[Bret L]

To be a German (Part 2)

Michael Colhaze

April 11, 2010

"Every Jew, somewhere in his being, should set apart a zone of hate — healthy virile hate — for what the German personifies and for what persists in the German.

Elie Wiesel, Nobel Prize winner and "chief witness" to the Holocaust



Those who sow wind will harvest a Tempest.

Hosea 8,7


It did not take long and the rumours turned into a thunderclap so
deafening that everybody stood benumbed, unable at first to grasp its
full impact.

Germany had begun to recover amazingly fast. At Nuremberg the Allies
did a thorough job and strung up those ringleaders that weren’t of
further use, while the lesser satraps got locked away or were let off
with the proverbial black eye. Something not in store for the German
prisoners of war who died by the tens of thousands in Eisenhower’s
atrocious winter camps or Stalin’s monstrous gulags. The propaganda
machinery continued for a while at full pelt, presenting Hitler’s
Germany to the world as a nation of aggressors, gangsters, murderers,
barbarians, collaborators and petty criminals, to name but a few, and
in short the beastly Hun of old who had fully deserved his terrible
fate.

History is written by the victors, and even those who knew better
clenched their teeth, shrugged, thanked God for their miraculous
survival and busied themselves with clearing away the rubble. While
those who were already duped into believing their implicit guilt
thought it a reasonable price for a full belly and tried to look
forward and never backwards again.

As the years went by and the ugly Bear behind the Iron Curtain began
to growl always louder and more threatening, Germany’s strategic
importance became paramount. Which required a change of tactics,
including an upgrading of the Hun into something like a human being.
One that had to be accepted, with much grovelling and tail-wagging
from its intellectual quarters, into the Family of Man again. The
capitalist edition, naturally.

My mother meanwhile had remarried, a union of convenience soon fraught
with discord. It did not last long and sadly clouded the most
formative period of my youth. She died recently, and the last time I
saw her she asked me to take off my shoes and lay by her side. Already
on the threshold and fading fast, she saw not the son but his father
instead, the only lover of her long, long life. On my occasional
visits to one of our great cathedrals I light a candle for both, and
pray that they may be united again in a world of pure light, happy as
on the day they first met, and their love a pledge that will outlast
Eternity.


For a while at least I became part of a real family, and one of its
great moments was the arrival of a TV set. I still remember vividly
the advent of the ruinous machine, font of utter stupidity,
manipulator, death knell of civilisation’s last foundations. Though in
those years it had a simple and almost innocent demeanour. Small,
black and white, with a flickering screen, did its only channel
disseminate carefully filtered news, much culture, Hollywood B movies,
and some home-grown entertainment of dubious merit. High on the agenda
stood a quiz show whose novelty remunerated for the sheer imbecility
of its content. The quiz master himself became Germany’s most famous
personage, focal point of a shattered nation’s rebounding dreams, and
unaware that he was the brainchild of Freudian hoodlums who had, as
part of a much subtler propagandistic machinery, taken it upon
themselves to keep the tamed Hun from getting mischievous again.

A new and more reliable High Priest for the young, they said
approvingly, and, with disgust, for the elderly an ersatz magician in
lieu of the real one who had blown his brains out only ten years
previously.

Some news items of those years are still much on my mind. Particularly
the day when Sir Winston Churchill received the Karlspreis, or
Charlemagne Award, at Aachen in the great Emperor’s beautiful chapel
that dates back to 800 AD. Which had miraculously survived the
combined USAF and RAF onslaught, contrary to countless civilians who
had not. I don’t know to this day who came up with the idea, if one of
those bootlicking, spineless, blathering politicians that are so
endemic among modern democracies, or someone with a sardonic touch and
a bright mind. Whatever the answer, the old boogie had just been given
the boot by his own conservative buddies and was vainglorious enough
to accept yet another distinction. Wheezing and shuffling down the
long road to extinction, he must have felt positively bemused while
observing a Germania redux, its new and somewhat synthetic phoenix
rising powerfully from the ashes, whereas his own empire crumbled
irreversibly into oblivion.

‘It can’t be true’, whispered my mother as we watched the ghostly
pageant in black-and-white. ‘This man is responsible for the death of
millions! What has happened to the world? Have we all gone mad?!’

We have, apparently. Though in those days, and already heavily
indoctrinated, I missed the full meaning of her words. Whereas now I
don’t, particularly after reading Patrick Buchanan’s Unnecessary War
and Kevin McDonald’s Culture of Critique. Who really boil it down to
one single, terrible truth, namely that this man and his paymasters
were the instigators not only of the death of Britain’s and America’s
finest young men, but also of the greatest carnage, the worst
fratricide committed in Mankind’s entire history. It is really here,
in the inordinate hate for Germany as the old heartland of our
incomparable Christian-European civilisation, that the roots can be
found for the ever intensifying assault on the White Man’s right to
exist.

I wonder sometimes how this man must have felt during the twilight
years of his life. Terrible, most likely. Fiddling with some pitiful
canvas utterly devoid of human warmth, let alone artistic
gratification. Abandoned by his old paymasters because that’s what
they inevitably do once you’ve lost your expediency. Deserted by his
political cronies who knew damn well what mess he had landed them in.
Prowling the casinos of Monte Carlo where a greasy Onassis dropped an
occasional chip into his pocket since he had blown his pension already
at the tables. Bored to death by all the glorifications and laurels
and distinctions which honoured, as he himself knew perfectly well,
only the one great lie that was his life.

And haunted by Agnes the Lamb and millions like her.

If the Hereafter could be described as a mirror image of our present
deeds and aspirations, their accumulated medium as independent of time
and space yet perfectly real, then I prefer to see this man not
sizzling in one of Hell’s deepest dungeons, but rather in an icy and
echoing void where the whole Universe has recoiled into itself,
leaving him alone with the terrible truth of his crimes, and the
knowledge that whatever hope for redemption he has left must be
abandoned, now and forever and into all Eternity.




The thunderclap came one leisurely evening between supper and a glass
of red wine. It was called By Night and Fog and changed my life
forever.

A documentary, it was called. Whereas in fact it was the testimony of
an atrocity so vast that it defied imagination. Six million innocent
souls killed in cold blood, with ruthless German efficiency, in the
most horrible way possible.

Three and a half million in Auschwitz alone.

I have never seen the flick again. I couldn’t, and now I won’t. I
don’t even remember particular sequences of it. All I can call to
mind, in a sort of general way, are mountains of corpses, mountains of
shoes, mountains of spectacles. And while I and the country still
digested the seismic aftershocks, even worse was to come.

Human bodies made into soap, human skin used as lampshades, human
skulls boiled down to half their size like those of the Amazonian
headhunters. Barbarous SS men smacking new-born babies against a wall.
Dr. Mengele conducting unspeakable experiments with small children…

A deathly pall fell over the country. Whoever had dared until then to
point out the injustice of Versailles that was really the reason for
everything in its wake, whoever maintained that Hitler’s Germany was
not only the dreaded Gestapo and sinister SS but in many ways also
amazingly caring and sane and clean, whoever stated that Hitler only
wanted to recuperate stolen German land and never sought war except
perhaps with Stalin and his murderous gang, fell silent for good.
Because whatever had been done to Germany was total peanuts compared
with what Germany had done to the Jews.

Which was the reason why the land of Bach, Goethe and Kant became for
the next fifty years a colony of lepers, openly or secretly despised
by everyone except for their money, a commodity they lavished
generously on the rest of the world in a timid effort at absolution.

My education has been reasonably complete. Added were over the years
more languages, simply by living, sometimes for over a decade, in
various European countries. I read Byron, Leopardi, Lorca, Villon in
the original. I adore them, of course, just as I adore Verdi or
Vivaldi. Yet I could never, in a strictly subjective manner, prevent
myself from being most awed by the incomparable phalanx of poets,
composers, painters, philosophers, mystics and educators my own
country has produced over the centuries. There was never any arrogance
in this sentiment, though surely a subdued pride. And a deep and
continuing sadness, even dread, that the holocaust could have happened
in a nation of such intellectual magnificence.

Soon I began to feel its effects on a practical level.

On my first visit to Amsterdam a young Dutchman told me expansively,
in perfect German and with the friendliest smile, of how to get in the
quickest possible way to the Central Train Station. I walked for half
an hour until I realized that he had sent my into the opposite
direction. When I finally arrived, my train was long gone and another
one would leave only the next morning. So I stretched out on a bench
in the waiting room, ready to pass the night there. But an official
came and growled: ‘No Nazis here!’ I slunk away, and in a quiet street
found another bench under a wide tree. When I woke well before
sunrise, stiff and cold with an aching back, the resident company of
doves had thoroughly splattered my coat with their droppings.

In Paris the proprietor of a run-down pension asked me, once the bill
was safely paid, if I had been a guard in the Bergen-Belsen
concentration camp. In Copenhagen some snotty poof who insisted he was
part of young Elton John’s entourage wanted to know if my father had
been an SS colonel. In Belgrade a woman spat into my face for reasons
I can only imagine. And in Cadiz, during my seafaring days, I got into
a fight with some Swedes who taunted me for once beyond endurance.
Which left the pub in shambles, the Swedes on the floor and me with a
black eye and three front teeth missing. Plus a night in jail and a
heavy fine. Whereby the latter, to my great relief, was revoked after
I had lisped my version of events to the Captain of Guardia Civil in
charge.

Keeping it in a nutshell, Germany’s glorious history had been reduced
to a mere twelve years of unspeakable barbarity. Attempts at damage
limitation were of course underway, like outing Hitler and his gang as
Germanically atypical, him a heathen Austrian at that. But whenever I
stated in some foreign parts my name and nationality, I saw the minute
hesitation, felt the slight inner recoil, and knew perfectly well what
people were thinking. To tell the truth, and as the years went by, and
me not being timid or over-sentimental in any case, it didn’t bother
me too much. I began to know my own worth, and screw those who refused
to recognize it. But as a result, the ugly German in me, and on the
whole in many of my compatriots, tried always to be marginally more
upright and just and honest than everybody else, even more forgiving.
Which, not surprisingly, served us well in the long run. Only
recently, after many a year, I revisited one of my old haunts high up
in some Spanish mountains where I had spent nearly a decade and
employed half the village in a varying and often hazardous enterprise.
The warmth and simple joy I was received with made me swallow hard and
wrestle down an aberrant tear.

In my early twenties, while roaming through Europe by way of
hitchhiking, I hung out for a few days in one of Rome’s many youth
hostels. As the usual soiree of cheap Chianti and even cheaper Grappa
got into full swing, a Jewish gentleman of Eastern provenance
approached me and asked for a favour. He had twinkling little eyes, an
uncommonly large and bulbous nose, high blood pressure, an ample
midriff and must have been about seventy five years old. I fell of
course over my own feet to accommodate him. His English was atrocious,
and it took me some time to understand that he was on his way to
Germany and needed a letter of introduction. Or better, a document
that would help him to claim indemnifications. What for, I asked
appalled, fearing immediately the worst. A good question, he conceded,
and wanted to know if I had any suggestions. So we sat down and cooked
up a story whose details I don’t remember anymore, but would probably
blush crimson if they were read to me today. Rounding it off, he
needed a name, since his was acoustically too cumbersome, too long and
too Cyrillic in any case. As an experienced cosmopolitan I suggested
Cohen, which for unclear reasons didn’t sit well with him. After some
deliberations I came up with Germany’s foremost nonsense poet, and
thus Mr. Morningstar was born. I hope he achieved his aims, continued
to shine brilliantly, and lived happily ever after. When all was done,
he patted my cheek approvingly and said: ‘Son! You are a good Nazi!’
Which left me, historically speaking, with the profound satisfaction
that there must have been at least one of those in the whole wide
world.

Nazi, then.

A label that became, like an unspecified threadworm, part of my inner
make-up. It lurked at the back of my head, needed only one of the many
catchwords to spring to attention, and haunted me sometimes in my
dreams. As to the catchwords, Germany began practically to drown in
them. Nourished by the war’s spineless intellectual leftovers and
their aforementioned paymasters who had crept into every strata of the
burgeoning media, they soon became a perverse gutter creed that
secretly and intentionally challenged the established religion. It
scuttled and hunkered wherever you looked, jumped onto your back in
the most inappropriate moments, and snapped at your heels when you
knelt down for a moment of silent prayer. To prop it up a giant and
worldwide propaganda avalanche was launched in clearly predictable
intervals, flaunting yet another horror story that had so far been
overlooked by the prostrate historians. Which ended inevitably with
the payment of yet another billion of German taxpayers’ money to some
holocaust victims’ great-grandparents, great-grandchildren, third-
degree-cousins and their murdered pet hamsters.

As for myself, it took nearly fifty years until the first doubts began
to appear. Doubts as hideous as the certainties that had beset me for
most of my life."

Michael Colhaze (email him) is a pen name.

Permanent URL: http://www.theoccidentalobserver.net...GermanyII.html

[Shhhh! I'm Listening to Reason!]

On Apr 13, 2:47*am, Bret L wrote:
To be a German (Part 2)

Why read part two when part one was full of lies?

(I only made it through the first few lines of part one before
hitting some whoppers.)