War of the sexes, 17

Update: The following text is rough draft. The series has been substantially revised and abridged, and the section by the YouTube blogger Turd Flinging Monkey is available in a single PDF: here.

______ 卐 ______

 

Solutions

 
turd-flinging-monkey
Apropos the traditionalism cycle, in his fourth video about “solutions” the blogger says that the current feminist stage simply cannot get back to the stage of humane patriarchy, that he calls soft patriarchy. The pendulum has swung so far to the left that it will come swinging violently to the far right, towards brutal patriarchy. This is exactly what we have said in one of the most popular posts of this blog, “Lycanthropy,” and you can see it visually if you pay attention to the arrow at the bottom of the blogger’s triangle. He also predicts what I’ve been saying in my books about the rape of the Sabine women.

But brutal patriarchy is not the solution. It is a harsh stage not only for women but for most men. In polygamous societies women are monopolized by a few alpha males (matriarchy is bad for every single male). It is the Aristotelian golden mean what whites must strive for, the humane patriarchy of the Jane Austen world. It may still be a gynocentric society but males are in charge. It is the world that I knew as a small child: and is the same world that my parents, grandparents and great-grandfathers lived in.

In his video the blogger says that in this society there must be marriage because this institution avoids tournament mating by the alphas. The Austen world is a pair-bonding society. Soft patriarchy is the lesser of the three evils of the cycle as illustrated in the triangle. Women obey. The blogger disagrees with those vindictive fantasies in the manosphere to remain in the brutal stage so that women may be “sold like cattle.” This is a passage from the poem Goetterdaemmerung:

For England or Iceland,
Byzantium, Vinland,
Far land or ancient
And ripe for the plunder,
The burning of roof-trees,
The seizing of women,
The tooting of treasure,
The flowing of red blood,
And wine for the victors.

Presently, in our Empire of the yin, the mores are exactly the polar opposite from those times when white women were sold like cattle. In our times, the blogger says, the problem is not the unchanging female nature but the government, the laws and the liberal zeitgeist. I would add the influence of the Jews in the media, Hollywood and the universities.

In the Aryan ethnostate women won’t be treated as slaves but like a father treats his child. Never empower children to the point of enacting laws against toothbrushes or having free candy! “Feminism at its very core” says the blogger “is exactly the same as having a spoiled child.” Every time the child makes a tantrum we buy him or her a toy. “And the kid turns into a spoiled brat. That is what feminism is. Society has given women everything they wanted, and now they’re spoiled old brats.”

The blogger comments that he has seen videos in the manosphere claiming that women are evil. He counters that that is only true if we consider that spoiled children are evil. When women are under our control they behave reasonably well. By empowering them they become bad but neither they nor the children are intrinsically evil: they should simply be controlled. It’s only when women are left to their own devices that they do become bad. Our goal should be to treat our spouses as we treat children. However, it must be pointed out that even these patriarchal societies are gynocentric—even the super-Yang Sparta was gynocentric!

Gynocentrism has reigned but presently women are not only out of control. Many are indeed evil. Just see those pictures of spoiled European women with pickets welcoming migrants with skin of the color of shit saying, “Better rapists than racists!”

The blogger is concerned that a soft form of patriarchy could last only a hundred years. He fears that even with protections and education feminism will come back (again, see the arrows of the triangle). The new generations can fall again to the original sin, superbia. They will think they know better and will throw all accumulated wisdom out of the window, as it has happened before. (Remember the imposition of Christianity on all white peoples that destroyed the pagan temples, the statues of Aryan beauty and burnt the Greco-Roman libraries.) The blogger says that when this is about to happen again—when our wives start whining and complaining (e.g., in the ethnostate) that the storm is over and they want the right to vote, we must tell them angrily: “Fuck you! Go on your knees and suck my dick!”

We must convey a most emphatic “No!” as if they were brats making a tantrum. “Children and women are just incapable to understand these abstract concepts”. They don’t know what is good for them in the long run. The key for a functional ethnostate is to keep authority outside the reach not only of Jews, but of women alike.

A religion of hate!

antichrist

I have moved this post
(which will remain linked
at the sidebar’s top for a while)
to the Addenda: here.

Truth before fashion

by William Pierce

wlp_bas_relief 
Perhaps you’ll pardon me if I speak to you today in a more personal vein than I usually do. I want to tell you about some personal perceptions of mine, because I believe that many of you who are listening have had similar perceptions. I believe many of you have something in common with me, something very important.

When I was a little boy, 11 or 12 years old, I used to spend my time taking clocks apart, building radios and model airplanes, and doing experiments in a tiny laboratory that I had in my parents’ garage. I used to make little solid-fuel rockets and try them out in the back yard. My ambition was to be a rocket scientist when I grew up. And that’s what I became, at least for a while, until I returned to the university to teach.

The point is that, more than anything else, I was interested in learning what made things tick. I was fascinated by knowledge, by discovery, by the truth. I didn’t care at all what was fashionable: I wanted to know what was true. I was the kind of fellow who sometimes would wear one brown sock and one blue sock, because it really didn’t make any difference to me. And I’m pretty much still that way, except that now my wife makes sure that my socks match.

While I was growing up, of course, I paid some attention to what was happening in the world around me. I knew that there were good people and bad people, smart ones and stupid ones. I knew that the world wasn’t perfect, but I believed that it could be made better. I still believe that.

After I was grown I learned one thing, however, which was really depressing to me for quite a long while. I learned that most of the people around me—not all, but most—were much more interested in what was fashionable than in what was true. When I was a university student, for example, I was very interested in history, and I wanted to discuss the various topics which came up in class with fellow students. Whenever the topic was an ideologically sensitive one, however—the Second World War, for example—I found that it was very difficult to carry on an objective conversation with most people. They would balk whenever the discussion wandered onto unfashionable ground. I would ask the students I was talking with, why is it that almost no member of the general public can tell us how many American GIs died during the war—or how many Germans or how many Poles—but nearly everyone thinks he knows that “six million” Jews died? Why is that? Is it that people believe that only Jews are important? Or is it that they have been brainwashed with propaganda by the media, which are controlled by Jews? And if there is propaganda involved, shouldn’t we be suspicious of its claims?

Well, whenever I would say things like that, the people I was talking with would become uncomfortable. Some would become emotional. They would refuse to continue the discussion.

I’ll give you a more recent example of this sort of thing. A few weeks ago the United States sent a military expedition to Haiti to force the government controlled at that time by General Raoul Cedras to abdicate in favor of Mr. Clinton’s good friend, Jean-Bertrand Aristide. General Cedras was a dictator, we were told by the controlled media—a bad man—and Aristide was a democrat, a good man, a man much like Bill Clinton. We were sending troops to Haiti, the media said, to restore democracy.

Now, it’s true that most Americans weren’t as enthusiastic about sending troops to Haiti to install Aristide as the gang around President Clinton was. But we went along with it. And if you watch the television news coverage of the military occupation, you are led to believe that our soldiers are enthusiastic about their assignment. They are doing a noble thing, they believe, giving Haiti back to Aristide and restoring democracy.

Now, the fact is that Mr. Aristide is a Communist, and besides that a much worse thug and terrorist than General Cedras ever was. In 1991, when Aristide was the top dog in Haiti, he ruled by terror and murder. He killed his opponents with burning tires, “necklacing” them, as the Blacks call it, before General Cedras booted him out of the presidential palace. It is difficult to imagine a more despicable criminal than Jean-Bertrand Aristide as the ruler of a country. And our government is backing him. Our troops are keeping him in power and taking guns away from Haitians who oppose him.

Isn’t that amazing?

But just try discussing that with the average U.S. voter. He doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s unfashionable. About as far as the average American will go is admitting that what goes on in Haiti isn’t our business, and that we should let the Haitians run their own affairs.

Some Americans will say that we had to intervene in Haiti because economic conditions were so bad there that we had a flood of Haitian “boat people” coming into this country. That, of course, is sheer nonsense: economic conditions were worse than usual in Haiti before our invasion because the Clinton government had imposed an embargo on the country in an attempt to force General Cedras out. That’s why the Haitians were starving: it was Mr. Clinton’s embargo. But most people don’t want to hear that.

And they don’t want to hear about the fact that Aristide is a Communist and a bloodthirsty terrorist. They prefer to hear that our troops are in Haiti to “restore democracy.” That’s what is fashionable. That’s what it is comfortable to believe.

Now, let me become personal again.

During the past 30 years I’ve noticed this sort of failure of reason over and over again. I’ve seen the government in Washington adopt policies that I was certain were destructive policies, policies that would lead to the loss of our freedom, to the loss of everything that we hold dear. I was appalled, and I would speak out against these policies.

But invariably the controlled media supported the policies, and so the policies were fashionable in the eyes of most people. People who were against the government’s policies were called “racists” by the media. They were called “isolationists.” They were called “haters.” And most people let themselves be bullied by the media. They went along because it was fashionable to go along.

And so there I was, time after time, concerned about trends that I could see developing, concerned about subtle shifts in the propaganda of the controlled media, concerned about changes in government policy. I could see all around me the bad effects of such trends. I could see where these new trends were heading. It was clear. It was obvious. But other people seemed not to notice. It was as if they were oblivious to the destruction of their own world which was going on around them. I felt very frustrated that they refused to see what I saw, that they continued to pretend that things were fine when I knew that we were headed for disaster.

Can you picture that situation? Have you ever felt the way I’ve just described?

I don’t mean to say that I always was right, that I always knew better than everybody else. I can make mistakes, I can make errors of judgment, just like anyone. But when I make a mistake it’s an honest mistake. I don’t deliberately misjudge things in order to be fashionable.

The unfortunate fact is that much more often than not my judgments about the government’s policies have been correct. Policies that I instinctively felt to be wrong have turned out to be so. Trends that analysis and reflection convinced me were degenerative trends have turned out to be so. And I have never hesitated to speak out. I have never hesitated to say, for example, “Hey, everybody, the government’s immigration policy is a disaster. It’s changing the racial character of America. It will destroy everything that’s good about our country if we permit it to continue.” And the controlled media then would turn their hatred against me. They would shriek at me: Racist! White supremacist! Hater!

Or I would say, “Hey, everybody, the reason the crime problem has become so bad during the past 30 years is that we’re subsidizing it. We’re using our taxes to help the minorities, who are responsible for most crime, to breed. We’ve accepted so-called ‘civil rights’ laws which are empowering and protecting the criminal elements.” And the controlled media would shriek at me again: Racist! Hater!

And, of course, I wasn’t being a hater at all. I was simply concerned about the destruction of my country, the destruction of the civilization which my ancestors had built at such great cost, and I was giving voice to my concerns. I was speaking the truth as I saw it, even when the truth wasn’t fashionable.

And I must admit that sometimes I had the very unsettling impression that I was one of a small minority of sane people, and that the majority of the population had fallen under the influence of a gang of lunatics and were letting the lunatics make all of the policies.

I’ve been seeing the quality of education in America fall disastrously year after year, and in response the government has formulated new educational policies which I knew could only make things worse, policies which almost seemed calculated to make things worse. Instead of aiming for quality in the schools, the government ever since the Second World War has been pushing for “equality.” The quality of the educational system goes down, and so the government forces a big dose of “equality” on it. That makes the quality go down even more, and so the government responds with an even bigger dose of forced “equality.” And when I see this I have to pinch myself, I have to say to myself: Are you really the only sane person in this country; are you the only one who can see that this policy of pushing “equality” instead of quality will only make things worse? Are you the only one who still has a grip on reality?

And, of course, I know that I’m not the only one who feels this way. I know that there are many of you who also feel yourselves the only sane people in a world gone mad. I know that there are many of you who still prefer the truth to whatever is fashionable at the moment. Otherwise you wouldn’t be listening to this program.

The problem is that we sane people, we rational people, we people who accept the evidence of our eyes and are able to make comparisons of what we see today with what we saw in the past—we have got to do a better job of sticking together. We have to put up a united front against the lunatics.

And, you know, it can be done. It is possible for the sane minority to get the lunatics back into their cages and then begin repairing the damage they’ve done. It is possible to take the media away from the destructive psychopaths now in control.

I’m given hope by the fact that even the majority of ordinary Americans, the ones who always prefer to be fashionable, finally have overdosed on insanity. The gang of Clintonistas who’ve been running the country into the ground for the last two years have scared them so badly that we had a massive repudiation of them and their policies at the polls recently. Even the trendy air-heads who’ve been tolerating insanity for decades have finally said, “Enough!”

Please don’t think that what I’ve just said means that I’m a Republican. The good thing about the recent elections is not that the Republican Party won; the good thing is that the elections put a party in control of the legislative branch of the government which is different from the party in control of the executive branch. If we’re lucky we’ll have the two parties fighting each other to a standstill for the next two years. We’ll have governmental gridlock, and the government won’t be able to do as much damage as otherwise.

This gives us a little breathing space, a little time to organize ourselves and prepare for battle with the lunatics.

Actually, I’ve used the word “lunatics” loosely in describing those we oppose. The people who control the media and the people in the government who take orders from them aren’t really crazy. They’re evil. Do you understand that? Evil. They’re people committed to the destruction of everything beautiful and noble and decent in the world. We don’t want to put them in a lunatic asylum. We want to hunt them down—every last one of them—and put a final end to their evil.

One of the most interesting results of the recent elections was the rebellion of White Californians against the growing tide of illegal immigrants from Mexico which was swamping their state. That rebellion expressed itself as Proposition 187. The media people and the Clintonistas—and also many Christians who have been infected with the egalitarian madness—are really unhappy about Proposition 187. They’re hinting that those who voted for it are “racists,” that the only reason they want to make things more difficult for illegal aliens is that most of the aliens aren’t White, because they’re Mexicans, mestizos.

And the White voters are responding, “Oh, no, that’s not the reason at all. We’re not racists. We just want to keep our schools and other public facilities from being overwhelmed.”

But, really, for most of them that’s a dishonest response. The whole reason why Proposition 187 was necessary is because the illegal immigrants are non-White. If they were English or Swedish or German they wouldn’t be a problem. They wouldn’t be a threat. Everyone understands that, but most people are afraid to say it. They are afraid of being unfashionable. So they kept smiling and pretending that everything was all right for 50 years, while their country was being ruined by the media and the government. Finally they had too much, and they rebelled by voting for Proposition 187. But they still won’t face the situation squarely and call a spade a spade. They still prefer being fashionable to dealing in the truth.

But, at least—at least—they did rebel. That’s a very good sign indeed. It shows that there are limits to how much the average citizen will let himself be abused. It’s good to know that. I had begun to worry that he would put up with anything rather than risk being called a “racist.”

You know, the trouble with most people is not that they’re stupid. Most people can figure out as well as you and I can that if you give welfare to Blacks, pretty soon you’ll have more Blacks.

They can understand that if you don’t control your borders, pretty soon you’ll have more Mexicans and Haitians in the country.

They can figure out that if you then pass special laws to protect criminals, you’ll have a lot more crime to deal with.

They know that if you begin mixing Blacks and Whites socially, some Whites will begin acting like Blacks, and the average moral tone of White society will decline.

They can understand that if you force White students to go to school with Blacks and then try to maintain the pretense that Blacks are just as capable as Whites, you must lower scholastic standards and thereby keep White students from reaching their full potential.

They know that if you pass so-called “free trade” laws, which allow industries in non-White countries with extremely low wages, countries like China and Mexico, to compete with American industries, pretty soon you’ll bankrupt the American industries and put many Americans out of work. And they can understand that if you permit Jews to get control of the mass media of news and entertainment in your country, and along with that a dominating influence on the political process and government policy, you’re in big trouble. You leave yourself open to all of the aforementioned ills and a whole Pandora’s box of others besides.

They can understand, in other words, that if people permit their government to adopt the policies the American government has adopted during the past 50 years, they will reduce themselves to the condition of the American people today: their civilization in a precipitous decline, their public and private morality in a shambles, their future mortgaged, and an assortment of non-White minorities in the process of foreclosing on that future.

This is something that most of our fellow citizens should be capable of understanding. Instead, they’ve let themselves be persuaded, primarily by the controlled media, that they should ignore their own reason and pretend that everything is A-OK.

Or, if they are so fed up with conditions that they just can’t pretend any longer that there’s nothing wrong, they still won’t face the facts squarely and accept the obvious answers, because they don’t want to be racists. And so they pretend that a switch from the Democrats to the Republicans will fix everything.

But, you know, somebody has to be willing to announce the fact that the emperor is naked. Even if it’s not polite. Even if it hurts a lot of people’s feelings. Even if everyone else is pretending that the emperor’s new suit is the very height of fashion, someone has to come right out and say, “Hey, momma, look! The man has no clothes on!”

Not just me. A lot of us have to say that. A lot of us have to bear witness to the plain, unvarnished truth. It’s important. Much more than the state of our economy and the quality of our schools and the crime problem depends on it. In the long run, everything depends on our preferring what is true to what is fashionable—preferring it enough to speak out for it.

I don’t expect everyone to do that. I know that most people will continue being the way they always have been. But it doesn’t take everyone in order to make a difference. It only takes a few. It only took one small boy to open everyone’s eyes to the emperor’s foolishness—one small boy to persuade all the townspeople that they really were seeing what they thought they were seeing.

So I’m counting on those of you who occasionally wear mismatched socks. I’m counting on you to say, “By god, I am right. The government and the media are wrong. And the right thing for me to do is to speak up now, regardless of whose feelings I hurt.” You do that—you keep looking at the world with open eyes and not being afraid to come to your own conclusions about what’s good and what’s bad—and you tell people about what you see.

You tell them, and many of them will open their eyes and look too. Don’t let the controlled media intimidate you. Don’t let the government push you around. We’re the ones who are right, not them.

You stand with me, and be honest with me, and speak out with me, and together we’ll begin pushing back some of the evil which has been taking over our world. We’ll begin building a better world together.

I’m counting on you. Thanks for listening.

January, 1995

Oliver on the Hellstorm

Below, three apparently disconnected passages from “The Dying and the Dead” by Revilo Oliver. The whole text by Oliver reminded me David Lane’s “Open letter to a dead race”. I have written in this site that, if westerners don’t atone for the sin they committed in Germany—and that means, ultimately, rejecting the Gregorian calendar and using instead Hitler’s birth—, the white race will become extinct:

 

Revilo_Oliver

If Yockey had not been hounded to death by the Jews and were alive today, would he take again, without variation, the oath he took in 1946 when he left Wiesbaden, where he could no longer endure the obscene spectacle of the foul murders that the Americans were committing to please the Jews?

I will go from one end to the other of my beloved Europe. I know well that I shall be going only to a churchyard, but I know, too, that the churchyard is dear, very dear, to me. Beloved dead lie buried there. Every stone over them, every bomb-crater containing the pulverized bones of these dead, tell me of a life once so ardently lived, so passionate a belief in its own achievements, its own truth, its own battles, its own knowledge, that I know, even now I know, that I shall fall down and kiss those stones, those endless ruins, this blood-drenched, sacred earth, and weep.

But I surely also know that then, despite a convulsive rage at the perpetrators of this crime, I will again stand erect over this European graveyard and swear the solemn oath that to my last breath I will fight tooth and nail against those who attempted, in vain to be sure, to destroy the cradle of our Western Culture, with its unmatched accomplishments, with its deeds unique in the annals of Humanity. This, I, Francis Yockey, do solemnly swear!…

In 1945, in the devastated and desolate land of a nation of heroes, the American Army forced a German physician to save the life of a captive who had tried to commit suicide. The wretched man, who had surrendered in the mistaken belief that he was surrendering to civilized human beings, had contrived to find a piece of wire and twist it tightly about his throat in the hope of escaping the long, lingering, and exquisite tortures for which the self-righteous sadists reserved him.

The German physician grimly did what he was compelled to do, but he was a man. He looked the commanding officer in the eye and said calmly: “You Americans have done more than violate the law of nations. You have committed hybris. God will punish you, and if there is no god, Nature will.”

Yes, Nature will…

So far as one can extrapolate from the present, disregarding our pathetic hopes for a psychological and biological miracle, there is one race which, by its own fatuity and degeneracy, seems likely to become extinct less than a century after it was master of the world.

END

Who’s the sane:

People inside or outside
the Fruit Cake Hospital?

In the movie 12 Monkeys, just when the TV set of a mental hospital’s recreational room shows poor white rabbits and evil humans doing lab experiments with the rabbits’ eyes, there’s a splendid dialogue between Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt:

James: “Maybe people deserved to be wiped out.”

Jeffrey (startled, turning): “Wiping out the human race? That’s a great idea! But it’s more of a long-term thing. Right now we have to focus on more immediate goals.”

See also my (unpublished) book.

Published in: on June 26, 2015 at 12:33 pm  Comments (4)  
Tags:

The Hellstorm Holocaust

— The biggest cover-up in history —

Anglos & Germany

Hitler and frau

The truth surrounding Hitler and his catastrophic betrayal by the Anglos is what one finds at the deepest level of the rabbit hole. Unfortunately many on the right are unwilling to venture that deep.

Perhaps this is because the truth is so utterly depressing. Hitler overcame such incredible odds and came so close to freeing the Aryan soul from its Jewish chains, only to be struck down one step from the finish line. I can think of no other feat in western history that rivals it. His success was so critically important, his defeat was our greatest tragedy.

Reflecting upon his legacy inspires me and also fills me with despair. Seeing the growing number of people who are beginning to understand and support him give me hope.

—Hyperborean

Published in: on April 24, 2015 at 9:03 am  Comments (7)  

Rape hate, part 1

by Tom Goodrich

 
All wars are bad. All wars are evil. All wars are inherently bad and evil. And World War Two was the most inherently bad and evil of all wars. No matter what some desk-bound Jewish propagandist might scribble, and no matter what some Christian nightly news reader might mumble, there is no such thing as a “Good War” and there was no such thing as a “Greatest Generation.” War unleashes pent hate. War lends a degree of legitimacy to the basest instincts in man. War is organized savagery. And never was this on uglier display than in World War Two. And never has the term “hell on earth” come closer to an actual manifestation than on the Eastern Front.

As momentum swung to the Soviet Union late in the war, the Red Army turned viciously on the crippled German Wehrmacht. First through Russia, then through Poland, the Soviets ruthlessly pursued the German army until by January, 1945, the communists were on the very borders of the Reich itself. When the final push for Berlin began, and when Soviet forces finally rolled across Germany, it caused widespread panic among German civilians.

The following is from my books, Rape Hate—Sex & Violence in War & Peace, and Hellstorm–The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947. It is not a pretty picture to paint. For over 70 years the world has been told only one side of that terrible war–the side that won. To this very day, unfortunately, these books and a handful of others remain the only books which actually attempt to describe what the war looked like to those who lost it. My hope when I began writing these books–my hope then, my hope now–was to tell the story as accurately and honestly as possible; to let the world know what actually occurred during that so-called “Good War,” not simply what we were told occurred. My hope then, my hope now, is that if enough people of good will read the books, understand the books, act upon the books, then the day will soon come when the world will rise up and with a united voice declare that nothing like this will ever happen again, not in their names, not in their times, not to them… not to anyone.

Unfortunately, and as horrible as the ensuing pages are, the reader should keep in mind that the following deals with only one nightmarish component of a war filled with Allied war crimes–terror bombing, torture, starvation, massacre, enslavement—crimes that are even now, after over 70 years, still largely unknown. Taken together, the ugly things that were done to the defeated Germans by the victorious Allies remain to this day the darkest and best-kept secret in human history.


Book-cover

Although millions of Germans were on the roads in full flight, millions more remained at their farms, villages and towns. Despite the rumors of Bolshevik savagery and the reality of Nemmersdorf the previous autumn, many Germans were determined to ride out the red storm, refusing to believe the situation was as bad as Nazi propaganda would have them believe

“About one thousand inhabitants defied danger and remained in Schoenwald,” ran a typical account. “[T]hey did not really believe that the Russians were as cruel and inhuman as they were reputed to be, but hoped to win over the latter by welcoming them and being hospitiable.”

“Things never turn out either as well or as badly as one expects,” explained an old German adage, an adage that those who remained now desperately embraced. Nevertheless, as a precaution, many in Schoenwald and elsewhere took time to bury valuables, hang out white flags and hide their liquor in cellars. When these last safety measures were taken, there was little the people could do but watch, wait and pray to God their decision had been correct. For many, an answer came soon enough. Wrote a priest from the city of Lauban:

In the evening I climbed up onto the roof of the church and gazed at the countryside around me. Without being a prophet I realized that disaster was about to overtake us—a terrible disaster, for the heathens were rapidly approaching.

I could see the reflection of a fire on the horizon. It seemed to be moving… It was as though a wind of destruction and desolation swept the countryside…

It was as though there were a sinister warning in the very air. The whole sky was ablaze and the air seemed to vibrate with the rumble of the Soviet tanks, as they came nearer and nearer.

For the next several days, the fight for Lauban went on. “Shells and artillery fire rent the air and the concentrated fire of the tanks grew fiercer and fiercer,” the priest continues. “The thunder of the cannon which continued without pause was deafening. There was a stifling smell of sulfur.”

[A]bout noon some German soldiers came to the convent and told us that the Russians were likely to arrive in about an hour’s time… The tumult and commotion overhead grew louder and louder. We could hear soldiers tramping about overhead, but we could not tell whether they were Germans or Russians…

[B]efore we had a chance to get out of the cellar the first lot of Russians appeared. They stood at the entrance to the cellar and were obviously very surprised to find human creatures down here. They soon disappeared again, however. They did not look as bad as we had expected and most of us were rather relieved.

In numerous other towns and villages, frightened German civilians were also “rather relieved” upon their initial encounter with the Red Army. “[T]he first Russian troops entered the village from the east,” remembered one witness from Schoenwald. “This went off quite peacefully, no shots were fired, the Germans served food and drink to the Russians, and the latter were very amiable. Any misgivings, which some of the inhabitants of the village might have had, vanished.”

“One moment the streets were deserted, and the next moment they were full of Russians,” added a little girl from another village. “I was in our bedroom upstairs at the time, watching from a corner window partly facing the street. I thought I’d carefully lift a corner of the blanket covering that window to take a peek… I was spotted by an old Russian soldier sitting in the front of a covered wagon pulled by two enormous horses. He smiled at me and waved.”

“Most of them were of strong and sturdy build,” a resident of Kunzendorf observed. “And all of them, as they confronted us, were armed to the teeth—with revolvers and pistols of every type… They were attired in dirty, brownish, padded trousers and jackets, and on their heads they wore fur-caps.”

Composed largely of White Russians and Ukrainians, many Germans were shocked that the enemy often looked, sounded, and acted, much like themselves. Recalled Lali Horstmann:

There was a loud hammering on the door, which echoed through the house. When my husband opened the door, a tall, fair-haired officer… stood on the doorstep… When he entered the room, the Russian Army itself was in our home, taking possession. As always, reality differed from anticipation, for it was not he who was violent, but Bibi who flew at his legs before we could stop her, while the soldier made a friendly gesture towards the outraged little dog… He talked in the serious tones of a kindly grown-up soothing frightened children, and helpless though we were, we had a mutual respect for each other’s unalterable position. He stalked through the rooms in a formal search for German deserters. Then, his duty done, he gravely saluted with great dignity and departed, leaving us speechless and trembling.

Unfortunately, the fact that one Russian like the above might display proper conduct did not guarantee that the next would. The lack of consistency or a predictable policy among Soviet front line troops was one of the most confusing and paralyzing aspects of the Russian occupation. From a rural estate, Renate Hoffman wrote:

[W]e saw a Russian ride through the main gate on a horse. He must have been drunk because he fell off. A second Russian came, then a third. They staggered and reeled their way to the door and entered the house. It was worse than we had ever imagined. One of them went straight to the telephone, ripped it off the wall, and threw it on the floor… Another Russian went to the radio and threw that on the floor, making sure we no longer heard any more news broadcasts. More men came in. They raged through the house, going from room to room. They stormed into the kitchen and demanded the cook make them something to eat. There must have been about forty soldiers.

I took the children outside and hid them behind some bushes. Inside, we ran from one corner to the other, not knowing what to do. A man from the nearby village passed by and reported that the Russians were acting like animals everywhere… After hours of this, a Russian officer showed up with an interpreter… He was wearing a perfectly tailored uniform, an impressive looking man, and also wearing white gloves! This officer told us, through his translator, that he was confiscating the house and was giving us five minutes to leave the estate.

Continues a witness from Kaltwasser:

When the shelling ceased we ventured out of the cellar once more, but we had only got as far as the stairs when we saw… a Pole, coming towards us with a Russian officer and another man. We hoped for the best, but the interpreter promptly demanded our watches and rings. In fact, he actually tore my watch off its chain, and made the women remove all their rings, bracelets, and necklaces. We were horrified when the Russian officer and the interpreter seized hold of Mrs. M. and my aunt and dragged them off. When they eventually came back we went to the vicarage. The house was full of Russians and they had already wrought havoc in all the rooms. Some of them had ransacked the pantry and were gorging the food they had found there. Others had opened all the drawers and cupboards and thrown the contents onto the floor… Russians continued to raid the house all day long. They played the mouth-organ and the harmonium and set the gramophone going. There was a bottle of pure alcohol in the house and they drained it undiluted. They swarmed into the pantry and ate all the preserves… When it grew dark they set fire to the school. We did not dare go to bed as one lot of soldiers after another kept raiding the house… At about three o’clock in the morning a savage-looking Russian appeared and searched us. We had already been searched innumerable times by other Russians… In the course of their searches one of them opened the wardrobe and slashed all the garments to pieces with his dagger.

Traumatic as first encounters were, when the shock troops moved off many Germans would concur that the experience had not been as bad as feared. While rapes had occurred and while many German men of military age had been marched east or shot on the spot, the front line soldier was more concerned with fighting and survival than with loot, rape and revenge. Not so with those who followed. In numerous instances, before Red combat officers and men pushed on they turned to the helpless civilians with stone-like faces: “The Mongols are coming… Very bad men. You go quick. Go quick.”

Composed largely of Mongols and other Asians, as well as convicts and Jewish commissars, these men who formed the second wave of troops were regarded, even by their own comrades, as utterly merciless. Terrified by the news, many Germans did attempt to flee and move in the wake of the first Soviet wave. Most, however, found themselves trapped and could do little more than hide young girls and once again pray that their worst fears were unfounded. After a wait of sometimes days, but normally only hours, the dreaded second wave arrived. There were no preliminaries.

Unlike storm troops, who cautiously entered towns and villages and slipped nervously from door to door, the rear echelons burst noisily into communities atop trucks, tanks or peasant carts crammed high with loot. Often wildly drunk, many wore a bizarre array of stolen clothes and gaudy jewelry. Adding to the chaos were herds of bellowing cattle and sheep.

“It was almost like a scene from the Middle Ages—a migration, no less,” said one stunned observer.

Soon after the “carnival columns” halted in a German town, hell on earth was unleashed. “It seemed as though the devil himself had come,” a witness from Silesia wrote. “The ‘Mongol barbarism of the Asiatic plains’ had come not in a propaganda phrase but in the flesh.

raped-german-girl

“The Monghols are coming!”

While flames shot up from different corners of the towns and gunfire erupted as citizens were murdered in the streets, the invaders soon began kicking in doors to homes, shops and churches. “[A] whole horde of Asiatic-looking fellows appeared and started searching the cellar,” recalled one priest. “The place was a dreadful sight by the time they had finished. The room was already full of smoke and I begged one of the Russians to let us out… Were they going to let us be burnt to death? After a while, however, a more civilized-looking Russian appeared and I repeated my request. He led us out to… the courtyard of the convent. The noise was deafening—the raucous shouts of the Russians, the crackling of the flames, the crashing of beams and brickwork.”

Many horrified Germans tried to greet with a smile their strange visitors. Revealed one woman from a boarding house in Berbitz:

As a precaution, the landlord, Mr. Grebmann, had lined the vestibule with liquor bottles in the naive hope that his house might thereby be spared from ransacking. To the succeeding troop of slant-eyed Mongolians, the tenants brought their jewelry and watches. Hysterical, Mrs. Friedel embraced one of the greasy Kirgis and drank with him from the same bottle, and the elderly Mr. Grebmann patted them familiarly on the back… One of the Mongolians held up my Tom’s tall leather boots triumphantly, the other one put my rings into his pants pocket…

Scarcely had this second detachment left the house and we were beginning to breathe freely, when fists once more thundered at the door: thus it kept up the whole day. The house doors were not permitted to be locked any more. Each took what he wanted either in a more or less harmless or in a malicious way. Soon we and the Russians were wading knee-deep in thrown-around clothing, laundry and bits of smashed dishes…

As soon as a new detachment of Russians entered the house noisily, we squatted trembling about the round table in Grebmann’s living room. One of the soldiers sat at the table with us with pistol disengaged and demanded schnapps or vodka, while the others rummaged around the house… [N]o one dared to speak. We women sat with downcast eyes and lowered head. Someone had told us never to look a Russian in the eye, otherwise we would be lost…

Before long the inside of the house looked as if a band of robbers had lived there… The fellows had cut the beds up into little pieces, slit open the upholstered chairs, thrown furniture around; had slashed pictures, despoiled books, cracked eggs against the wall; had poured liqueur over the rugs, torn curtains down, and scattered the entire contents of all the closets and drawers all over.

One of the most painful shocks for me was to see how two of the ruffians with their heavy boots kicked the chest in which I had my beautiful porcelain wrapped in tissue paper and cotton wadding. They were all treasured pieces… My most beautiful piece… was used by one of them as a toilet.

As a rule, the Soviets generally sought out gold and jewelry first, with an especial eye for “uri,” or wristwatches. It was not unusual to see Red troops laden with necklaces and gold chains or sporting as many as a dozen watches on each arm. When the people had been plucked clean of valuables, interest usually turned to liquor. In their mad quest for “wodka,” soldiers greedily imbibed everything from fine wines and champagne to rubbing alcohol and perfume. Red troops, observed one woman, were “crazy for anything even smelling of alcohol.”

And then…

“Rape was a word that [had] occurred again and again in [our] conversation,” admitted Lali Horstmann. “It was an expression which caused no pang of fear in our times for its meaning was purely figurative—‘to be ravished’ belonged to the realm of lyrical poetry. Now its original sense was terrifyingly restored and brought us face to face with a new peril.”

“Suddenly the door of the room we were in was opened and some soldiers entered,” a frightened boy recalled as he sat huddled with a group of women in a dark room. “One or two matches were struck and I saw that there were about eight Russians in the room who were obviously looking for women.”

The child continues:

As I crouched there in my corner I saw one of the Russians coming towards me. The match he held in his hand went out. I felt, rather than saw, a hand reach out towards me. I had a fur cap on my head, and suddenly I felt fingers tracing curl-like movements on my temple. For a brief moment I did not know what to make of this, but the next instant, when a loud “No” resounded through the room, I thanked God with all my heart that I was not a woman or a girl. Meanwhile the beasts had spotted their victims and shared them out. Then they suddenly started shooting at random. But it was dark in the room and no one could see where the shots were being fired or who was hit. I heard wails and groans and voices calling out to me to help, but there was nothing I could do. Right next to me poor defenseless women were being ravished in the presence of their children.

Merely because a female had been raped once was no guarantee she would not be assaulted again and again. “Many of the girls were raped as often as ten times a night, and even more,” said a witness from Neustadt.

“There was never a moment’s peace either by day or at night,” added another victim:

The Russians were coming and going the whole time and they kept eying us greedily. The nights were dreadful because we were never safe for a moment. The women were raped, not once or twice but ten, twenty, thirty and a hundred times, and it was all the same to the Russians whether they raped mere children or old women. The youngest victim in the row houses where we lived was ten years of age and the oldest one was over seventy… I am sure that wild and hungry animals would not have behaved any differently.

Wrote one girl from Posen who desperately clung to a cousin for safety:

When we were lying in bed at night we kept hearing steps coming up the stairs… They beat on the door with their rifle-butts, until it was opened. Without any consideration for my mother and aunt, who had to get out of bed, we were raped by the Russians, who always held a machine pistol in one hand. They lay in bed with their dirty boots on, until the next lot came. As there was no light, everything was done by pocket torches, and we did not even know what the beasts looked like.

Like hunted prey leading predators from their young, some mothers instinctively sacrificed themselves. Recorded one little girl, ten-year-old Mignon Fries:

[S]he told us in a stern voice to go outside to play and under no circumstances to come back in. No matter what we heard, until she herself would come for us, no matter how long it took. Fearfully we looked at her even though we didn’t know exactly what we were afraid of… We went outside and stood around for awhile not knowing what to do, just listening to the noise in the apartment. My mother had just closed all the windows but we could still hear the soldiers talking, laughing and shouting. Then the music started and before long the soldiers were singing…

The day gave way to evening, it got rather chilly and still we were outside and the “party” got noisier. Every once in a while a soldier would open a window and throw an empty vodka bottle outside. Sometimes the music would stop for a while, but the singing and shouting continued. As it got later and later we became very hungry and cold, but having been raised in an atmosphere of strict obedience we didn’t dare go back in the house against our mother’s orders and just huddled against the wall of the shed in the garden trying to keep each other warm… The music and the singing broke off as suddenly as it had started… Within minutes it was all over and all the soldiers left the house… But it was a long time before our mother finally came out to get us. She was very pale and hugged both of us very tightly for a long time and we could feel her body shaking.

If front-line troops had displayed unpredictability regarding rape, the second wave did not. “All of us, without exception, suffered the same,” revealed one victim.

“And to make matters worse,” added a witness from Neisse, “these atrocities were not committed secretly or in hidden corners but in public, in churches, on the streets, and on the squares… Mothers were raped in the presence of their children, girls were raped in front of their brothers.”

“They… raped women and girls… in ditches and by the wayside, and as a rule not once but several times,” echoed another viewer. “Sometimes a whole bunch of soldiers would seize hold of one woman and all rape her.”

For those Germans who had naively imagined that they might “win over” the Soviets with kindness and courtesy, they now understood, too late, that Nazi propaganda had in this instance grossly understated the threat, rather than exaggerated it. “[T]he atrocity reports in the newspapers were harmless, compared to reality,” one incredulous victim revealed.

While many upright Russian officers courageously stepped in and risked their own lives to stop the murders and rapes, their efforts were little more than a drop of water to a forest fire.

“[A]ll of us knew very well that if the girls were German they could be raped and then shot,” admitted Alexander Solzhenitsyn. “This was almost a combat distinction.”

“There will be no mercy—for no one,” ran one Russian general’s order to his men. “It is pointless to ask our troops to exercise mercy.”

“Kill them all, men, old men, children and the women, after you have amused yourself with them,” urged the Jewish propagandist, Ilya Ehrenberg, in his flaming leaflets that were showered down from airplanes. “Kill. Nothing in Germany is guiltless, neither the living nor the yet unborn… Break the racial pride of the German women. Take her as your legitimate booty. Kill, you brave soldiers of the victorious Soviet Army.”

Springing from house to house and victim to victim “like wild beasts,” the drunken horde was determined to embrace such words as the above at their literal worst.

“When the Russians eventually tired of looting, robbing, murdering, and ill-treating the women and girls, they set fire to a considerable part of the village and razed it to the ground,” said a survivor of Schoenwald, the small community that had dismissed rumors of Russian ruthlessness and opted to welcome them instead.

Much like Schoenwald, one town after another was swiftly enveloped by the howling red storm… with the same results.

“And as we were then hauled out of the cellar,” recalled a woman who, along with her mother and grandmother had been raped repeatedly, “and as they stood there with their machine guns, my mother said, ‘Well, now we’ll probably be shot.’ And I said, ‘It’s all the same to me.’ It really was all the same to me.”

You can imagine Asian cruelty. “Frau, come,” that was the slogan. “Frau, come.” And I was so furious, because I’d had it up to here… [H]e had me in such a clinch I couldn’t free myself; with my elbow I hit him in the pit of his stomach. That definitely hurt him, and he yelled, “You, I shoot.” And he was brandishing this kind of machine gun around my nose and then I said, “Then shoot.” Yelled it, yelled it just like he did. “Then shoot.”

Though this woman miraculously lived, many who offered even token resistance did not. Wrote a witness from Bauschdorf:

Emilie Ertelt… wanted to protect her fifteen-year old daughter, who had been raped sixteen times on one and the same day. Holding a lighted candle in her hand, Mrs. Ertelt, and all those present in the room began to pray for her daughter… [F]our shots were suddenly fired at us. After a few moments some more Russians appeared and started shooting at Mrs. Ertelt, wounding her in the head. The blood streamed down her face, and the nuns who were present went to her assistance and bandaged her head. Soon afterwards another Russian appeared, a brutal-looking fellow… and fired a shot at close range. Mrs. Ertelt was killed instantaneously.

german kids

German victims of Red Army savages

Surrounded by Soviets, flight was simply not a sane option for females—and yet, some tried. One young teacher from Kriescht ran terror-stricken into the nearby woods. The woman was soon found, however, and, according to a chronicler, “they drove her out on the road stark naked, and many soldiers used her one after the other. She reached her village crawling on hands and knees along the ditch, through mud and snow.”

Another group of females found temporary haven in a barn near Schoeneiche. But again, the refuge was swiftly discovered. Remembered one who was there:

They burst in, drunk with vodka and with victory, looking for women. When they saw only older women and children hiding behind a pile of carpets, they must have suspected that somewhere younger bodies were being concealed, and they started to ram their bayonets into the carpets. Here and there first and then systematically… Nobody knows how many young girls were killed instantly that night. Eventually, the muffled cries of anguish and pain gave the hiding places away, and the victors started unrolling their prey. They chased those girls that had remained unhurt through the barn… By then the barn looked like a battle field with wounded women on the floor right next to screaming and fighting victims forced to endure repeated and violent acts of rape.

Faced by relentless assaults, with flight out of the question, females tried a variety of stratagems to save themselves. “Some of us tried to make ourselves as unattractive as possible by rouging the tips of our noses, putting gray powder on our upper lips to look like mustaches, and combing out our hair wildly,” revealed Lali Horstmann. Others placed pillows under their dresses and hobbled with sticks to appear like hunchbacks. One crazed woman, clad in an alluring night gown, left her door open purposely to attract soldiers to where she was lying in bed, in the hope of finding a protector.

“Two Russians, who had entered for a moment stood speechless. Then both spat in disgust, using a coarse word, shocked to the core by a woman who could offer herself to them. They went on to the room next door, from where soon came cries for help from the girl’s grandmother, aged sixty-nine. Her valiant defense of her honor had made her more attractive than the pretty, too willing girl.”

Regarding “willing” women such as the above as “unclean,” Red troops were as likely as not to kill on the spot such individuals. Many frantic females mistakenly assumed a house of God would provide protection. In fact, churches were usually the rapists’ first stop. Agonized a priest from Neisse:

The girls, women and nuns were raped incessantly for hours on end, the soldiers standing in queues, the officers at the head of the queues, in front of their victims. During the first night many of the nuns and women were raped as many as fifty times. Some of the nuns who resisted with all their strength were shot, others were ill-treated in a dreadful manner until they were too exhausted to offer any resistance. The Russians knocked them down, kicked them, beat them on the head and in the face with the butt-end of their revolvers and rifles, until they finally collapsed and in this unconscious condition became the helpless victims of brutish passion, which was so inhuman as to be inconceivable. The same dreadful scenes were enacted in the hospitals, homes for the aged, and other such institutions. Even nuns who were seventy and eighty years old and were ill and bedridden were raped and ill-treated by these barbarians.

Those women pregnant, on their menstrual cycle, or enduring diarrhea, suffered like all the rest. Nothing, it seemed—not age, ailment or ugliness—could repel the Red rapist. Even death was no defense.

“I… saw some twenty Red Army men standing in line before the corpse of a woman certainly beyond sixty years of age who had been raped to death,” one sickened witness recorded. “They were shouting and laughing and waiting for their satisfaction over her dead body.”

As the above viewer went on to add, and as numerous examples attest, such ghoulish depravities were not isolated events.

Good war… better peace

To help celebrate the upcoming 70th anniversary of the end of the “Good War” and the beginning of the “Good Peace,” Tom Goodrich offers the following from his books, Hellstorm: The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947, and Rape Hate: Sex & Violence in War & Peace.


And so, with the once mighty German Army now disarmed and enslaved in May, 1945, and with their leaders either dead or awaiting trial for so-called “war crimes,” the old men, women and children who remained in the dismembered Reich found themselves utterly at the mercy of the victors. Unfortunately for these survivors, never in the history of the world was mercy in shorter supply.

Soon after the Allied victory in Europe, the purge of Nazi Party members from government, business, industry, science, education, and all other walks of German life commenced. While a surprising number of Nazis were allowed—even compelled—to man their posts temporarily to enable a smooth transition, all party members, high and low, were sooner or later excised from German daily life. In theory, “de-Nazification” was a simple transplanting of Nazi officials with those of democratic, socialist or communist underpinnings. In practice, the purge became little more than a cloak for an orgy of rape, torture and death.

waffen-SS-soldiers-brutalised-american-allied-soldiers-ww2

De-Nazification

Because their knowledge of the language and culture was superb, most of the intelligence officers accompanying US and British forces into the Reich were Jewish refugees who had fled Germany in the late 1930s. Although their American and English “aides” were hardly better, the fact that many of these “39ers” became interrogators, examiners and screeners, with old scores to settle, insured that Nazis—or any German, for that matter—would be shown no mercy.

One man opposed to the vengeance-minded program was George Patton. “Evidently the virus started by Morgenthau and [Bernard] Baruch of a Semitic revenge against all Germans is still working… ,” wrote the general in private. “I am frankly opposed to this war-criminal stuff. It is not cricket and it is Semitic… I can’t see how Americans can sink so low.”

Soon after occupation, all adult Germans were compelled to register at the nearest Allied headquarters and complete a lengthy questionnaire on their past activities. While many nervous citizens were detained then and there, most returned home, convinced that at long last the terrible ordeal was over. For millions, however, the trial had but begun.

“Then it started,” remembered Anna Fest, a woman who had registered with the Americans six weeks earlier.

Such a feeling of helplessness, when three or four heavily armed military police stand in front of you. You just panic. I cried terribly. My mother was completely beside herself and said, “You can’t do this. She registered just as she was supposed to.” Then she said, “If only you’d gone somewhere else and had hidden.” But I consider that senseless, because I did not feel guilty… That was the way it went with everyone, with no reason given.

Few German adults, Nazi or not, escaped the dreaded knock on the door. Far from being dangerous fascists, Freddy and Lali Horstmann were actually well-known anti-Nazis. Records Lali from the Russian Zone:

“I am sorry to bother you,” he began, “but I am simply carrying out my orders. Until when did you work for the Foreign Office?”

“Till 1933,” my husband answered.

“Then you need fear nothing,” Androff said… “We accuse you of nothing, but we want you to accompany us to the headquarters of the NKVD, the secret police, so that we can take down what you said in a protocol, and ask you a few questions about the working of the Foreign Office…”

We were stunned for a moment; then I started forward, asking if I could come along with them. “Impossible,” the interpreter smiled. My heart raced. Would Freddy answer satisfactorily? Could he stand the excitement? What sort of accommodation would they give him?

“Don’t worry, your husband has nothing to fear,” Androff continued. “He will have a heated room. Give him a blanket for the night, but quickly, we must leave…”

There was a feeling of sharp tension, putting the soldier on his guard, as though he were expecting an attack from one of us. I took first the soldier, then the interpreter, by their hands and begged them to be kind to Freddy, repeating myself in the bustle and scraping of feet that drowned my words. There was a banging of doors. A cold wind blew in. I felt Freddy kiss me. I never saw him again.

“[W]e were wakened by the sound of tires screeching, engines stopping abruptly, orders yelled, general din, and a hammering on the window shutters. Then the intruders broke through the door, and we saw Americans with rifles who stood in front of our bed and shone lights at us. None of them spoke German, but their gestures said: ‘Get dressed, come with us immediately.’ This was my fourth arrest.”

So wrote Leni Riefenstahl, a talented young woman who was perhaps the world’s greatest film-maker. Because her epic documentaries—Triumph of the Will and Olympia—seemed paeans to not only Germany, but National Socialism, and because of her close relationship with an admiring Adolf Hitler, Leni was of more than passing interest to the Allies. Though false, rumors also hinted that the attractive, sometimes-actress was also a “mistress of the devil”—that she and Hitler were lovers.

“Neither my husband nor my mother nor any of my three assistants had ever joined the Nazi Party, nor had any of us been politically active,” said the confused young woman. “No charges had ever been filed against us, yet we were at the mercy of the [Allies] and had no legal protection of any kind.”

leni-riefenstahl

Leni Riefenstahl

Soon after Leni’s fourth arrest, came a fifth.

The jeep raced along the autobahns until, a few hours later… I was brought to the Salzburg Prison; there an elderly prison matron rudely pushed me into the cell, kicking me so hard that I fell to the ground; then the door was locked. There were two other women in the dark, barren room, and one of them, on her knees, slid about the floor, jabbering confusedly; then she began to scream, her limbs writhing hysterically. She seemed to have lost her mind. The other woman crouched on her bunk, weeping to herself.

As Leni and others quickly discovered, the “softening up” process began soon after arrival at an Allied prison. When Ernst von Salomon, his Jewish girl friend and fellow prisoners reached an American holding pen near Munich, the men were promptly led into a room and brutally beaten by military police. With his teeth knocked out and blood spurting from his mouth, von Salomon moaned to a gum-chewing officer, “You are no gentlemen.” The remark brought only a roar of laughter from the attackers. “No, no, no!” the GIs grinned. “We are Mississippi boys!” In another room, military policemen raped the women at will while leering soldiers watched from windows.

After such savage treatment, the feelings of despair only intensified once the captives were crammed into cells.

“The people had been standing there for three days, waiting to be interrogated,” remembered a German physician ordered to treat prisoners in the Soviet Zone. “At the sight of us a pandemonium broke out which left me helpless… As far as I could gather, the usual senseless questions were being reiterated: Why were they there, and for how long? They had no water and hardly anything to eat. They wanted to be let out more often than once a day… A great many of them have dysentery so badly that they can no longer get up.”

“Young Poles made fun of us,” said a woman from her cell in the same zone. “[They] threw bricks through the windows, paperbags with sand, and skins of hares filled with excrement. We did not dare to move or offer resistance, but huddled together in the farthest corner, in order not to be hit, which could not always be avoided… [W]e were never free from torments.”

“For hours on end I rolled about on my bed, trying to forget my surroundings,” recalled Leni Riefenstahl, “but it was impossible.”

The mentally disturbed woman kept screaming—all through the night; but even worse were the yells and shrieks of men from the courtyard, men who were being beaten, screaming like animals. I subsequently found out that a company of SS men was being interrogated.

They came for me the next morning, and I was taken to a padded cell where I had to strip naked, and a woman examined every square inch of my body. Then I had to get dressed and go down to the courtyard, where many men were standing, apparently prisoners, and I was the only woman. We had to line up before an American guard who spoke German. The prisoners stood to attention, so I tried to do the same, and then an American came who spoke fluent German. He pushed a few people together, then halted at the first in our line.

“Were you in the Party?”

The prisoner hesitated for a moment, then said: Yes.” He was slugged in the face and spat blood.

The American went on to the next in line.

“Were you in the Party?”

The man hesitated.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

And he too got punched so hard in the face that the blood ran out of his mouth. However, like the first man, he didn’t dare resist. They didn’t even instinctively raise their hands to protect themselves. They did nothing. They put up with the blows like dogs.

The next man was asked: “Were you in the Party?”

Silence.

“Well?”

“No,” he yelled, so no punch. From then on nobody admitted that he had been in the Party and I was not even asked.

As the above case illustrated, there often was no rhyme or reason to the examinations; all seemed designed to force from the victim what the inquisitor wanted to hear, whether true or false. Additionally, most such “interrogations” were structured to inflict as much pain and suffering as possible. Explained one prisoner:

The purpose of these interrogations is not to worm out of the people what they knew—which would be uninteresting anyway—but to extort from them special statements. The methods resorted to are extremely primitive; people are beaten up until they confess to having been members of the Nazi Party… The authorities simply assume that, basically, everybody has belonged to the Party. Many people die during and after these interrogations, while others, who admit at once their party membership, are treated more leniently.

“A young commissar, who was a great hater of the Germans, cross-examined me…,” said Gertrude Schulz. “When he put the question: ‘Frauenwerk [Women’s Labor Service]?’ I answered in the negative. Thereupon he became so enraged, that he beat me with a stick, until I was black and blue. I received about 15 blows… on my left upper arm, on my back and on my thigh. I collapsed and, as in the case of the first cross-examination, I had to sign the questionnaire.”

nurguard

American torture pen

“Both officers who took our testimony were former German Jews,” reminisced a member of the women’s SS, Anna Fest. While vicious dogs snarled nearby, one of the officers screamed questions and accusations at Anna. If the answers were not those desired, “he kicked me in the back and the other hit me.”

They kept saying we must have been armed, have had pistols or so. But we had no weapons, none of us… I had no pistol. I couldn’t say, just so they’d leave me in peace, yes, we had pistols. The same thing would happen to the next person to testify… [T]he terrible thing was, the German men had to watch. That was a horrible, horrible experience… That must have been terrible for them. When I went outside, several of them stood there with tears running down their cheeks. What could they have done? They could do nothing.

Not surprisingly, with beatings, rape, torture, and death facing them, few victims failed to “confess” and most gladly inked their name to any scrap of paper shown them. Some, like Anna, tried to resist. Such recalcitrance was almost always of short duration, however. Generally, after enduring blackened eyes, broken bones, electric shock to breasts—or, in the case of men, smashed testicles—only those who died during torture failed to sign confessions.

Alone, surrounded by sadistic hate, utterly bereft of law, many victims understandably escaped by taking their own lives. Like tiny islands in a vast sea of evil, however, miracles did occur. As he limped painfully back to his prison cell, one Wehrmacht officer reflected on the insults, beatings, and tortures he had endured and contemplated suicide.

I could not see properly in the semi-darkness and missed my open cell door. A kick in the back and I was sprawling on the floor. As I raised myself I said to myself I could not, should not accept this humiliation. I sat on my bunk. I had hidden a razor blade that would serve to open my veins. Then I looked at the New Testament and found these words in the Gospel of St. John: “Without me ye can do nothing.”

Yes. You can mangle this poor body—I looked down at the running sores on my legs—but myself, my honor, God’s image that is in me, you cannot touch. This body is only a shell, not my real self. Without Him, without the Lord, my Lord, ye can do nothing. New strength seemed to rise in me.

I was pondering over what seemed to me a miracle when the heavy lock turned in the cell door. A very young American soldier came in, put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. “I saw it,” he said. “Here are baked potatoes.” He pulled the potatoes out of his pocket and gave them to me, and then went out, locking the door behind him.

* * *

Horrific as de-Nazification was in the British, French and, especially the American Zone, it was nothing compared to what took place in Poland, behind Soviet lines. In hundreds of concentration camps sponsored by an apparatus called the “Office of State Security,” thousands of Germans—male and female, old and young, high and low, Nazi and non–Nazi, SS, Wehrmacht, Volkssturm, Hitler Youth, all—were rounded up and imprisoned. Staffed and run by Jews, with help from Poles, Czechs, Russians, and other concentration camp survivors, the prisons were little better than torture chambers where dying was a thing to be prolonged, not hastened. While those with blond hair, blue eyes and handsome features were first to go, anyone who spoke German would do.

Moments after arrival, prisoners were made horrifyingly aware of their fate. John Sack, himself a Jew, reports on one camp run by twenty-six-year-old Shlomo Morel:

“I was at Auschwitz,” Shlomo proclaimed, lying to the Germans but, even more, to himself, psyching himself like a fighter the night of the championship, filling himself with hate for the Germans around him. “I was at Auschwitz for six long years, and I swore that if I got out, I’d pay all you Nazis back.” His eyes sent spears, but the “Nazis” sent him a look of simple bewilderment… “Now sing the Horst Wessel Song!” No one did, and Shlomo, who carried a hard rubber club, hit it against a bed like some judge’s gavel. “Sing it, I say!”

“The flags held high…,” some Germans began.

“Everyone!” Shlomo said.

“The ranks closed tight…”

“I said everyone!”

“Blond!”

Shlomo cried to the blondest, bluest-eyed person there. “I said sing!” He swung his rubber club at the man’s golden head and hit it. The man staggered back.

“Our comrades, killed by the Reds and Reactionaries…”

“Sonofabitch!” Shlomo cried, enraged that the man was defying him by not singing but staggering back. He hit him again, saying, “Sing!”

“Are marching in spirit with us…”

“Louder!”

“Clear the street for the Brown Battalions…”

“Still louder!” cried Shlomo, hitting another shouting man… “Millions of hopeful people…”

“Nazi pigs!”

“Are looking to the swastika…”

“Schweine!” Shlomo cried. He threw down his rubber club, grabbed a wooden stool, and, a leg in his fist, started beating a German’s head. Without thinking, the man raised his arms, and Shlomo, enraged that the man would try to evade his just punishment, cried, “Sonofawhore!” and slammed the stool against the man’s chest. The man dropped his arms, and Shlomo started hitting his now undefended head when snap! the leg of the stool split off, and, cursing the German birchwood, he grabbed another stool and hit the German with that. No one was singing now, but Shlomo, shouting, didn’t notice. The other guards called out, “Blond!” “Black!” “Short!” “Tall!” and as each of these terrified people came up, they wielded their clubs upon him. The brawl went on till eleven o’clock, when the sweat-drenched invaders cried, “Pigs! We will fix you up!” and left the Germans alone.

Some were quite fixed… Shlomo and his subordinates had killed them.

The next night it was more of the same… and the next night and the next and the next. Those who survived the “welcoming committees” at this and other camps were flung back into their pens.

“I was put with 30 women into a cell, which was intended to accommodate one person,” Gerlinde Winkler recalled. “The narrow space, into which we were rammed, was unbearable and our legs were all entangled together… The women, ill with dysentery, were only allowed to go out once a day, in order to relieve themselves. A bucket without a cover was pushed into the cell with the remark: ‘Here you have one, you German sows.’ The stink was insupportable, and we were not allowed to open the little window.”

“The air in the cells became dense, the smell of the excrement filled it, the heat was like in Calcutta, and the flies made the ceiling black,” wrote John Sack. “I’m choking, the Germans thought, and one even took the community razor blade and, in despair, cut his throat open with it.”

When the wretched inmates were at last pried from their hellish tombs, it was only for interrogation. Sack continues:

As many as eight interrogators, almost all Jews, stood around any one German saying, “Were you in the Nazi Party?” Sometimes a German said, “Yes,” and the boys shouted, “Du schwein! You pig!” and beat him and broke his arm, perhaps, before sending him to his cell… But usually a German said, “No,” and the boys… told him, “You’re lying. You were a Nazi.”

“No, I never was.”

“You’re lying! We know about you!”

“No, I really wasn’t—”

Du lugst! You’re lying!” they cried, hitting the obstinate man. “You better admit it! Or you’ll get a longer sentence! Now! Were you in the Nazi Party?”

“No!” the German often said, and the boys had to beat him and beat him until he was really crying, “I was a Nazi! Yes!”

But sometimes a German wouldn’t confess. One such hard case was a fifty-year-old…

“Were you in the Party?”

“No, I wasn’t in it.”

“How many people work for you?”

“In the high season, thirty-five.”

“You must have been in the Party,” the boy deduced.

He asked for the German’s wallet, where he found a fishing license with the stamp of the German Anglers Association. Studying it, he told the German, “It’s stamped by the Party.”

“It’s not,” said the German.

He’d lost his left arm in World War I and was using his right arm to gesture with, and, to the boy, he may have seemed to be Heiling Hitler. The boy became violent. He grabbed the man’s collar, hit the man’s head against the wall, hit it against it ten times more, threw the man’s body onto the floor, and, in his boots, jumped on the man’s cringing chest as though jumping rope. A half dozen other interrogators, almost all Jews, pushed the man onto a couch, pulled off his trousers, and hit him with hard rubber clubs and hard rubber hoses full of stones. The sweat started running down the Jews’ arms, and the blood down the man’s naked legs.

“Warst du in der Partei?”

“Nein!”

“Warst du in der Partei?”

“Nein!” the German screamed—screamed, till the boys had to go to Shlomo’s kitchen for a wooden spoon and to use it to cram some rags in the German’s mouth. Then they resumed beating him… The more the man contradicted them, the more they hated him for it.

Salomon_Morel

Shlomo Morel

After undergoing similar sessions on a regular basis, the victim was brought back for the eighth time.

By now, the man was half unconscious due to his many concussions, and he wasn’t thinking clearly. The boys worked on him with rubber and oak-wood clubs and said, “Do you still say you weren’t in the Party?”

“No! I didn’t say I wasn’t in the Party!”

“You didn’t?”

“No!” said the punch drunk man. “I never said it!”

“You were in the Party?”

“Yes!”

The boys stopped beating him. They practically sighed, as if their ordeal were over now. They lit up cigarettes…

“Scram,” one said to the German. The man stood up, and he had his hand on the doorknob when one of the boys impulsively hit the back of his head, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

“Aufstehen, du Deutsches schwein. Stand up, you German pig,” the boys said, kicking him till he stood up and collapsed again. Two boys carried him to his cell and dropped him in a corner…

Of course, the boys would beat up the Germans for “Yes”es as well as “No”s. In Glatz, the Jewish commandant asked a German policeman, “Were you in the Party?”

“Of course! I was obliged to be!”

“Lie down,” the commandant said, and six weeks later the boys were still whipping the German’s feet.

Some torture sessions lacked even the pretense of an examination. Remembered Eva Reimann:

My cell door opened. The guard, who, because of the foul smell, held a handkerchief to his nose, cried, “Reimann Eva! Come!” I was led to a first-floor room.

He shouted at me, “Take off your shoes!” I took them off. “Lie down!” I lay down. He took a thick bamboo stick, and he beat the soles of my feet. I screamed, since the pain was very great… The stick whistled down on me. A blow on my mouth tore my lower lip, and my teeth started bleeding violently. He beat my feet again. The pain was unbearable…

The door opened suddenly, and, smiling obligingly, a cigarette in his mouth, in came the chief of the Office, named Sternnagel. In faultless German he asked me, “What’s wrong here? Why do you let yourself be beaten? You just have to sign this document. Or should we jam your fingers in the door, until the bones are broad…?

A man picked me up by the ankles, raised me eight inches above the floor, and let me fall. My hands were tied, and my head hit hard… I lay in a bloody puddle. Someone cried, “Stand up!” I tried to, and, with unspeakable pain, I succeeded. A man with a pistol came, held it to my left temple, and said, “Will you now confess?” I told him, “Please shoot me.” Yes, I hoped to be freed from all his tortures. I begged him, “Please pull the trigger.”

After barely surviving his “interrogation,” one fourteen-year-old was taken to the camp infirmary. “My body was green, but my legs were fire red,” the boy said. “My wounds were bound with toilet paper, and I had to change the toilet paper every day. I was in the perfect place to watch what went on… All the patients were beaten people, and they died everywhere: at their beds, in the washroom, on the toilet. At night, I had to step over the dead as if that were normal to do.”

When the supply of victims ran low, it was a simple matter to find more. John Sack:

One day, a German in pitch-black pants, the SS’s color, showed up in Lola’s prison. He’d been spotted near the city square by a Pole who’d said, “Fascist! You’re wearing black!” At that, the German had bolted off, but the Pole chased him a mile to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul, tackled him by a gold mosaic, hit him, kicked him, and took him to Lola’s prison. Some guards, all girls, then seized the incriminating evidence: the man’s black pants, pulling them off so aggressively that one of the tendons tore. The man screamed, but the girls said, “Shut up!” and they didn’t recognize that the pants were part of a boy scout uniform. The “man” was fourteen years old.

The girls decided to torture him [with]… fire. They held down the German boy, put out their cigarettes on him, and, using gasoline, set his curly black hair afire.

At the larger prison camps, Germans died by the hundreds daily.

“You pigs!” the commandant then cried, and he beat the Germans with their stools, often killing them. At dawn many days, a Jewish guard cried, “Eins! Zwei! Drei! Vier!” and marched the Germans into the woods outside their camp. “Halt! Get your shovels! Dig!” the guard cried, and, when the Germans had dug a big grave, he put a picture of Hitler in. “Now cry!” the guard said. “And sing All the Dogs Are Barking!” and all the Germans moaned,

All the dogs are barking,
All the dogs are barking,
Just the little hot-dogs,
Aren’t barking at all.

The guard then cried, “Get undressed!” and, when the Germans were naked, he beat them, poured liquid manure on them, or, catching a toad, shoved the fat thing down a German’s throat, the German soon dying.

Utterly unhinged by years of persecution, by the loss of homes and loved ones, for the camp operators, no torture, no sadism, no bestiality, seemed too monstrous to inflict on those now in their power. Some Germans were forced to crawl on all fours and eat their own excrement as well as that of others. Many were drowned in open latrines. Hundreds were herded into buildings and burned to death or sealed in caskets and buried alive.

Near Lamsdorf, German women were forced to disinter bodies from a Polish burial site. According to John Sack:

The women did, and they started to suffer nausea as the bodies, black as the stuff in a gutter, appeared. The faces were rotten, the flesh was glue, but the guards—who had often seemed psychopathic, making a German woman drink urine, drink blood, and eat a man’s excrement, inserting an oily five-mark bill in a woman’s vagina, putting a match to it—shouted at the women… “Lie down with them!” The women did, and the guards shouted, “Hug them!” “Kiss them!” “Make love with them!” and, with their rifles, pushed on the backs of the women’s heads until their eyes, noses and mouths were deep in the Polish faces’ slime. The women who clamped their lips couldn’t scream, and the women who screamed had to taste something vile. Spitting, retching, the women at last stood up, the wet tendrils still on their chins, fingers, clothes, the wet seeping into the fibers, the stink like a mist around them as they marched back to Lamsdorf. There were no showers there, and the corpses had all had typhus, apparently, and sixty-four women… died.

Not surprisingly, the mortality rate at the concentration camps was staggering and relatively few survived. At one prison of eight thousand, a mere 1,500 lived to reach home. And of those “lucky” individuals who did leave with their lives, few could any longer be called human.

When a smattering of accounts began to leak from Poland of the unspeakable crimes being committed, many in the West were stunned. “One would expect that after the horrors in Nazi concentration camps, nothing like that could ever happen again,” muttered one US senator, who then reported on beatings, torture and “brains splashed on the ceiling.”

“Is this what our soldiers died for?” echoed a Briton in the House of Commons.

Added Winston Churchill: “Enormous numbers [of Germans] are utterly unaccounted for. It is not impossible that tragedy on a prodigious scale is unfolding itself behind the Iron Curtain.”

While Churchill and others in the West were expressing shock and surprise over the sadistic slaughter taking place in the Soviet Zone, precious little was said about the “tragedy on a prodigious scale” that was transpiring in their own backyard.

* * *

Among the millions imprisoned by the Allies were thousands of Germans accused of having a direct or indirect hand in war crimes. Because the victorious powers demanded swift and severe punishment, Allied prosecutors were urged to get the most damning indictments in as little time as possible. Unfortunately for the accused, their captors seemed determined to inflict as much pain as possible in the process.

“[W]e were thrown into small cells stark naked,” Hans Schmidt later wrote. “The cells in which three or four persons were incarcerated were six and a half by ten feet in size and had no windows or ventilation.”

When we went to the lavatory we had to run through a lane of Americans who struck us with straps, brooms, cudgels, buckets, belts, and pistol holders to make us fall down. Our head, eyes, body, belly, and genitals were violently injured. A man stood inside the lavatory to beat us and spit on us. We returned to our cells through the same ordeal. The temperature in the cells was 140 Fahrenheit or more. During the first three days we were given only one cup of water and a small slice of bread. During the first days we perspired all the time, then perspiration stopped. We were kept standing chained back to back for hours. We suffered terribly from thirst, blood stagnation and mortification of the hands. From time to time water was poured on the almost red-hot radiators, filling the cells with steam, so that we could hardly breathe. During all this time the cells were in darkness, except when the American soldiers entered and switched on electric bulbs… which forced us to close our eyes.

Our thirst became more and more cruel, so that our lips cracked, our tongues were stiff, and we eventually became apathetic, or raved, or collapsed.

After enduring this torture for several days, we were given a small blanket to cover our nakedness, and driven to the courtyard outside. The uneven soil was covered with pebbles and slag and we were again beaten and finally driven back on our smashed and bleeding feet. While out of breath, burning cigarettes were pushed into our mouths, and each of us was forced to eat three or four of them. Meanwhile the American soldiers continued to hit us on eyes, head, and ears. Back in our cells we were pushed against burning radiators, so that our skin was blistered.

For thirteen days and nights we received the same treatment, tortured by heat and thirst. When we begged for water, our guards mocked us. When we fainted we were revived by being drenched with cold water. There was dirt everywhere and we were never allowed to wash, our inflamed eyes gave us terrible pain, we fainted continuously.

Every twenty minutes or so our cell doors were opened and the soldiers insulted and hit us. Whenever the doors were opened we had to stand still with our backs to the door. Two plates of food, spiced with salt, pepper, and mustard to make us thirstier, were given us daily. We ate in the dark on the floor. The thirst was the most terrible of all our tortures and we could not sleep.

In this condition I was brought to trial.

During the Nazi war crimes trials and hearings, almost any method that would obtain a “confession” was employed. Eager to implicate high-ranking German officers in the Malmedy Massacre, American investigator Harry Thon ordered Wehrmacht sergeant Willi Schafer to write out an incriminating affidavit:

Next morning Mr. Thon appeared in my cell, read my report, tore it up, swore at me and hit me. After threatening to have me killed unless I wrote what he wanted, he left. A few minutes later the door of my cell opened, a black hood encrusted with blood, was put over my head and face and I was led to another room. In view of Mr. Thon’s threat the black cap had a crushing effect on my spirits… Four men of my company… accused me, although later they admitted to having borne false testimony. Nevertheless I still refused to incriminate myself. Thereupon Mr. Thon said that if I continued to refuse this would be taken as proof of my Nazi opinions, and… my death was certain. He said I would have no chance against four witnesses, and advised me for my own good to make a statement after which I would be set free… I still refused. I told Mr. Thon that although my memory was good, I was unable to recall any of the occurrences he wished me to write about and which to the best of my knowledge had never occurred.

Mr. Thon left but returned in a little while with Lieutenant [William] Perl who abused me, and told Mr. Thon that, should I not write what was required within half an hour, I should be left to my fate. Lieutenant Perl made it clear to me that I had the alternative of writing and going free or not writing and dying. I decided for life.

Another Landser unable to resist the pressure was Joachim Hoffman:

[W]hen taken for a hearing a black hood was placed over my head. The guards who took me to my hearing often struck or kicked me. I was twice thrown down the stairs and was hurt so much that blood ran out of my mouth and nose. At the hearing, when I told the officers about the ill treatment I had suffered, they only laughed. I was beaten and the black cap pulled over my face whenever I could not answer the questions put to me, or gave answers not pleasing to the officers… I was beaten and several times kicked in the genitals.

Understandably, after several such sessions, even the strongest submitted and signed papers incriminating themselves and others.

“If you confess you will go free,” nineteen-year-old Siegfried Jaenckel was told. “[Y]ou need only to say you had an order from your superiors. But if you won’t speak you will be hung.”

Despite the mental and physical abuse, young Jaenckel held out as long as he could: “I was beaten and I heard the cries of the men being tortured in adjoining cells, and whenever I was taken for a hearing I trembled with fear… Subjected to such duress I eventually gave in, and signed the long statement dictated to me.”

Far from being isolated or extreme cases, such methods of extorting confessions were the rule rather than the exception. Wrote author Freda Utley, who learned of the horror after speaking with American jurist Edward van Roden:

Beatings and brutal kickings; knocking-out of teeth and breaking of jaws; mock trials; solitary confinement; torture with burning splinters; the use of investigators pretending to be priests; starvation; and promises of acquittal… Judge van Roden said: “All but two of the Germans in the 139 cases we investigated had been kicked in the testicles beyond repair. This was standard operating procedure with our American investigators.” He told of one German who had had lighted matchsticks forced under his fingernails by the American investigators to extort a confession, and had appeared at his trial with his fingers still bandaged from the atrocity.

In addition to testimony given under torture, those who might have spoken in defense of the accused were prevented. Moreover, hired “witnesses” were paid by the Americans to parrot the prosecution’s charges.

When criticism such as Utley’s and van Roden’s surfaced, and even as victims were being hung by the hundreds, those responsible defended their methods.

“We couldn’t have made those birds talk otherwise…,” laughed one Jewish “interrogator,” Colonel A. H. Rosenfeld. “It was a trick, and it worked like a charm.”

On Yockey’s America

by Michael O’Meara

O’Meara’s essay shows beautifully why we believe that the relations between Murkans and Germans lie at the deepest level of the rabbit hole to understand the West’s darkest hour.



The “Judeo-African cacophony” mesmerizing the jitterbugs on the dance floors of the Thirties was part of a larger program to debauch the conservative Christian rhythms of American life. Such at least was the argument Francis Parker Yockey made in his first published work, “The Tragedy of Youth” (1939).

In this early piece, full of promise and prefiguring aspects of his later critique of American life, the 22-year-old Yockey depicted an America whose youth had begun to keep step with the intonations and inflections of its Jewish bandmasters. Besides the folly of their un-European cavorting, Americans, he thought, were acting out the worldview of an alien-minded minority in control of the country’s media and entertainment. Drinking, smoking, and other bad habits glamorized by Hollywood became, in this spirit, marks of sophistication; sports were fetishized; public opinion was shaped and reshaped to legitimate machinations of every sort.

More seriously, God was “replaced by lust, the priest by the psychoanalyst, and the hero and heroine by the promiscuous lounge-lizard and the glittering harlot.” For the more educated, there were books and magazines promoting class war, racial equality, and anti-European (especially anti-German) hatred—aimed at destroying “whatever exclusiveness, national feeling, or racial instinct” still part of the American people.

Institutionalizing these subversions, Roosevelt’s New Deal, the granddaddy of the present anti-white system, took on debts and obligations favoring the Left forces—themselves puppets of the international financiers and bankers responsible for the deception and dissimulation entrancing the jitterbugs.

Against this backdrop of cultural distortion, usurious state policy, and agitations favoring causes alien to American affairs, the country’s youth, Yockey claimed, was being conditioned to fight as conscripts in liberal, Jewish, and Communist causes inimical to their national interest.


The True America

Basic to Yockey’s understanding of America was his belief that it was, at root, an integral and organic part of Europe. Whenever he spoke of “the true America,” as opposed to the America that had been taken over by the “culture distorters” and become “the enemy of Europe,” it was the America that had originated as a European colony—the America whose “culture” was a branch of Europe’s High Culture—the America whose people still bore traces of the noble, heroic, and Gothic character of their ancestors.

“All colonials,” Yockey felt, “have a certain plane of their being which is susceptible to the centripetal attraction of the mother-soil.” For they share a common history with “the parent-organism”—no matter how much the distorters might insist otherwise. The true American—i.e., the American whose highest loyalty was to his “mother soil and father culture”—thus instinctively isolated himself from all efforts to betray Europe: like French Canadians and South African Boers who refused to be conscripted by Washington in the Jews’ war against the Third Reich.

A child of European, especially German, culture, Yockey alone among American anti-liberals saw that America’s origin had tied its destiny to that of Europe, and that no matter how many cities the colony built, no matter how many millions of automobiles it turned out every season—no matter, even, how successful it was in reducing Europe to rubble and occupying it—no matter, it (the colony) would never, not in a thousand years, surpass the achievement and destiny of its mother soil and father culture.

To even think it was philosophically absurd.


The Culture of Distortion

Given their shallow culture and the dismissal of the tradition to which they were heirs, Americans were particularly vulnerable to the corrosions of 19th-century rationalism and materialism. Relatedly, they were an easy mark for “culture aliens”—for a world governed by money was a world indifferent to a man’s qualities. Foremost among the culture-aliens were the Jews: product of Spengler’s “Magian” culture, instinctually hostile to the European spirit, and bent on revenge.

In their counting houses, Americans would invariably overlook the Jews’ otherness, though they were of a different “Culture-Nation-Race.” Even before the War of Independence, they treated Jews as Europeans—Jews who had been shunned, ghettoized, and seen by most Europeans as an evil to be avoided.

Beginning in the 1880s, the Jews (these inassimilable aliens rejected by Europe’s High Culture) began their invasion of America. By 1905, they were already a power, evident in fact that the United States, for the first time in its history, severed diplomatic relations with Russia on account of the “anti-Jewish pogroms” that had followed the Russo-Japanese War.

Through its financial acumen and early control of media (the press, movies, radio), and in alliance with the native forces of decadence and degeneration, Jewish power in the New World grew at an unprecedented rate.

In a country where “mass-thinking, mass-ideals, and mass-living prevails,” Jewish propaganda (in the form of advertising, fashion, and a hundred other things) effortlessly reshaped the American consciousness, propelling the jitterbugs onto the dance floor of their world-conquering schemes. Stories of German sadism or Orson Wells’ Mars invasion were peddled with similar success, just as “the ethical syphilis of Hollywood and the spiritual leprosy of New York” infiltrated the larger cultural body.

In 1933, the year of the European Revolution, the Jews acquired outright political control of the United States—something that a thousand years of effort had failed to achieve in Europe.

From this point forward, “the formation of the Jewish-American Symbiosis begins.” Swarming into Washington, Jews and their “sub-American” contractors started dissimulating the Jewish world view and “bringing under control every factor of public expression.”

All who resisted were to be purged or ostracized.

Then, as the country’s racial instincts were worn down by the distorters, America (in accord with the policies of its liberal state and in the programming of its Culture Industry) assumed “a Jewish countenance” in its relations both with the rest of the world and with itself.

For Yockey, Franklin Roosevelt, “the monster who made of his life a study in infamy,” was a creature of the Jews, just as his New Deal was bent on Judaifying American government and society, promoting, as it did, principles of tolerance and universal brotherhood, which were further developed by Rockefeller-funded social-engineers intent on morally disarming the American people.

In this, the prescient Yockey might be criticized for confusing Jewish supremacy with the increasing Judaification of American society (which Matthew Arnold had warned of in the 1860s), for Jewish power in America was arguably not consolidated until the late 1960s (even if its secular low-church market, in making money the ultimate standard, had already Judaicized American life and sentiments).

That Roosevelt, in October 1937, began to maneuver the United States into the coming world war and that this war would be a war of annihilation—i.e., the sort of war fought between racially and culturally alien, rather then related peoples sharing the same civilization—was further evidence, in Yockey’s eyes, of Jewish hegemony and the Jews’ genocidal hatred of Europe.

Despite a certain exaggeration of Jewish power in this period, Yockey was nearly alone in seeing that the United States had become an anti-European power bound to the Jews’ vengeful compulsion to suppress Europe’s destiny.

Unlike other American anti-liberals, anti-Semitism for him evolved, rapidly and logically, into an anti-Americanism.


The Enemy of Europe

As long as America had been ruled by men of European Christian stock, it remained “a European colony.” But the America “distorted by the Revolution of 1933” (a revolution carried out by the allegedly Jewish-dominated New Deal), was now lost to Europe.

America’s Jewified anti-Europeanism was especially evident in the Second World War and in its subsequent occupation of the Continent. For if the United States had possessed a proper ruling class, a tradition, and a regalian state, it would have stayed out of the Second World War, which became a defeat not just for Germany, but for all Europe—and thus, ultimately, a defeat for the true America.

Under its new Jewish-American regime, Washington after 1933 was instrumental in preparing the way for another European civil war—a war it would wage as if the enemy (their European kinsmen) weren’t human. Instead of being the great moral crusade against the absolute evil of fascism, the war in actuality represented a giant step toward the Judeo-plutocratic inauguration of a New World Order, based on American open markets and American economic practices.

To this end, American bombers (supported by their British vassals) reduced every German city to a heap of rubble, intentionally targeting heavily populated working-class residences—that is, “homes and families”; cities in France, Belgium, Holland, Italy, and Eastern Europe were also bombed, adding further hundreds of thousands of civilian casualties to US “kills”; American fighter-pilots similarly sought out civilians to machine-gun and terrorize; vast stores of equipment and armaments, often denied to American troops, were supplied to Soviet Russia to defend the Communist state and encourage its penetration into the heart of Europe; and throughout this most barbaric and punitive war in the white man’s history, the Washington regime talked incessantly of the enemy’s “war crimes” and its “inhumanity.”

Yockey blamed America’s dishonorable conduct in the war on the culture-distorters, whose “motivation derived from the deep and total organic irreconcilability between a High Culture and a parasitic organism” (though I suspect that the country’s latter-day Puritans, given their tendency to dehumanize the enemy, ought also to share a large part of the responsibility).

Even after the guns were silenced, America’s “ghastly dishonor” continued. With the Red Army occupying Eastern Europe and the US Army Western Europe, the looting, raping, pillaging—and ethnic cleansing—began.

The Soviets plundered everything not bolted down; the greatest mass rape in Western history occurred in what became “East Germany”; and 16 million East-European Germans were forced to abandon lands and homes they had inhabited for centuries, two million of whom (mainly the very old and the very young) perished in the process.

With greater discrimination, the Americans raided German patent offices, steeling their superior technology; they rounded up their rocket scientists, confiscated the libraries they hadn’t burned, and made off with priceless art works. German women, most on the verge of starvation, were not subject to mass rape (except by black American and French African troops), but their favors could be had for a half-dozen eggs, some cigarettes, or a few chocolate bars.

If this weren’t enough, the culture-distorters (whose “fury had been heightened by the European Revolution of 1933”), along with their American accomplices (especially the budding military-industrial complex), introduced large-scale starvation, abused POWs (several million of whom died as a consequence), hunted down anyone who failed to bow to the new conquerors, and imposed laws with ex post facto application.

Adding insult to injury, the “American world-clown and the sadistic Jew” then endeavored to “re-educate” Europeans in the arts of anti-fascism, mammon-worship, and democracy (i.e., “the corruptibility of the government by private wealth”).

The war for Yockey represented a categorical defeat for the “true America”—and a total victory for the Jews over Western Civilization.

Since 1945, the two sides of the Atlantic have ceased to share the same inner experience of feeling, for it was essentially a war against Europe. European Americans who supported it, Yockey contended, were traitors—inner enemies of their own culture.

Then, after being reduced to “a beggar colony of America,” Europe’s pre-1945 elites were replaced by “Michel elements” (liberal philistines embodying “the sum of European weaknesses”), who could be trusted to do the Jews’ bidding.

In the name of democracy, press rights and free speech were henceforth abrogated; political parties were required to obtain licenses; any expression of nationalism was criminalized, just as all anti-liberal formations critical of the occupiers’ regime were driven to the political fringe.

America-Jewry in this way sought to sever Europe’s roots, suppress her will to power, and deprive her of a sense of destiny.

In no meaningful political sense did Europe, in fact, continue to exist after 1945, thanks almost entirely to this monstrous entity with the Jewish head and the American body.

America-Jewry’s anti-European vengeance was especially evident in comparison to its generous treatment of defeated Japan.

Indeed, the entire nonwhite world was soon made to know that the United States had conquered Europe and that the colored outer-revolt, encouraged by the distorters, was ready, at last, to triumph over its former white masters. More than Soviet Communism, Yockey argued that Jewish-controlled America was the “enemy of Europe.”

And this made America an enemy of “true America,” for the Jewish idea of America—as a land of immigrants, creedal propositions, and universal brotherhood—stripped it of any “national-spiritual significance” it may have once had, doing so, ultimately, for “the enslavement of the world by big business.”

Every European-American loyal to his ancestral homeland—loyal to his own inmost being—was, Yockey concluded, duty bound to be disloyal to what America had become (even as he struggled to return it to Europe).


The American Vabanquespieler

Yockey believed the 19th-century Age of Materialism and Rationalism, which had shaped America’s cultureless civilization and opened the way to the culture-distorters, came to an end with the First World War (1918), as a new age struggled to succeed it—a new age that would be animated by the same primordial sources that had brought about the European Revolution of 1933.

If not for America-Jewry’s Old Testament war on Europe, German-Prussian Ethical Socialism (in rejection of liberalism’s individualistic Reign of Quantity) would have inaugurated a New Age of Authority, Discipline, and Faith, bringing the whole world under Europe’s influence. Instead, the very opposite occurred.

But even though the America of the culture-distorters had emerged victorious from the war, it changed not in the least the fact that America (this apotheosis of the 19th-century rationalism and materialism born of liberalism) still represented the past—and the past, Yockey held, could never defeat the future latent in Europe’s High Culture.

The barbarian victory of America’s 19th-century capitalism over the Germans’ Ethical Socialism had, indeed, already spread chaos and disorder throughout Western Civilization, heightening the imperative for a revolutionary transformation.

* * *

For the Vabanquespieler, the creation of a new European order (in the form of a continental imperium stretching “from Galway to the Urals”) would entail a great, heroic undertaking, as the White men of the West—in allegiance to a new transcendent idea—rallied to overthrow an exhausted, putrefied, but nearly insurmountable Jewish-American system.

The Last Men of America’s consumer paradise may think that the barbarians and the distorters had tamed the forces of history and quieted the demands of destiny, but the American apostate knew better. He also knew that Americans could do better.

Thus inspired, the Vabanquespieler stood against the Jewish- dominated, liberal-capitalist, anti-European Mammon System that had become America.

In anticipating the next cycle of Western Destiny, Yockey’s life work has bequeathed to European Americans a legacy affirming that “the old Gothic religious idea” is still latent in them and that the 21st century will be an age of European peace and order, if they are willing to fight for it.

The “American ideology” may therefore have no future, but “the soul of the American people,” born of Europe, has.


Michael_O'Meara

Editor’s note:

The above piece has been excerpted from Michael O’Meara’s “The Jitterbugs & the Vabanquespieler: On Yockey’s America” (The Occidental Quarterly, Winter, 2010-2011).