soft-spoken man, known among other Warsaw drivers as "the Priest." He spoke no English and I no Polish. Treblinka, for obvious reasons, was intentionally hard to find when it was in operation, and it is not easy to find now. The Polish highway department hasn't gone out of its way to make it any less difficult. At one point, I realized "the Priest" was lost. He was driving along the northern bank of the Bug River, but I knew Treblinka was on the other side. I tried to explain this to him. He, of course, did not understand and kept driving. Finally, I reached into the front seat and guided him over to the side of the road. What followed was a rather Kafkaesque sequence of conversations with Polish peasants, each one beginning with the question, "Which way to Treblinka?" Eventually, we found our way back to Treblinka village. Along the way, I saw where we had gone wrong. The way was marked with a miniscule black sign, measuring about four inches by four inches. In the weak winter light and drizzle, we had understandably missed it. We crossed an iron bridge, wide enough to accommodate a single lane of traffic and the rail line that had serviced the camp. A road sign read TREBLINKA. Still we could not find the actual camp. An old man was burning leaves in front of his tiny, dilapidated cottage, just a few yards from the railroad track. The Priest asked directions. "Down the road a kilometer," the old man said nonchalantly. "Then turn right into the trees." I couldn't help but wonder whether he had lived in Treblinka during the war. Had he seen trainloads of human cargo rolling past his home? Had he seen smoke rising day and night from the trees? Had he smelled the terrible stench? The Priest, like Manfred, waited with the car, though I suspect for different reasons. It started to snow as I walked alone into the camp, and it was shockingly cold, well below freezing, with a fierce wind howling down from the Baltic. And yet it was only October. I had the camp completely to myself. It is a remarkably beautiful place. I suppose we can thank the Germans for that. After razing the camp, they tilled the soil to hide evidence of their crimes and planted hundreds of trees. Fifty years on, they are fully mature. The Polish government memorial is very effective. The fence line, rail spur, and platform are all represented symbolically in stone. None of the machinery of death-the gas chambers, disrobing rooms, or cremation pyres-have been rebuilt. It is almost impossible to imagine that more than eight hundred thousand people were murdered on this spot, but on a bitterly cold day, with the wind singing in the birch and pine trees, it does not take much imagination to feel their presence. The Germans called the death camp Treblinka II. Treblinka I was a penal camp for Poles. It is two kilometers further into the trees, linked to the death camp by a dirt road. I was curious about the memorial there, so I set off down the road through the snowfall. After a few minutes, a car pulled alongside me. Inside was a Polish family. The driver gestured for me to come in out of the cold. "We will take you," he said in broken English. And so I climbed in and went with them to the second memorial. The atmosphere is decidedly Catholic. The symbolic graves of Polish martyrs are marked by black crosses, and a twenty-foot cross fashioned of beech wood dominates the scene. I stood a respectful distance from them while they read the names inscribed on the crosses and mouthed prayers. On the way out, the head of the family, a man about my age, asked me why I had come to Treblinka. I considered telling him about the novel I was finishing, but knew it wouldn't survive translation. Instead, I told him the real reason I had come. "My people were murdered here," I said. He nodded and replied, "Mine too." The conflict of Holocaust memory in microcosm. When I left Treblinka, I was profoundly shaken. I only hope I've done justice to it on the pages of my novel. I flew to Israel the following day. Despite the tangible atmosphere of tension, I was glad to be there, especially after two days in frigid, bleak Poland. I had work to do in the archives of Yad Vashem, Israel's official Holocaust memorial. To tell you why would spoil a major plot twist, and so I won't. The staff at Yad Vashem, though they are keepers of a terrible memory, are unfailingly cheerful. The archivists were especially excited to learn that one of their lot was actually being cast in a thriller. I was honored to learn the library contained copies of my previous books. At the end of the day, I found myself stranded atop Mount Herzl with no way home. Facing a prolonged and uncertain wait for a taxi at rush hour, I rode a bus with some of the staff-Orthodox girls who, unable to serve in the Army like other Israeli 18-year-olds, perform their national service by working at Yad Vashem. They are required to ride four buses a day to and from work-two in the morning and two in the evening-and say they are terrified every moment. I handed my five shekels to the driver, received my chit in return, and found a place to stand at the center of the bus. I knew I was being carefully watched. I watched carefully in return. Such is the nature of riding a bus in Jerusalem. At the end of the line, the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, we got off. The girls bade me goodnight and headed into the station, one more bus ride to endure. I set off down the Jaffa Road through a violent autumn windstorm, feeling as though I had just won the lottery. I also felt a nagging sadness. In the span of a week I had been in Vienna, from which Jews had been deported, Warsaw and Treblinka, where they had been systematically murdered, and Israel, where they now lived under the constant threat of death by Palestinian terror. Past and present seemed inseparable, time a continuum. I came to the entrance of the bustling Makhane Yehuda Market. An Ethiopian girl in uniform stood watch at the barrier. I hesitated, debating whether I should enter-the market was a favorite target of Palestinian terrorists and had been bombed many times. Finally I slipped past the Ethiopian girl and went inside. I don't know how long I stayed, drifting among stalls overflowing with fresh Mediterranean fish, fruits and vegetables, breads and spices, even tennis shoes and basketball jerseys. It was life, messy, noisy and so completely ordinary. I lost track of time. In Israel, one is drawn to ordinary things.