Michael Colhaze

April 27, 2010 

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

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

And the Truth will see the Light of Day

Even if it takes a long, long Way.

German Nursery Rhyme

The legacy of Hitler’s Third Reich swirled through post-war Germany’s bloodstream like a resistant variant of the common flu. It called for a powerful antidote, which was duly administered in form of a rigorous re-education. Manifest as a faint but persistent headache and the occasional noisy sneeze, passed its pathogenic advance widely unnoticed but continued relentlessly until the nation’s intellectual fabric had been thoroughly overhauled from the kindergarten onwards. No university curriculum without the politically correct corset, no official sermon without implicit or explicit mea culpa, no history book without glorifying the courageous Allies as the saviours of humanity. And the pedantic, ponderous, humourless German top gazettes wallowing at least once a week in the brown mud. Small wonder that a cerebral palsy, an academic fustiness befell the land that was the result of omissions, half-truths and downright lies. Take the following example. 

The murder of ethnic Germans in territory lost to Poland after World War I  was triggered by Hitler’s invasion.

Dr. Martin Broszat, Director of the Munich Institute for History, 1961  

Whereas millions of displaced Germans could tell an entirely different story. Namely that already in 1921, and shortly after large parts of the German Empire had been annexed by Poland as part of the perfidious Versailles treaties, Germans under Polish rule were murdered in a clear attempt at ethnic cleansing. In 1927 nearly the whole town of Rybnic in Upper Silesia was massacred in cold blood, and from then on the killings became endemic until, a few months before the invasion, Poland had officially established two concentration camps in Polowanie and Niemcow for her ethnic Germans.

When Hitler’s troops crossed the border, massacres happened in Bromberg (remembered as the infamous Bromberg Blood Sunday) and many other parts of Poland, perpetrated by the military, police and paramilitary youth groups, and documented with photos of bestialities that defy the imagination. All this while Hitler had repeatedly tried to secure peacefully a narrow passage through ancient German lands that would connect the Reich proper with its old and beautiful Hanse city of Danzig. A demand the Poles steadfastly denied, cock-sure of themselves because of their British guarantees. We know what happened to those, and won’t shed a tear because they weren’t worth the paper written on. Danzig is now Gdansk, famous for the Solidarnosc of Lech Walesa, and you’ll be hard put to find an ethnic German anywhere far or near.

German woman murdered in a Polish massacre (with her dead baby hanging half out of her womb) 

Falsifying, denying or ignoring historical truth has continued to this day. The German translation of Patrick Buchanan’s Unnecessary War, a cool and objective accumulation of facts if ever there was one, and a cracker that should have gone off with some noise among German politicians, historians and journalists, passed studiously unnoticed by every newspaper except the Sueddeutsche Zeitung, which run a scorcher of such malicious inanity that made it almost farcical. 

Another fine example is the present hate campaign against Benedict XVI, the Catholic Church and, by extension, against the Christian world as a whole. Fanned by the foremost agitprop outlets, was the assault even joined by Germany’s ponderous and unimaginative chancelloress who advised the spiritual leader of more than a billion believers to come clean, while prattling to her tired compatriots about our terrible war guilt without mentioning anybody else.  

These are moments when one begins to despair of the elected leaders, and prays for a return of the Good King, helped along by his fearless and honourable Knights Templars, with a few regional Princes of noble ethical bloodline thrown in to keep an eye on the situation. 

I have serious reservations as to the Pope’s policies of celibacy, birth control and immigration. But I can’t help feeling a cold anger rising at the venomous slanderers who dare to accuse Christendom’s foremost leader of covering up sins that were perpetrated in AD 1950, long before he was even ordained. Particularly when it is well known among his followers that he was installed by the previous Pope with the explicit mission to clean out the stable. Which isn’t easy if you remember that there are only a few black sheep among the hundreds of thousand priests in the whole world who do their job with decency, even love.  

Recently, when I looked him up on Yahoo for a reference, the absolute first heading I found was called Creepy Pictures of Pope Benedict XVI. On a site called ANORAK a few photos are displayed of which I saw only the first, namely the smiling Holy Father blessing a child. It must be indeed a sad world where a small act of compassion can be interpreted as creepy. But then again we are well aware of who owns Yahoo, and Google, and you name it.   

Which is probably the reason why we rarely hear of Rabbis who got caught, like in Antwerp, with tons of Ecstasy made in Israel, a drug of the worst kind that literally destroys the brains of our young in no time at all. Or Rabbis dealing with organs of dubious provenance, like in New York. Or a Rabbi raping a seven year old girl, in ditto. Or a Rabbi, military him, who assures his IDF soldiers that killing Palestinian women and children is god’s will.  

What kind of god that one might be can be only surmised.

Which, at a remove, brings us to Germany’s saddest and most overwhelming collective feature. As once in Auschwitz, it hangs above the nation like a big back cloud and has found its rightful and emphatic place in the country’s educational curriculum, its press, its politics, its everything. We call it, though unfortunately not the younger generation anymore, our Unconquered Past. A past which has led most of the world to believe that Germans, and Germans only, are genetically predisposed for organized mass murder, as opposed to composing Schubert’s Ave Maria on the other side of the pale. Both positions, by the way, were unequivocally confirmed only a few years back by the great globalist Roger Cohen of the NYT, one of the most eloquent advocates of America’s sell-out to China et al.  

Now you have smoked me out long since and know what I am talking about.

Even while I have never, at least consciously, harboured the faintest doubt about the Holocaust’s historical truth, there were moments when I wondered why the cataclysm was so attractive to people who didn’t seem particularly impressed by the continuing onslaught of the assorted world media. I have an old acquaintance from schooldays who turned into one of those construction sharks that plaster every available spot of nature with their concrete castles. About as sentimental as his bricks, did he regale his many clients for Christmas with one of the myriad Holocaust yarns, bound in extra-fine leather and hand-signed by its grateful author who pocketed of course a fistful of cash. Which brought me to the realization that this particular cataclysm seems to act as a kind of vague moral license, an indistinct carte blanche, for anything from destroying nature, ripping-off investors or murdering children with phosphor bombs. Because whatever crime committed, it couldn’t be as bad as what the Germans have done in their darkest hour.     

The Holocaust had its advent sometimes in the mid Fifties, and from then on the Jews of this world, particularly those of Germany, became a saintly tribe of martyrs cocooned in boundless compassion. Their antics made every Christian heart beat faster, their exploits became a blazing paragon for the rest of the prostrate Occident. With Germany leading the fray by a mile and a half. Or better, with 300.000.000.000,00 hard Deutschmarks and rising, paid over the years to the many miraculous survivors. Three hundred billion, in case all those zeros make your eyes swimming. Which is of course the case with all those stupefied German taxpayers who, groaning already under an ever increasing tax load, watched dumbfounded as the sell-out of their native lands and assets continued unabated. 

As to the saintliness, it was occasionally marred by minor mishaps. Like a Mossad hit team mistakenly gunning down an innocent bystander. Or a private investment bank succumbing to a Ponzi scheme that left its clients in the cold, including Germany’s foremost political commentator and Israel supporter who became somewhat mum after his and his children’s savings had gone up in smoke. Or the president of the Jewish cupola in Germany being accused of massive embezzlement. Or its vice-president jailed for cocaine dealing and underage-white-girl slaving. Or other occasions like these. Not to mention the continuing plight of the Palestinians who somehow managed to stay in the news. Mishaps not really serious, but more like the proverbial hair in the soup. They soured relations for a while, yet never for long. And in any case, who were we Germans to throw the first stone? Because if we did, as we sometimes dared to do, all Hell broke loose and we got clobbered with our collective guilt until black and blue in the face.  

Which happened as a rule, and rightly so, to the so-called revisionists, namely a small band of dumb fascists, stubborn neo-Nazis or, most hated, demented historians with a reputation of professional excellence. Had it been solely for them, whatever doubts existed should have slowly disappeared, blown over by time and forgetfulness. But apparently there was, though only marginally, more to it. Or to use a simile, it felt as if you watched a calm and starlit sea on a balmy night, and noticed a sudden eddy, and knew that something had just passed close to the surface and took a look at you. Something dark and enormous and without a name.  

It is true that even I, during a small personal crisis that must have acted as a kind of catalyst, began to doubt for a moment the whole terrible tale. This happened when I read somewhere that it had been pulled off without a single written order. 

To tell you the truth, it really made me frown for a moment. Because if I know something with absolute certainty, it is that we Germans love our Red Tape. No hiccup, cough or fart without a major bureaucratic exertion that states aroma, size, duration, time of day, date and weather conditions, backed up by protocols, assessments, historical comparisons and judicial footnotes in case of accident, all with twenty copies, each stamped ten times and signed by at least five independent superiors. A few years back I had the absurd idea to open a miniscule dependence of my Italian business in Munich, with the result that I was inundated with an avalanche of official affidavits sent by legions of official agencies whose innumerable officials wanted to know everything from my dog’s birthday to my grandmother’s infidelities, and who told me in endless big and small print of what to do and what not to do, at what time to do it and at what time not to do it, and how to do it and how not to do it, and help me God if I didn’t do it. Which made me for once loose my temper and send it all back with the advice to push it up their backside while omitting a return address.   

As to my doubts, they were soon forgotten when I read the only logical explanation for this mystery, brilliantly put forward by Raul Hilberg, the Holocaust’s most eminent historian.  

What began in 1941 was a process of destruction not planned in advance, not organized centrally by an agency. There was no blueprint and there was no budget for destructive measures. They were taken step by step, one step at a time. Thus came about not so much a plan being carried out, but an incredible meeting of minds, a consensus - mind reading by a far-flung bureaucracy.

Far-flung indeed! I could not help thinking in a somewhat macabre aside. We amazing consensus - mind reading Germans! No wonder we are good car makers!

And to disperse any doubts that might still linger anywhere at the back of your mind, allow me to quote the following.

Ninety-nine per cent of what we know about the Holocaust we do not actually have the physical evidence to prove . . . it has become part of our inherited knowledge.

A statement unleashed by Professor Jan van Pelt, him of the Waterloo University and leading authority on Auschwitz, in a recent interview with the Toronto Star.

Where he pleaded for razing the whole compound, since according to him it had outlived its purpose. Which seems a rather good idea, particular with hindsight to future historians who might wonder why the historical authenticity of every fact he has brought forward so far, inherited parts apart, can be verified with only one percent out of a hundred. A ratio that could turn into a problem once his time has come and the salvation of his soul will be refused after being weighed and found wanting, namely of ninety nine percent. 

Prof. Van Pelt (in a pensive mood)

That apart, I’m afraid the Poles won’t play ball. And why should they, pocketing all those millions of hard Euro every year by awing their visitors with the one gas chamber they built themselves in 1948, in lieu of the real ones which couldn’t be made out to this day on the Allied air photos.   

To round off the picture I should like to add someone’s personal testimony, and since I was so free to highlight Germany’s plight by quoting a particular gentleman at the beginning of my little essay, shall I stick to him as a somewhat colourful though certainly fascinating witness to the most terrible crime ever committed in human history. Yet before I pay him all the honours he deserves, let me wax a little philosophical.  

If we compare the condition humaine to an upright ladder, then its highest rungs reach straight into that shimmering realm where God the Father, God the Son and the most beautiful Goddess, His Mother, have their Divine Abode. Though a sphere beyond human imagination, has its Essence long since been revealed to us. It is called Love.

Love with a capital L. A mundane attitude, a perennial philosophy, a divine principle, an all-encompassing sentiment. Love of goodness, Love of truth, Love of justice. Love for the sad, poor and downtrodden. Love for a tree, a butterfly, a sunset, a dog, a child. Love between two lovers. Or, to cast it into one single and glorious phrase, Love for God. 

Whereas the lowest rungs appear to be radically different. Here, shrouded into stinking sulphur, with a reddish flicker at the very Heart of Darkness, lurk mankind’s most hideous desires, most criminal ambitions, most putrid fantasies, most terrible perversions. An abode we know perfectly well, because it is strictly manmade, just as its supreme ruler, the Devil. Whose essence is Hate.

Love vs. Hate, therefore, and both are the outmost antipoles of human existence.

Which, by the way, helps you finally to understand why those who blatantly and ruthlessly disseminate Hate in this world are protected by our politically correct Hate Laws.

Back to our witness. Like the president of the USA, at present the world’s foremost peace monger with an eye on more, is Mr. Elie Wiesel (a German noun meaning weasel) another recipient of that remarkable distinction, namely the Nobel Price for Peace. An honour that made him of course a ten times more reliable witness than before, which was only five times. I have read his many books again and again. They are compelling and, more often, heart rendering, and I’m therefore able to add some details which the casual reader my have overlooked. But loath to bore the latter with too many details, shall I stick only to Mr. Weasel’s extraordinary Calvary’s most important details, namely his various elopements from the assorted Nazi death camps.      

His fourth and last escape was pulled off, where else, in Auschwitz proper (NY Post 23 Oct. 1986, and NYT 4 Jan. 1987) where he absconded with the help of five hundred and something moles whose queen he had seduced (she the famous Lily Marleen of the Smooth Black Fur in his latest, and hopefully final, autobiography) with a pledge of illegal Antwerp diamonds. The beasts dug a tunnel, three miles and a half long, through which he robbed to freedom. Previously he had turned his back on Buchenwald (NYT 2 Nov. 1986) where, after reading Dante’s entire Comedia Divina in Yiddish, he talked a bunch of beavers into gnawing through the floorboards by promising them a batch of Goldman Sachs sub-prime bonds while knowing already that chief Blankfein was betting against them. Before that one he had jumped Dachau (Jewish Telegraphic Agency 11 Apr. 1983) with the assistance of a she-wolf who scared the SS guards to death and later, deep in the Carpathian Forests, fed him her own milk until he felt better. Though sadly, after some years, and since she was rumoured to have German grandparents on the paternal side, he developed a Freudian hate complex towards her that made him cease sending the customary Christmas cards.

Now this is, you will unconditionally agree, already rather interesting. But it gets even better. Because his absolutely first and most spectacular escape, the one he has so far kept to himself, happened in the tiny hamlet of Oberammergau, Bavaria, during the summer of 1940. In this lovely Alpine marvel every ten years a famous Passion Play is enacted by the villagers themselves, recounting Christ’s life from entering Jerusalem to His Resurrection. While preparations were underway, Mr. Weasel turned up one day, literally out of the blue, and demanded to play the part of the Saviour, on the grounds that he, due to far-reaching historical complications, was in fact the One. Which surprised the Oberammergauers considerably, knowing full well that He had been up and about some two thousand years ago. It seems things got somewhat out of hand, because the stout villagers took Mr. Weasel by the long ears and slapped him into their local mental hospital, a lovely little retreat with a fine view of the rosily snow-capped mountains run by Dr. Morrel, Hitler’s personal psychiatrist. From where he escaped with the help of a wizened old cockroach who knew the compound’s intricate sewage system by heart.   

And to end this all perhaps a kind of reverse juxtaposition. I was taught and grew up with the firm belief that Pizarro, Cortez and his conquistadores, many of whom were indeed cutthroats of the first order, had ruthlessly destroyed a marvellous and highly developed culture. Until I gave it a closer glance. And saw in its artistry a remarkable ugliness, and in its elite a subhuman mob who doped themselves to kingdom come while placating their bloodthirsty gods with human sacrifices of unspeakable barbarity. No wonder they dropped like a rotten apple into Cortez’ hands. Who was, by the way, a capable administrator and tried to do his best for Mother Church’s new-won sheep. 

As to the little nursery rhyme at the outset, I know that similar proverbs can be found in every decent society. Because it is common knowledge that Evil instead of Goodness and Honour cannot rule forever. It would be against God’s intent. Thus Truth is not only a sacred gift, but an essential part of His general Blueprint. She has her own momentum, slow often, but an inscrutable fabric. The singular perpetrator might get away with an evil deed, at least in this World. But if Truth concerns a country, even a whole People, it cannot be suppressed, manipulated or defecated for ever. To put it somewhat poetically, the Goddess Truth is a small but very clear brook. You may catch a few drops in your cupped hand, and they are almost weightless. But with the time they will undermine whole citadels, even Empires, no matter if they are of the Sword, of a False Credo, or merely of Mammon and Slander.