To be a German
Those who sow Wind will harvest a Tempest
It is a bewildering experience to realize that the burden of your nation's collective guilt, part of which you have carried dutifully yourself for most of your life, turns out to be a crime perpetrated by a consensus-mind reading and far-flung bureaucracy whose abominations are based on hearsay only and lack ninety nine per cent of physical evidence to prove it.
Would you condemn a man on that sort of testimony? Would you hang him because someone said there were hundreds of ovens, and you went to look for yourself and found only one, and that even a fake?
Well, I wouldn't. I'd rather hang myself than stain my immortal soul by passing judgement on such flimsy evidence. Yet that is what happens since years in politically correct Germany. Hence the previous remark about the Devil being purged with the Beelzebub. Because those kangaroo courts handing long prison terms to people who simply insist on their constitutional rights and dare to express serious doubts about a particular event in history, as I do now, are in the final analysis as criminally illegal, as morally rotten, as utterly condemnable as Hitler's or Stalin's show trials. Perhaps even worse, since the latter were ordered by dictators, or one man only, whereas the former are designed and enforced, wantonly or in criminal ignorance, by the country's elected representatives. Which gives you a clear, and rather chilling, idea about Germany's present state of affairs, its frightful ethical decline that will sooner or later, as history has shown us again and again, end in confrontation and upheaval.
As to my doubts, they increased rapidly as I sat down and, for the first time in my life, took a long cool look at the facts that were embedded in my mind, and which I had till then accepted unconditionally as the true gospel. Whereby it is worth mentioning that I have never read, let alone bought, one of the myriad publications, traditional or revisionist, on the matter until very recently. It was simply too painful, too hideous, and me being too vulnerable or, if you so want, too much of a coward to dig deeper into it.
Just as the great majority of my compatriots.
Take the sheer numbers. Three and a half million human beings gassed and cremated in one camp alone, namely Auschwitz-Birkenau, during a time span of less than four years. And, by Elie Wiesel's account, up to twenty thousand daily during the spring of 1944. Who must have been ferried there in the first place by trains arriving on a hourly basis from all over Europe with exactly planned routes and time schedules.
Well, if you say so.
Though my own experience of that time is decidedly different. Because I remember most vividly one harrowing train journey in the Winter of '44/45, one of the coldest in recorded history, when food conditions back home had become so desperate that my mother risked a visit to Hamburg where my grandmother lived. And where, due to some relatives with connections, better provisions might be hoped for. The trip from Gottingen via Brunswick to Hamburg, all in all about 150 miles, took three days and three nights. It was done in a goods train that went only under cover of darkness and after the bombed railways had been feverishly repaired. On the second day we found shelter in Brunswick, at a convent where the nuns undressed and deloused me in a cloud of yellow, stinking, itching chemical while I was howling my head off. The next night we spent hours on end in open country as the train had come once again to a standstill, its few passengers huddled around a small fire which the men were feeding with planks torn from the side of a wagon. We returned a week later, I don't remember how, but taking grandma along, and after half of her beautiful old quarter, including a number of peerless Art Noveau buildings, had been firebombed to its very foundations.
In a modern crematorium it takes about two hours and twenty litres of petrol to reduce, and not even completely, a human body to ashes. Petrol whose lack was one of the main reasons for General Paulus' defeat at Stalingrad and the faltering of the Desert Fox's advance on Cairo. But petrol that must have been on hand in Auschwitz to a staggering 400 000 litres per day. A similar ratio is true if coal was used, with indeed truly mountainous residues of which until now not a grain has been found.
A few years back an elaborate machine, at a cost of one million dollars apiece already decades ago, featuring many complicated security gadgets, was used to kill one US death-row inmate with the chemical equivalent of Zyklon B. A gas so highly aggressive and poisonous that only a miniscule 100 mg are deadly, no matter if inhaled or absorbed through the skin. By the way, a reading of John Grisham's The Chamber sheds one very precise light on this particular aspect.
As it is, in Auschwitz tons must have been used daily in insanely insecure circumstances without negative effects on the henchmen who handled the twenty thousand victims.
I have neither the intention nor the intellectual stamina to enter into a longwinded argument. There exist many reliable publications, like for example Thomas Dalton's excellent Debating the Holocaust, to convince anybody with a sane mind, a grain of common sense and the largesse of giving Germany the benefit of the doubt, that something is utterly rotten in the state of Denmark.
Or, as a British sailor friend told me already years ago and me not believing him, that the whole yarn hasn't got a bloody leg to stand on.
Allow me to quote one reader who kindly rounded off my piece with this comment:
I've checked out the six volumes of Churchill's Second World War (4,448 pages), Eisenhower's Crusade in Europe (559 pages), and De Gaulle's three-volume Memoires de Guerre (2,054 pages). In this mass of writing, which altogether totals 7,061 pages (not including the introductory parts), published from 1948 to 1959, one will find no mention either of Nazi 'gas chambers,' a 'genocide' of the Jews, or of 'six million' Jewish victims of the war.
George December 30, 2010
Crimes were committed for sure. Every society, even a decent one, has its dregs, swept to the surface in times of turmoil. Why should Germany be different? Himmler's Special Units were largely composed of foreigners who most likely wreaked havoc wherever they went, partly in retaliation for the horrors they had suffered from Stalin's collectivization orders, a catastrophe diligently enforced by his NKVD lynchpins. Yet even here are so many uncertainties, so many accusations without a shred of proof, so many obviously falsified photographs, so many downright lies that it is hard to separate the chaff from the wheat. For a long time I believed firmly that the SS had murdered Poland's elite officers in the woods of Katyn. Until I heard it was done by the NKVD. Then there were those Ukrainians who joined Hitler's forces in the hope to overcome Stalin and his henchmen of the said NKVD who had annihilated already millions of ethnic compatriots with planned starvation or a bullet into the back of the head. When the former took revenge at the largely innocent Jewish population, it was because, as the great Solchenizin has told us from personal experience, they knew perfectly well that nearly all the henchmen were Jewish.
Not far from where I lived in Italy, in a beautiful and well-kept German military cemetery high above Lake Garda, many of the fallen soldiers have Ukrainian names. Who most likely knew what they were fighting for.
And last not least, and if I were a simple soldier who'd come across a murdered German woman with a dead baby hanging half out of her womb, as found and documented by photograph shortly after Hitler's invasion of Poland, I might forget myself as well and cry No Prisoners!
I've just read poor Mr. Demjanjuk's statement. He is at present the most visible victim of Germany's politically correct establishment and its minders. Who have, to judge by the press coverage and attached disgust, served themselves a deafening shot into the fetid flatfoot. Because there can't be really a better way to show the world of how to debase and to corrupt the Ideal of Justice than by tormenting a dying old man who long since has been absolved of any crime, including Israel proper. And who is, as even the remotest Lederhosen hillbilly knows, only one more propaganda tool that has badly backfired.
As to the inhuman conditions in the camps Mr. Demjanjuk refers to, they must have come to pass when utterly destroyed Germany had simply run out of food, medicine, even water, and diseases were killing people by the legion, inside and outside the camps. Because until then, and since every German man or woman who could hold a gun or prime a flak was fighting on one of the many fronts, he and his inmates were of paramount importance for the war effort, and most likely better fed than Agnes the Lamb or myself.
Years ago I read an interview given by Alain Robbe-Grillet, a somewhat weird but quite famous French novelist, to DER SPIEGEL, Germany's supreme pc nest-dirtying publication. Where he told about his ordeal as an enforced labourer during the war. Which had evolved, to the interviewer's surprise and horror, rather pleasantly, namely with good food, a salary better than what he had been paid in France and, solely against his word of honour, unguarded visits to Nuremberg's fine Opera House. He concluded the piece with these words: I know you don't like to hear it, but I have been treated well.
Times when honour still meant something.
Reading it, I had the fanciful idea that it might have been him who returned shortly after the war and asked for my mother's hand.
Or take this truly stupefying item. In a court case presented 1997 in Vienna by a former Jewish concentration camp inmate, his lawyers demanded additional payment for an accident sustained during the period of his enforced labour. He had the legal right to do this, because the SS Camp Administration had paid the necessary social, health and pension fund duties for him and all other inmates during their sojourn. *
There remains of course the fact itself, namely abducting people and forcing them to work. But war is war, and not a Sunday excursion. Particularly when you didn't declare it in the first place and have to defend your skin with claws and teeth. It is the time honoured habit of warring Peoples to set their PoWs to work, with the understanding that they are not abused. Which, I believe, can be even found somewhere in the Geneva convention.
As to the camps and their inmates, surely not all were as well treated as Monsieur Robbe-Grillet. But then again, documents turn up, photos appear, all in all so tremendously heretical that one expects a worldwide howl of protest, police actions, more show trials, prison terms for the offenders who dared to publish them. Yet nobody challenges their authenticity.
Not a peep!
Take Reichsfuhrer SS Himmler's circular to the camp commanders which, in unequivocal terms, orders the inmates' preferential treatment, including enhanced medical care. Or the photos of an Auschwitz dining room where the tables are covered with a white tablecloth! Or the camp's personnel, uniformed and clean young men and women relaxing in armchairs on a terrace in front of their quarters, including the infamous Dr. Mengele. Or the camp's kindergarten, of which the present president of the Jewish cupola in Germany must have been a component. Or, as only very recently published in London's DAILY MAIL (Mar 13, 2012), the photo of a young British PoW as goalkeeper in the Auschwitz Sunday Football Team.
Or, so help me God and all His Heavenly Hosts, Auschwitz' Jewish music combo!
Can it be true?!
Not on your Nelly!
Because the world's " Holocaust chief witness" is unconditionally at our command. Namely the one who gloriously has so far smashed to smithereens any criminal doubts and dastardly reservations with his brilliant and irrefutable testimony.
Yet before I pay this fascinating and imaginative gentleman all the honours he deserves, let me wax a little philosophical.
If we compare the condition humaine to an upright ladder, then its highest rungs reach straight into that shimmering realm where God the Father, God the
Son and the most beautiful Goddess, His Mother, have their Divine Abode. Though a Sphere beyond human imagination, has its Essence long since been revealed to us.
It is called Love.
Love with a capital L. A mundane attitude, a perennial philosophy, a divine principle, an all-encompassing sentiment. Love of goodness, Love of truth, Love of justice. Love for the sad, poor and downtrodden. Love for a tree, a butterfly, a sunset, a dog, a child. Love between two lovers. Or, to cast it into one single and glorious phrase, Love for God.
Whereas the lowest rungs appear to be radically different. Here, shrouded into stinking sulphur swathes pierced now and then by a reddish flicker, at the very Heart of Darkness thus, lurk mankind's most hideous desires, most criminal ambitions, most putrid fantasies, most terrible perversions. An abode we know perfectly well, because it is strictly manmade, just as its supreme ruler, the Devil. Whose essence is Hate.
Love vs. Hate, therefore, and both are the outmost antipodes of human existence.
Which, by the way, helps you finally to understand why those who blatantly and ruthlessly disseminate Hate in this world are protected by our politically correct Hate Laws.
Back to our witness. Like the president of the USA, at present the world's foremost peace monger with an eye on more, is Mr. Elie Wiesel (a German noun meaning weasel) another recipient of that remarkable distinction, namely the Nobel Price for Peace. An honour that made him ten times more reliable as a witness than before, which was only five times. I have never read his books, but hear they are compelling and, more often, heart-rendering. As it is, and as I have been informed by an insider who does not want to be named, Mr. Weasel's magnum opus Night contained a number of episodes, all doubly compelling and thrice heart-rendering, whose exact details have been for unexplained reasons deleted by the publisher. But the truth will out, as the unnamed informer whispered behind a raised hand, wherefore he regaled me not long ago with a few photocopies during a hushed meeting a few minutes after midnight in a poorly lit part of town. Which is the reason why you have the unique and absolutely thrilling pleasure to read a few more bits of Mr. Weasel's extraordinary Calvary, namely his elopements from an assortment of Nazi death camps.
The first one he jumped was Dachau (Jewish Telegraphic Agency, 11 Apr. 1983). He didn't say how, but according to my information he managed it with the assistance of a she-wolf whom he had somehow befriended and who scared the SS guards out of their pants. And who later, deep in the Black Forests and not far from Cinderella's fabled castle, fed him her own milk until he felt better. A beautiful friendship while it lasted, but alas! Because after some years, and since she was rumoured to have a German shepherd on the paternal side, he developed a Freudian hate complex towards her which made him cease sending the customary greeting cards for Yom Kippur.
Next he turned his back on Buchenwald (New York Times, 2 Nov. 1986). He didn't say how, but according to my information he talked, after translating Dante's entire Comedia Divina into Yiddish, a bunch of beavers into gnawing through the floor-boards by promising them a large batch of Goldman Sachs sub-prime junk bonds while knowing already that chief Blankfine was betting against them.
His third, and hopefully last, escape was pulled off in Auschwitz proper (New York Post, 23 Oct. 1986 and New York Times, 4 Jan. 1987). He didn't say how, but according to my information this is how it happened. Namely with the help of five hundred moles whose queen he had seduced (she being the famous Lily Marleen of the Smooth Black Fur in his so-far unpublished autobiography) with a pledge of illegal Antwerp diamonds. The beasts dug a tunnel, three miles and a half long, through which he robbed to freedom.
Well, you better believe it. Just like the statement of Israel's last prime minister who has assured us that the Israeli Defence Forces are the most humane and considerate in the whole world. Of which there can't be any doubt, particularly after we've seen the photographs.
But let's stop the caper and get down to essentials. Which read like this: Pay attention, Mr. Weasel! Take a second, good sir, and listen to me!
I, Michael Colhaze, accuse you and your band of criminal associates, though certainly and most emphatically not every Jew of this world, to have perpetrated crimes of an unbelievable magnitude. You have unleashed two World Wars, each with millions of innocent victims. You have bombed my magnificent country in a firestorm of unbelievable ferocity into a heap of smouldering rubble. And if that weren't enough, you are accusing me, my parents, my sons, my compatriots and my country of the absolute worst crime ever wreaked in the History of Man. A crime so hideous that by now most of the world believes we Germans, and Germans alone, are genetically predisposed for organized genocide, just as confirmed recently by that smeary globalist Roger Cohen of the NEW YORK TIMES, or that equally obnoxious cockroach Daniel Goldhagen from Harvard University.
An accusation which I believe, after long and painful considerations, to be the most stupid, most transparent, most monstrous hoax ever pulled off in the History of Man! In short, a hoax sustained by your own demented and feverish fantasies, like babies burning in pits or blood seeping from mass graves for months on end.
Or was it years?
Now you may shake your head at my naivety, Mr. Weasel, and scoff at this silly banter and just wait until they've smoked me out of my burrow and locked me away. And perhaps they will. Though meanwhile I would like you to consider this. You and your associates cling to Christendom like ivy to a fine old oak. If the oak dies, the ivy will die too. Because whoever comes afterwards won't tolerate ivy, since tolerance is a rare and very Christian attitude.
Or see it this way. In the last decade the world's range of perception has been enlarged to a degree that was unthinkable in the past. As a result the monster swimming close to the surface has become visible. Very much so, in fact. It is enormous, admittedly, but also vulnerable. Because it takes only a few serious miscalculations, one rip-off too far, like in Greece right now, and the attached economical crash and its terrible miseries will make people choose the only possible remedy, namely rulers who send the incapable and corrupted parliaments packing. And who will, hopefully, do for their own people what is good for them, and not paying one third of the country's income as interest to a bunch of greedy alien criminals.
That apart, is it simply unthinkable that Evil instead of Goodness and Honour will rule forever. It is against God's intent!
Thus we may not witnessing the final consolidation of a world-wide Mammon tyranny, but in fact the beginning of its collapse.
You, Mr. Weasel, may think that we, Christ's Templars, have grown old and gaunt and are hardly able to carry our rusty armour anymore. But this is not true, particularly if you consider that it is us who fight your proxy wars and guard your sumptuous mansions. Thus we are still able to hold a sword, and certainly a pen. But we are also, after years of complacency, slowly waking up to the present realities, our offspring included, and all keenly aware of the growing ensnarement, the destruction of our great culture, the rising crime. And nearly all believing that the only way to restore peace and order is a Reconquista of our ancestral fiefs.
How do I know this?
Because my young sons and their many friends tell me what they won't tell their blathering liberal multicultural '68er profs, namely that the latter will sooner or later be swept away with the rest of the thieves and invaders.
As to yourself, Mr. Weasel, I believe that you watch with silent horror how the last grains of your hourglass are seeping slowly and soundlessly into oblivion.
Horror because you are at heart a nihilist. Which is already some kind of atonement for your terrible lies. But it will get even worse. Because, as I have explained already earlier, the Hereafter is a mirror image of our present deeds and aspirations, their accumulated medium independent of time and space, yet perfectly real. Which means that once you have crossed the threshold, you will find yourself in a world of your own making. A world with all the interesting ingredients you have invented so marvellously and disseminated so carelessly, though without the white tablecloth or a music combo.
As for myself, and in case they smoke me out indeed and pull me into one of their kangaroo courts and accuse me of having broken their criminal laws, I'll tell them as Martin Luther once did: Here I stand and can't do otherwise! Which will be easy, since I know that it is me who holds the moral high ground, and that it is God's Truth they try in vain to lock away when they imprison me.
But don't fret. I won't give them the satisfaction to watch me and my last years rotting away in one of their plastic dungeons. I've had a good life, with sad moments and great moments. Thus I'll crack a joke for my loved ones and call it a day. And, like the Fool and his Dog in the last Tarot card but one, step into the shimmering Void and announce ourselves to the Grandmaster of my Lodge. Who will, as I know with absolute certainty, bestow on us the small but significant honours due to His most faithful vassals, namely by taking us lightly into His loving Heart.
As for you, esteemed Reader, and in case this highly erratic and far too emotional piece has managed to touch a chord in your heart, I would like you to remember us kindly.
* Source: "Historische Tatsachen" Nr. 92 / S. 6 zitieren aus den Akten des Landesgerichts fur Strafsachen Wien Az: 26 b Vr 7477/90; "Profil" — Wien — Nr. 24 vom 9.6.1997