Joseph D. Pryce
The Abyss Gazes Back
Then again some have fallen unreservedly into the power
of the destiny ruling here: some yielding betimes are betimes
too their own: there are those who, while they
accept what must be borne, have the strength of
self-mastery in all that is left to their own act; they have
given themselves over to another dispensation…
Plotinus, The Fourth Ennead III. 15
Early that evening, as I waited in Francesca’s black Miata, I peered anxiously through the storm-strafed windscreen, hoping for a sign of the guests who were due to arrive at the Hall of Sport by eight o’clock sharp. It was now 7:45 by my reckoning, and I knew that I would be able to hear the Parsifal Overture which bellowed forth from the car-stereo all the way to its sweet ending. I gazed with awe upon the swarm of rats glistening in the twilight, as they scurried about the piles of mouldering garbage in front of the bodega on the corner. They rooted and roistered in the slime, seemingly undisturbed by the comings and goings of the greasy ‘Hispanic’ clientele with their shopping-bags full of cheap beer and plantain chips. Under the streetlamp in front of the Hall a drunken subhuman sloshed his face about in the gutter, vainly attempting to scrub the vomit from his beard in the slop which bore its freight so swiftly to the sewers. A woman screamed somewhere to the west, and one heard glass shattering a block or so away. How long would it take to scrub these sewers clean? Junkies swapped syringes in the gloaming, and parents hustled their children into the Cadillacs of the pimps and pornographers.
A minute or so after I had taken in all of these multi-cultural affairs, several of the more antiquated among the invited guests emerged from a taxi on the opposite side of the street. One of the men was clearly deep in drink; he staggered into the mail-box, and I could not refrain from laughing as I watched the old fogey struggling impotently with his willful umbrella in the raging tempest. They crossed the avenue, bobbing and weaving grotesquely through the traffic. As they passed in front of the Hall of Sport, I noticed that they were pointing excitedly at something up above, apparently on the marquee. They shook their heads and wagged their fingers in an excellent impersonation of outraged Calvinists. As I looked up, I too was startled to see that someone had changed the legend atop the marquee to Schlageter Hall. I confess that I was not at all perturbed by this transformation, which was obviously the work of one of the ‘young Turks’ who were beginning to elbow the geriatric cases out of the limelight in the Society. As I looked back down at the pavement I saw several of the real firebrands of the revolution approaching the Hall, night-sticks in hand and workboots in lock-step; they were smirking at the discomfiture of the yobbo with the umbrella I could then have ventured a lucky guess as to just who the culprits might be.
As I emerged from the car and prepared to make a dash for the foyer, I bumped straight into Theodor Lipps, a lawyer and racial activist who hustled me into the foyer. He trundled me over to a quiet corner behind a freestanding theater poster advertising an upcoming showing of the original German Expressionist film Nosferatu. He whispered cryptically about tonight being ‘the night of all nights,’ and added something about ‘a Great Change coming.’ Then he vanished mysteriously through one of the gaudy, gold-painted doors which led into the lobby. I followed.
In the lobby stood a dozen or so people with whom I had worked over the years, in one or another of the organizations to which I had given a fleeting allegiance. I passed a few minutes in small talk with some of the old faithful, and strolled over to browse a bit through the Movement literature which was on display at a long table on the left side of the lobby. Two very lovely young women, of Mediterranean (perhaps Italian) descent stood politely discussing their literary wares with the guests.
As I peered down the length of the Hall, I detected Theodor’s bulky figure standing up front with a tall, dark-haired man in a black, red-satin-lined cloak. Theo seemed to be whispering to his mysterious colleague – no, I’ve got that wrong. To my shock and surprise, Theo was listening to the man, with an air of reverence adorning a face very seldom visited by that expression. Theo nodded occasionally, and smiled – I thought shyly – once or twice. Several of the other guests were pointing at Theo’s companion and seemed quite delighted for some reason, as if his appearance in the Hall were an epiphany of transcendant import.
It was then that I heard the words ‘the Chief’ muttered by several of the guests, and I finally realized just what it was that Theo had meant when he said that tonight was to be ‘the night of nights.’ The Chief, as he was called, had not been seen in public since the daylight assassination of the Secretary of State during the February troubles, and his reemergence from seclusion could only indicate that the struggle was ‘hotting up.’ In fact, I had never seen his face before, and I was pleased to see that he didn’t resemble those toothless, rabid morons which the System had employed to represent us on the TV in the evil days before the great purge.
I felt a surge of will, a burst of joy inside me as I pondered the fact that soon the Revolution for which we had all sweated and slaved, and for which we had prowled about the city in the dead of night like packs of ravenous canines, would begin in earnest. The inability of the State’s security forces to prevent such gatherings as this from taking place was a startling manifestation of weakness, of instability on the System’s part, and this salient fact would not be lost on our leadership. Theo glanced quizzically up and down the rows of quickly-filling seats and then ambled slowly over to the microphone. He tapped it lightly, spoke a few words to enable the sound-man to set his levels, and without permitting the Chairman of the Society to engage in any ‘patriotic’ ritualism before the ‘flag,’ he turned the mic over to the guest speaker, saying simply, Ladies and gentlemen, the Chief will speak!
Violent applause raged up and down the Hall for several minutes, but when the Chief raised his right hand, the silence was total and immediate. He began:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am most pleased to be addressing you all tonight, especially as the leaders of the German American Friendship Society have kindly undertaken to invite to their gathering members of several quite radical political groups whose interests coincide with theirs only in specific and closely circumscribed areas. I’m inclined to attribute this late-blooming hospitality on the part of our hosts to the obvious inability of the powers that be to prevent such gatherings from taking place. I sense that some of the more genteel and timorous among you would want to assure yourselves a berth on the gravy train which looks, at long last, to be making its way to the station; the ominous whistlings are become ever-more apparent in the distance, both to friend and to foe.
“Down to business. As you may have noticed, there is a slight tincture of hostility in my tone. I do regret the fact, of course; but I would like to make you all aware that this feeling is directed only against those among you who have betrayed your trust by betraying your people. Yes, I am speaking of the leaders of your Friendship Society, who continue to salute and to pledge allegiance to that disgusting rag which hangs obscenely on a flakeboard pole to left of this podium. It does not matter at all to your officers, it seems to me, that that hideous banner now represents, to the millions of Aryans, both at home and overseas, nothing but blood and sewage, crime and madness, destruction raining from the skies upon the Earth and upon Her children trembling helplessly amidst the wreckage. And yet we are expected to revere this filthy thing, to genuflect before this sickly apparition as if before the Holy Grail! I was sickened to see, at the last gathering of the Society, one of your officers asserting, in accents of the most pained self-righteousness, his belief that we should wrap ourselves up in the ‘Stars and Stripes,’ lest the agents of the Z.O.G. come to the untoward conclusion that we are really splitting from the program at last, and mean to do them harm. Startling. I, for one, prefer the red, white, and black to the red, white and blue on any day of the week.
“And then, of course, there’s the famous blood-libel, the Holohoax, the mention of which seems to set your officers’ teeth to chattering like a Latin percussion ensemble. One would think that here, among Americans of German ancestry – who, significantly, make up the largest ethnic group in the country – one would find the greatest outrage, the most ferocious will to correct the historical record and bring the hoaxers and profiteers to the execution block. But I’m afraid that’s not the case, my friends, and I find myself truly at a loss to account for this pitiful spinelessness, this resolute toadying on the part of the leadership who are well-aware, I’m sure, that the ‘death-camp’ canard is a fable and nothing besides. But perhaps, like many weak and foolish mortals, the leaders are driven by a wish to be loved, in the same way that a lap-dog is driven to crave a caress or a treat. I have been told that the President of our once-glorious republic and the ghastly crone who escorts that gobbet of dreck to his public performances, have invited several of the mucky-mucks of the Society over to their digs for tea and biscuits, and that a ‘Friendship Garden’ will be dedicated to the German-American Community. I know that it might seem unkind to mention it, but isn’t that a little bit like throwing the dog a bone? You can be sure that the tyrants will not let the envisaged afternoon pass without a word or two about how marvelously democratic our good little Germans have become since the war in which the evil Reich saw fit to slaughter so many of Yahweh’s pinups. ‘Here, Hans, have an American Beauty Rose and a kick in the scrotum while you’re at it.’ Then, of course, your mucky-mucks over here will return home to brandish about the glossy 8x10s that memorialize the splendid day. What can you do with such people? I get ideas, my friends. I get ideas.
“There is a terror in the souls of the leadership of the German-American Friendship Society, which completely incapacitates said leadership from doing its job. Do you really think that the Oberjuden respect your pusillanimous groveling? Do you really believe that you are serving the interests of the real German-Americans by collaborating with the World-Enemy in such a slavish, and, I might say, obvious fashion? If you people are not going to defend the interests of German Americans, perhaps the time has come when you will have the decency to step aside to make room for those who will! If you cannot silence the whimpering voice inside you which urges surrender at all costs, maybe its time for us to silence you entirely – for the good of the cause, as it were.
“But now I wish to address a few remarks to those among you who are not members of the Society, but who are nevertheless vitally interested in the fate of our Teutonic brethren; for we all know, on our pounding pulses as well as in our reasoning brains, that we Aryans must sink or swim together, and that the destiny of all European-Americans is bound together as are the members of the lictors’ fasces. If our enemies break even one of our ethnic groups, then they have broken us all. If our enemies manage to instill a factitious guilt in even one of our family members, then they have crippled us all. Most important, to the extent that our enemies can succeed in encouraging any of us to think in terms of our ethnic heritage to the detriment of our racial heritage, then they have triumphed over us even before the battle has been joined. We are Aryans first and foremost, and it is our duty before this degenerate world to bear that glorious name with honor and pride, shrinking before no one, and smashing into the ground those who would even consider wounding that pride or casting aspersions upon that honor.
“We were once fierce conquerors who roved great heaving ice-choaked seas and who scaled the battlements of strange castles on far-flung continents, with battle-songs sounding merrily in the charged air; yet now we seem to have become naught but hollow-eyed spectators of some imbecile sports contest or other. Think of it: while your women are being molested on the crumbling sidewalks of what were once great cities (and often even in their own homes); while your small children are being robbed and slain and left for the vultures of the schoolyards to pick clean; and while your cities roar up in oceanic tides of fire, our menfolk want to know who won the goddamned football game – and these are the men who consider themselves manly! ‘That’s entertainment!’
“And what do we do on week-days? I blush – once we erected glorious civilizations from pole to pole and reconnoitred Nature’s darkest secrets; yet now we have become little more than clients and administrators of the famous ‘Welfare State’ or flippers of burgers for one ptomaine-vendor or the other. Where is the spirit that moved our ancient Kings and Queens and warriors? Where is that devil-may-care attitude of the Jomsvikings, who laughed and joked as their captors dismembered them? We sleep, we sleep, my friends, and we have slept for so long now that the shadows of night have stretched themselves athwart the dying Earth to the point that darkness has almost swallowed us up.
“We must awaken from these opiate slumbers. We must be alert so that at all times we will be willing and able to observe the facts and to act upon the facts, my friends: and it seems to me that our enemies have understood one fact with much greater clarity than have our allies. I mean to speak of the great fact of hatred. The accusation forever sounds in our ears, in a thousand shrieking voices, in a diapason stretching from deepest bass to the most piercing and unendurable treble – yet always the burden is the same: we are the haters. Well, as we’re already doing the time, let us enjoy the crime, and now. Our enemies know full-well that their game will be up at the very minute in which we resolve to think with our blood, that is, when we will have learned to hate. Why else would the foe be so intent upon accusing us of attitudes which never even seem to cross our minds? Race hatred and prejudice indeed! Why else would the least bigoted people ever to walk the earth be constantly warned and threatened about a ‘disease’ to which they have been immune for two thousand years? We Aryans must recall that we are not at a barn-raising now, nor at a recital of chamber music up at the castle, but at the very climacteric of our history. Those who are not of our blood are our enemies, and one hates one’s enemies with all that is in one, or one perishes. Nature will not recall us, nor will she bestow a glittering crown upon us posthumously if we continue to see the world and its strife through everybody else’s eyes but our own. Nature will take us to her queenly bosom only after we have mastered the earth as a conqueror, and walk on that earth as a conqueror, with a conqueror’s serene and gleaming eye; and for that you need HATE.
“So how about it? If hatred will tear the sack-cloth and ashes from your back – then go ahead and hate!
“If hatred will raise your people up from the squalid existence which has been their lot for far too long – then go ahead and hate!
“If hatred will arm you against the ‘statesmen’ who have opened the floodgates of the nation to the racial debris of third-world sewers – then go ahead and hate!
“And if hatred will enable you to drive the moneychangers and swindlers from their stately palaces and to cast them out into a nightmare of chaos, of devastation and pain – then go ahead and hate!
“But after we have learned to hate, we must act – let us see this world and its inhabitants as they really are, and then let that divine hate of which I speak have its head. Put flame in your fury and destruction in your deed. For now we know that Nature, whose World-Soul embodies all of the wonder of Life, is at daggers-drawn with Her eternal enemy, Death, and we, the allies of Life, ask for no quarter, nor will we grant it to the enemy – this is a war to the knife, my friends. The forces of Death are enshrined in many brazen agents and hallowed institutions which we have enabled to do their evil in our very midst, right before our very eyes; there they squat, obscene and loathsome, untroubled by fear of discovery or by dread of retaliation. Those who tolerate this situation are in active collaboration with the enemies of Life. Foremost among our enemies are the Death-directed servants of the System of Lies. We, however, must speak the Truth to our people, and only to our people; we must build our sacred dwelling in the precincts of Truth. As the Truth lacks all effect when not embodied in action; when idealism is not embodied in deeds, then has the Ideal gone to bed with the Lie. Yet what in this world is mighty enough to be able to fight and to destroy the Lie?
“Aryan men and women! Only Terror has that might. Only Terror, merciless and cunning, can preserve Life from the depredations of those pustular agents of Death and the Lie who have now almost completed the construction of their New World Prison, and who wait only for the most auspicious moment in which to slam shut the gates upon our people. Terror acts through violence to create an enduring world for the reborn Aryans. Remorseless and purposeful violence will midwife the next Aryan millenia.
“When going on a mission, the terrorist saint clothes himself with a mantle of destruction. He wears his doom upon him as a ritual cloak. Death is his reward. Capture and recantation are, alike, unthinkable.
“Even after the great Change has begun and our enemies are in full flight, the terrorist knows that he will have well over 100,000,000 traitors at his back. Many will attempt to serve the revolution as they once served the tyrants, but, as we are not interested in resurrecting the ghost of a dead and decomposing America, we can dispense with all such riff-raff.
“Those who attempt to restrict our ancient right to keep and bear arms will be dealt with. Those who wish to criminalize the possession of so-called ‘assault rifles,’ must perish by like means. Those who wish to impose ruinous taxes on the purchase of ammunition will find themselves on a collision-course with that which they would interdict. When the ghoulish agents of the federal government raid our homes in order to confiscate the only means of protection that we still have in our possession, they must meet a storm of steel. When the Z.O.G. lays siege to the fortresses of the recalcitrant, its agents must be attacked from the rear. Their backs will be like fish in a barrel.
“If terror can waylay the more culpable of the state-servants with sufficient swiftness (and all state-servants are culpable to a degree), the more swiftly will their colleagues find solace in silence and inaction.
“The greater the speed with which we punish the race-traitors in the news-media and in the entertainment field, the earlier will come the day when the Z.O.G. will be forced to display its own Levantine rodents in front of the mics and the cameras. We must make use of the fact that Aryan stooges are motivated more by fear than by anything else. If an anchorman were to disappear every month for two or three months, Z.O.G. would never be able to find willing Goy replacements. The Jew-liars would then have to leave their murky world of clandestine control, and would be henceforth in our sights.
“The Aryan warrior, knowing full-well, from the scars and weals upon his tired flesh, the nature of that tyranny under which he suffers, responds in kind. Those among you who have lost your very livelihoods at the hands of this tyranny, must destroy the work-places and living accommodations of the hirelings of the tyranny. Those who have lost loved ones or racial comrades in one of the tyranny’s raids on the Resistance, must retaliate by equivalent – nay, even greater! – explosive actions against the tyranny’s minions. Those who have made our age a time of ‘perpetual war for perpetual peace’ must wake from their slumbers to find out, in broken body and in shattered spirit, the real meaning of war – from the business end. Those who have attempted with might and main to break our comrades on the rack and on the wheel, must now become accredited authorities on those nameless sounds which lurk within the night, and which fear can metamorphose into the very screeching of demons.
“Terror becomes the more pure as its designated ‘victims’ fall prey to the anxiety of endless anticipation. This anticipation will maximize your efforts to dislodge, and, ultimately, to destroy, the entire system, by working for you even while you are busy determining the shape of events on another sector of the front. Anticipation feeds the threat. Anticipation immobilizes. Then drops the shadow, then falls the blow.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I must insist that we face the fact that we are no longer a sovereign people, and have not been such for a very long time. We inhabit an occupied world, and it would be well for us to take due note of the fact that our rulers want to wipe our race from the surface of the earth. The evidence of their intentions is all around you, and reaches even unto the source of Life itself. We all know, for instance, that the Jews and their flunkies have repeatedly rammed it down our throats, and down the throats of our children, that it is perfectly permissible – indeed, even desirable – to kill Aryan children in the wombs of their mothers. This is indeed a horror. Now our enemies must be made to sup full of horrors.
“Our enemies have imprisoned, have tortured, have murdered many of our best fighters, brave martyrs all, who gazed with open eyes upon the face of the genocide which is planned for us, and who risked their very lives to carry destruction right into the enemy’s camp. Without thought of self, they struck out at that grinning countenance with disciplined and well-merited violence. Now our enemies must be made to quaff the poison unto its bitter dregs.
“Our enemies have turned loose a feral and nauseating gang of subhuman cut-throats, a swelling horde of slimy mercenaries, upon once-peaceful Aryan communities; these creatures rape at will and murder on a venture as is the way of all race-alien armies of occupation. The agents of our enemies exact massive sums from the public treasury with which they feed, house, clothe, and make prolific, this purulent mass of demons. They loot and they burn at will, they violate and they desecrate at will, and we must now respond – Terror is that proper response. Aryan Resistance must strike globally. There are a million targets. Strike. Take the credit. Retreat into the shadows whence you came. Wait in silence… then strike again. May the last hours of our enemies be exquisite in their agony.
“Our enemies are demons, my friends, and demons wear many masks: Marxism, democracy, egalitarianism, sensitivity training, One World Mongrelism, etc., and so forth, to the bottom of the barf-bag. You’ve all witnessed their sick Halloween charades: the sardonic grin on the mask of the nightly ‘newsperson’ as he spits his poisonous lies in our faces is unendurable; the sardonic grin on the mask of the politician who encourages sambos and mestizos to shamble across our borders, invading a once-lovely land which they will infect with their diseases, their crime and their malodorous spawn, is unendurable; the sardonic grin on the mask of the financial ‘expert’ who aids and abets the capitalist vampires of the stock exchange and the banking system is unendurable; the sardonic grin on the mask of the TV talking head who inculcates self-hatred in our children is unendurable; the sardonic grin on the face of the ‘scientist’ who insists, flying in the face of all the available evidence, on the equality of the races is unendurable. And the terrorist will kill dead the hider behind the masks.
“In the simplest terms, I might say that where the enemy stands, there stands the enemy – whether that enemy is your brother or your mother, your friend or your colleague. As I have said, there are numerous targets, and they must be made to feel that they are going up against an unstoppable onslaught of Werewolves, who lope unseen and unheard behind the enemy’s lines, emerging from the mists and fogs to wreak havoc, and then, again unseen and unheard, slipping back into the darkness whence they came.
“But what do we stand for in this dark and terrible hour? In what, or in whom, do we believe? Surely, there can be no more important task for our leaders than to determine just what it is that we are fighting for. We must recognize the lamentable fact that we have no overarching philosophy with which to arm ourselves for the struggle, no acknowledged ideological minimum with which to orient ourselves upon the desperate seas which now we must sail. I look around this room, and see a veritable smorgasbord of world-views represented, a truly kaleidoscopic array of possibilities. But if I were to attempt to characterize our movement philosophically, I confess that I would find myself at a loss. We have very little in common, my friends, and it never seems to occur to any of us that that is precisely why the enemy has had such an easy time dividing and corrupting us. For what do we believe? I see Social Credit ideologues here; I see Christian Identity fanatics here; I see even a few Conservatives who have pumped up their literacy to the point at which even they can read the writing on the wall. I see Klansmen, Christian ‘anti-semites,’ crypto-Fascists, and neo-Nazis; there are Holocaust Revisionists and Revisionists of related persuasions, and if I were to peer around this hall for long enough, I’d probably be able to come up with a monarchist or two!
“But there is nothing binding here, no coherent unifying principle which might give shape and substance to our struggle, nothing upon which all of us agree, unless we consider our inchoate aversion to World Jewry to be a philosophy. Yet a perusal of world history will reveal to even the hairiest gorilla in the bleachers that a purely negative attitude can never bring fundamental and lasting change to the world.
“For, my friends, only the visionary can alter the shape of things to come; only the visionary can peer through the gray mists and past the hideous contours of this life-in-death with which we have been afflicted, to gaze upon the lineaments of the new dawn.
“Are we aware of any historical figure who might function as such a visionary and guide for our Aryan people? Is there anyone in our past who might serve as the central figure of a reborn Indo-European mythos? Is there anyone of whom we might say, Ecce Homo – behold the Man? Is there any figure in Western History who can be said to stand as a symbol of our very race itself? We all know that there is indeed such a figure, and I’m certain that all of us are fully aware of just who he might be. I would like to quote here some weighty words from the pen of America’s greatest thinker, the late Dr. Revilo P. Oliver. In his America’s Decline (1989, Londinium Press, London England), Oliver states:
It is….. possible that if our race recovers its lost vigor and ascendancy, a future religion may recognize Adolf Hitler as a semi-divine figure. The potentiality of such a religion may be seen in the works of a highly intelligent and learned lady of Greek ancestry, Dr. Savitri Devi, especially her Pilgrimage (Calcutta, 1958). Dr. Eberhardt Gheyn in Los Neo-nazis en Sudamerica (Liverpool, West Virginia, 1978) reports that National Socialism, having attracted the devotion of many women, has become the New Evangel, preached in modern “catacombs” as is made necessary by Jewish terrorism, observing the birthday of Hitler with ceremonies that are distinctly pious, and computing dates in the New Era that began with his birth. The veneration of Hitler as a heros is not surprising, but worship, I think, would require the elaboration of a notion that he was an avatar of some superhuman being – a development that would require a century or more.
“And how precisely might such a mythos as we desiderate evolve? How might the sacred texts of this New Evangel appear? We might, as a matter of fact, turn to one of the works of the aforementioned Dr. Savitri Devi, to see what she has to say about our Leader’s birth. The following is from her Pilgrimage:
And far beyond the clear sky of the little town and the thin atmosphere of this little planet, in the cold, dark realm of fathomless Void, the unseen stars had very definite positions; significant positions, such as they take only once within hundreds of years to any particular spot on earth. And at the appointed time – 6 o’clock in the afternoon – the Child came into the world, unnoticed masterpiece of a two-fold cosmic play of the mysterious influence of distant worlds in mysterious space. Apparently, just another baby in the family. In reality – after centuries – a new divine Child on this planet; the first one in the West, after the legendary Baldur-the-Fair, and, like Him, a Child of the Sun; a predestined Fighter against the forces of death and a Savior of men, marked out for leadership, for victory, for agony, and for immortality.
“Does not the authentic passion, vigor, and, yes, reverence in this magnificent poetic prose stir you to the very marrow? Have we not all felt, at one time or another, that Adolf Hitler’s life makes absolutely no sense when regarded as the purely earthly career of just another German politician living and working at a particular period in European History? I would like to adduce, as an instance of the futility involved in a purely mundane interpretation of the life and career of Adolf Hitler, a somewhat lengthy excerpt from the little volume written by Hitler’s boyhood chum August Kubizek. The book is entitled Adolf Hitler Mein Jugendfreund and this is the chapter which is headed (in the English-language version) “In that hour it began…..”:
It was the most impressive hour I ever lived through with my friend. So unforgettable is it, that even the most trivial things, the clothes Adolf wore that evening, the weather, are still present in my mind as though the experience were exempt from the passing of time.
Adolf stood outside my house in his black overcoat, his dark hat pulled down over his face. It was a cold, unpleasant November evening. He waved to me impatiently. I was just cleaning myself up from the workshop and getting ready to go to the theatre. Rienzi was being given that night. We had never seen this Wagner opera and looked forward to it with great excitement. In order to secure the pillars in the Promenade we had to be early. Adolf whistled, to hurry me up.
Now we were in the theatre, burning with enthusiasm, and living breathlessly through Rienzi’s rise to be the Tribune of the people of Rome and his subsequent downfall. When at last it Was over, it was past midnight. My friend, his hands thrust into his coat pockets, silent and withdrawn, strode through the street and out of the city. Usually, after an artistic experience that had moved him, he would start talking straightaway, sharply criticising the performance, but after Rienzi he remained quiet a long while. This surprised me, and I asked him what he thought of it. He threw me a strange, almost hostile glance. “Shut up,” he said brusquely.
The cold, damp mist lay oppressively over the narrow streets. Our solitary steps resounded on the pavement. Adolf took the road that led up to the Freinberg. Without speaking a word, he strode forward. He looked almost sinister, and paler than ever. His turned-up coat collar increased this impression.
I wanted to ask him, “Where are you going?” But his pallid face looked so forbidding that I suppressed the question.
As if propelled by an invisible force, Adolf climbed up to the top of the Freinberg. And only now did I realize that we were no longer in solitude and darkness, for the stats shone brilliantly above us.
Adolf stood in front of me; and now he gripped both my hands and held them tight. He had never made such a gesture before. I felt from the grasp of his hands how deeply moved he was. His eyes were feverish with excitement. The words did not come smoothly from his mouth as they usually did, but rather erupted, hoarse and raucous. From his voice I could tell even more how much this experience had shaken him.
Gradually his speech loosened, and the words flowed more freely. Never before and never again have I heard Adolf Hitler speak as he did in that hour, as we stood there alone under the stars, as though we were the only creatures in the world.
I cannot repeat every word that my friend uttered. I was struck by something strange, which I had never noticed before, even when he had talked to me in moments of the greatest excitement. It was as if another being spoke out of his body, and moved him as much as it did me. It wasn’t at all a case of a speaker merely being carried away by his own words. On the contrary; I rather felt as though he himself listened with astonishment and emotion to what burst forth from him with elementary force. I will not attempt to interpret this phenomenon, but it was a complete state of ecstasy and rapture, in which he transferred the character of Rienzi, without even mentioning him as a model or example, with visionary power to the plane of his own ambitions. But it was more than a cheap adaptation. Indeed, the impact of the opera was rather a sheer external impulse which compelled him to speak. Like flood waters breaking their dykes, his words burst forth from him. He conjured up, in grandiose, inspiring pictures, his own future and that of his people.
Hitherto I had been convinced that my friend wanted to become an artist, a painter, or perhaps an architect. Now this was no longer the case. Now he aspired to something higher, which I could not yet fully grasp. It rather surprised me, as I thought that the vocation of the artist was for him the highest, most desirable goal. But now he was talking of a mandate, which, one day, he would receive from the people, to lead them out of servitude to the heights of freedom.
It was an unknown youth who spoke to me in that strange hour. He spoke of a special mission which one day would be entrusted to him, and I, his only listener, could hardly understand what he meant Many years had to pass before I realised the significance of this enraptured hour for my friend.
His words were followed by silence.
We descended into the town. The clock struck three. We parted in front of my house. Adolf shook hands with me, and I was astonished to see that he did not go in the direction of his house, but turned again towards the mountains.
“Where are you going now?” I asked him, surprised. He replied briefly, “I want to be alone.”
In the following weeks and months he never again mentioned this hour on the Freinberg. At first it struck me as odd and I could find no explanation for his strange behaviour, for I could not believe that he had forgotten it altogether. Indeed he never did forget it, as I discovered thirty-three years later. But he kept silent about it because he wanted to keep that hour entirely to himself. That I could understand, and I respected his silence. After all, it was his hour, not mine. I had played only the modest role of a sympathetic friend.
In 1939, shortly before the war broke out, when I, for the first time, visited Bayreuth as the guest of the Reichs Chancellor, I thought I would please my host by reminding him of that nocturnal hour on the Freinberg, so I told Adolf what I remembered of it, assuming that the enormous multitude of the impressions and events which had filled these past decades would have pushed into the background the experience of a seventeen-year-old-youth. But after a few words, I sensed that he vividly recalled that hour and had retained all its details in his memory. He was visibly pleased that my account confirmed his own recollections. I was also present when Adolf Hitler retold thus sequel to the performance of Rienzi in Linz to Frau Wagner, at whose home we were both guests. Thus my own memory was doubly confirmed. The words with which Hitler concluded his story to Frau Wagner are also unforgettable for me. He said solemnly, “In that hour it began.”
“I think that I have made my point! And yet there are those among us – some, in fact, in this very room! – who, in their infantile and puling desire for an accommodation with the powers that be, would pour vitriol over the Leader’s memory, denying Him His obvious place in the only Pantheon that matters. I would like, if I might, to quote Dr. Oliver once more:
…it is simple folly to attempt to oppose the Judaeo-Communist conquest and occupation of the world while futilely pretending to dissociate ourselves from the memory of the great champion of our race, Adolf Hitler (Liberty Bell, September 1989, p. 12).
“When the early Christians – like ourselves, existing as a penalized ‘inner proletariat’ in a hostile world indeed – went about their missionary labors through the length and breadth of the territories occupied by Rome, they might have quarrelled as ferociously about this or that abstruse question of dogmatic theology as we do about projected designs for a new Aryan State. But when they were threatened, when they were questioned by the powers that be, or when they found themselves menaced by violence, they turned a unified front to their enemies, and bowed their heads only before their one true Lord. Opposition to their creed did not entice them into compromise with that which they regarded as evil: no, and again no! They stood forth from the Roman World as witnesses to that which they regarded as the Truth. They did not say that their Christ wasn’t really a god, but just a misguided extremist whose plans went completely awry due to faults in his character (although he may once have had a good idea or two). They stood by their creed until their church mastered the Empire itself, and they then proceeded to dictate to the West the form and spirit which its religious life would take for two thousand years. As misguided as that whole episode might appear to us who have suffered from the resulting religious pseudomorphosis, which distorted and finally wasted our own native spiritual life, we must respect the early Christians’ insistence upon remaining intransigent in the face of that which they regarded as falsehood, at all times, no matter what the cost.
“And so must we, my friends. We are yet a pitiful minority within this darkling world which still laughs at our splintered state and at our well-nigh incoherent faith. But was that not once true of the bedouins who roamed the deserts of Arabia during the early years of the great prophet Mohammed? And yet, before anyone could muster an effective opposition, those men had been converted into brave warriors who besieged the very frontiers of France itself! How simple was their faith! How strong was their faith! And what will our enemies do when we stand before them with a single faith, as a single unit one fist for the Fuehrer, one blood for his Realm, one Destiny decreed by the God Who ponders us, waiting and watching for the moment in which we grab that banner from the Void – as He said we would – standing erect and glorious before the serried ranks of our doomed and soulless foes, as we chant:
No other Leader but Hitler!
No other Hero but Hitler!
No other God, and no other Saviour, per saecula saeculorum, but Hitler!
LET THE GAMES BEGIN!
LET THE GOD RETURN!”
There was a strange hush throughout the Hall, which may have lasted for three or four seconds; but there then ensued a volcanic roar of applause for the Chief’s words. Some of the Geritol brigade sat stunned and oblivious in their seats, shaking their nervous little heads, but their words and their attitudes were no longer of any interest to anyone. They had lost control of their silly little social club, and everyone knew it. They had thought to take charge of something which was much greater than themselves, without the vision to foresee events or the weapons with which to change them; their hour had clearly passed. They might be invited to attend an audience or two in the Rose Garden with the doomed and degenerate tyrants, but they had clearly had their innings, and it was time for them to leave the field.
The Chief stood tall and proud at the podium, flashing his deep-blue eyes to the remote corners of the Hall, drinking in the wine of triumph. We knew that he would not be satisfied with mere words. Although he had first made his name as a theoretician of the National Socialist Weltanschauung (his doctoral dissertation dealt with the ideology of the Freikorps of old Germany), he was first and foremost a man of action, whose favorite line of poetry was Goethe’s “In the Beginning was the Deed.”
He went underground that very night, accompanied by his paladins, and, as Fate would have it, the apocalyptic Blood War began with the next dawn, with the first of a new series of assassinations, bombings, and assorted conflagrations thrown in for good measure.
And Hell then revealed its face unto us. And we looked with opened eyes upon that face of flame. And we knew that that face was terrible beyond all reckoning, and beautiful beyond all power of the tongue of man to express it. For we had exhausted the resources of peace, and the time of war was welcomed as a lover is welcomed. We would not have it any other way…..
SOURCE: Liberty Bell, February 1995