With the coming of the Second World War, many eyes in imprisoned Europe turned hopefully, or desperately, toward the freedom of the Americas. Lisbon became the great embarkation point. But, not everybody could get to Lisbon directly, and so a tortuous, roundabout refugee trail sprang up - Paris to Marseilles... across the Mediterranean to Oran... then by train, or auto, or foot across the rim of Africa, to Casablanca in French Morocco. Here, the fortunate ones through money, or influence, or luck, might obtain exit visas and scurry to Lisbon; and from Lisbon, to the New World. But the others wait in Casablanca... and wait... and wait... and wait.

Casablanca. December 1941. The flotsam and jetsam of Europe has been washed up on the North African coast by the tides of war. Morocco is nominally neutral under the control of the Vichy French, but they are overseen by the German representatives. Agents from European and other powers congregate in Casablanca, where they are joined by refugees, displaced tourists and underworld figures eager to take advantage of the chaos. Anything you want can be found in Casablanca, either in the Casbah or Rick Blaine’s (in)famous Café Americain. The Casbah is no place for the unwary, but everybody comes to Rick’s.