Pilgrimage - (Chapters 1 - 4)



Savitri Devi




These pages — written in English only because I did not, yet, feel myself in a position to produce a book in German — relate my first actual pilgrimage to places which have a great name in the history of the National Socialist Movement and in that of Germany in general. They are incomplete, because that pilgrimage itself was — had to be, on account of personal financial difficulties — a rather hasty one; one from which I had to leave out even such important landmarks as Vienna and Berlin.

For the sake of faithfulness to fact, I purposely did not try to fill the gaps with memories of these and other places, gathered during more recent tours of mine. For every successive pilgrimage is a whole in itself, endowed with its own organic unity. And the first one has a special character for the sole reason that it is the first.

Many statements in this book — many reactions of comrades of mine or of myself — will shock those who are not definite devotees of the Hitler faith — and perhaps even some of those who are, or profess to be, such ones. Yet, again for the sake of faithfulness to fact, I have not cut out the corresponding passages. I wanted at least the psychological atmosphere which I have lived in 1953 to be rendered as I have experienced it.

The book is, anyhow, not intended for indiscriminate circulation. It is a series of personal episodes, laid down in black and white in exactly the same style as I would relate them to the only people these pages are for, namely, to the most conscious and consistent among my German comrades and superiors.

Savitri Devi Mukherji

Calcutta, 12 December 1958



There is one thing that many Germans (and practically all non-Germans) seem to forget, when venturing forecasts about the evolution of the West, and that is the fact that National Socialism is infinitely more than a mere political creed; the fact that it is a way of life; a faith, in the fullest sense of the word — one could say a religion, however different it may, at first sight, appear, from every existing system thus labelled in current speech. Religions are not as easy to uproot as mere political creeds. And a religion that expresses, both in collective — in “political” — and in individual life (in life as an organic whole) the lasting aspirations of the noblest section of mankind, can never be uprooted. That is what we, National Socialists, intend to prove, in the long run. That is what we are already proving by our day to day stand — our silent, but inexorable refusal to deny our scale of values — after these eight long years of trial.1 And this story of my visit to several places connected with the birth, growth and persecution of our Movement, and these episodes of my life in Germany (after my return there in spite of the decree of expulsion issued against me by the Occupation Authorities) merely stress once more, as glaringly as ever, that nothing can “de-Nazify” us. While the apparently strange title I have given this book — “Pilgrimage” — illustrates, as accurately as human speech possibly can, my attitude towards Germany, my spiritual home.

“Adolf Hitler has raised Germany to the status of a holy Land in the eyes of every worthy Aryan of the world.” I have written these words in other books of mine. And they were not, — and they are not — a metaphor, but the very expression of the truth as I feel it in the depth of my heart. And I have visited these places forever famous: Linz, Leonding, Braunan am Inn, Berchtesgaden, Obersalzberg, Munich, Landsberg am Lech, Nuremberg (to mention only the main ones) neither on account of their natural beauty, nor for the sake of

1 These lines were written in 1953.


their importance in the eyes of the student of history, but in a pious mood — as real Christians visit Bethlehem, Nazareth and Jerusalem; as true Mohammedans go to Mecca and to Medina from the ends of the earth. I have visited them solely because they are, to me, — to us — sacred places; spots of holy Land, inseparable from the early history of that modern form of the perennial Religion of Life: the Hitler Faith; my faith; — our faith.

* * *

Such an attitude to a system that has played — and that is (I hope) again to play, — a very definite part in the political life of the West, needs a few words of explanation. It is surely not the attitude of the world at large, to our creed. It is, nay, — unfortunately, — anything but the attitude of all Germans. Still, it is that of a conscious and active, and particularly intelligent minority of German National Socialists, of whom I have the honour of knowing several personally. And I can honestly feel no difference whatsoever between their approach and mine to our common faith in the Swastika and in the Greater German Reich. And, to the extent they know me, I do not believe that they feel any such difference either.

Loyalty to Adolf Hitler, alive forever; loyalty to Aryan blood; loyalty to Greater Germany as to the natural Leader of all people of Aryan blood, binds me to them, and them to me, above ever-changing manmade frontiers.

Certain people outside our Movement insist, however, that there must be an irreducible difference between our attitudes: a difference due to the fact that I am not a German. That fact — which I have so spontaneously forgotten, both in the pride of the great days and (perhaps even more) in the mental agony which I have lived in and after 1945, and in the constant service of the great Reich of our common dreams, — can possibly stand in my way in connection with material advantages in a future National Socialist Germany. It could not, — and it can never — prevent me from linking my destiny to that of future Germany, in the name of my pan-Aryan faith, regardless of all imaginable administrative hindrances. While limiting my “rights” during the short span of years I yet have to tread this earth, — while making me a second class,


or perhaps even a third class citizen in the glorious new world for the establishment of which I have striven all my life, — it has forced me to live and to fight with greater detachment, greater selflessness, remembering that I had — and have — nothing to expect, and that I did, and do, not count. It has forced me to live and fight with impersonal enthusiasm, exclusively for the eternal goal of our Movement: not for the “happiness” of any individual; not for the salvation of the Individual, but for the strengthening, defence and expansion of the godlike élite of mankind, here and now, and forever, feeling that this lofty goal is mine in spite of all; mine, as much as any German’s; mine, because I want it to be attained at any cost; mine, because I love Germany, my Führer’s beloved country and the first Aryan Nation wide-awake in our times.

* * *

“Loyalty to Adolf Hitler, alive forever; loyalty to Aryan blood, and to Greater Germany as to the natural Leader of all people of Aryan blood,” that is, I repeat, the substance of National Socialism — our faith. It is, no doubt, an essentially German faith, and an essentially earthly one, too, — a faith that has nothing to do with those metaphysical problems that worry people for whom our living world is not sufficient. It is, however, a faith that transcends Germany, and this earth itself, and our times, as I once declared before the Military Tribunal in Düsseldorf, and already in Cologne, before those who first cross-examined me after my arrest in 1949.

We National Socialists have no opinion about and no interest in questions that cannot be answered with absolute certainty and which have, moreover, no bearing upon our lives. We speak only of that which we know. We worship that which we can see and feel — or at least, that of which we can see and feel the day to day expression. We do not know whether we can expect or not, after death, any sort of conscious, personal immortality (any sort of immortality of the kind so many people crave for). But we do know that those who have children of the same blood as themselves live in their children. And we believe in the immortality of those races that keep their blood pure, conscious of the Godhead


that lies within them. We believe in the immortality of our own Aryan race as it has survived in its purest representatives, in Germany in particular and in the North of Europe at large, and wherever else in the world it has retained both its physical and moral characteristics. And we do know, also, that those who leave useful or beautiful works live in their works. We believe in impersonal, selfless immortality through creative work — in the immortality of the anonymous artist who chiseled a perfect detail in the decoration of a building; in that of the anonymous labourer who helped to pave a road; of the man who planted a tree or composed a popular tune; and especially of all those who lived and fought and suffered to enable Germany to bring about the materialisation of Adolf Hitler’s programme; of all those who, now, in absolute effacement, are keeping our faith alive within their hearts, thus enabling it to reassert itself, one day, at the first opportunity. That immortality, — of which we are sure, — is sufficient for us.

We do not know whether there exists such a thing as a God endowed with personality. But we do know that life exists. And we do know that Order, and Rhythm, which is the essence of Order, are inherent in Life. And we find Order and Rhythm essentially beautiful. And we worship Life on account of that inherent beauty of Order and Rhythm, which displays itself in the Laws of Life. We worship Life with its inexorable Laws, expressions of inner Order; with its inexorable Rhythm of birth and death, creation and destruction, love and hate — its everlasting interaction of opposites; its everlasting, merciless, sinless, impersonal Struggle, which is also Order. We accept the fact that we are part and parcel of the Cosmic Dance, instruments of its rhythm. We accept the Law of Struggle, which is inseparable from existence in Time; we say “yes” to Life, because we are healthy beings, well-adapted to our destiny as creators and fighters; because we like the everlasting Struggle — and would, doubtless, find the world boring, without it. Our God is Life Itself — Life as it emerges, purified and strengthened, again and again, out of the everlasting Struggle against the forces of disintegration.

We love all forms of life . . . in their place. But our own eyes, our own experience compel us to assert that there exists nothing higher, nothing more valuable on earth, than the natural


aristocracy of the Aryan race, which is, at the same time, the natural aristocracy of mankind. We do not hate the men who stand in the way of the free development of that élite, but we fight them, with merciless detachment, and we destroy them — when we can, — with all the thoroughness of our hearts, as the enemies of higher Creation — our natural opponents in the Cosmic Play of Forces.

That is our creed — philosophically speaking. It is a cosmic creed, with its roots in this earth.

* * *

But that is not all.

One cannot say that representatives of the God-ordained aristocracy of mankind are to be found in Germany alone. Sven Hedin, Knut Hamsun, Vidkun Quisling, were not Germans, and yet, who would deny them a place in the very first ranks of the Aryan élite? Members of that natural élite are to be found in all lands — including Persia and India, — where there are be it a few racially conscious men and women of unmixed Aryan blood.

Yet, it is a fact that, among all nations of Aryan blood, Germany alone has made herself, in our times, the champion of those everlasting Aryan values for which we stand; the promoter of that joyous and merciless faith in health and physical perfection as well, as in manly ideals, in opposition to the sickly philosophy, centred around the so-called “dignity” of fallen mankind, which is the gift of the Jew to the Western world. It is a fact that, whether in Hermann, who cut the Roman legions to pieces, or in Wittukind and his Saxons, defenders of Germanic Heathendom against the Christian faith, or in her great Emperors of the Middle Ages, in constant conflict with the popes; or in the kings and statesmen of Prussia, with their one-pointed organising genius and political insight, put to the service of a unified Reich; or in thinkers such as Fichte, Nietzsche, or, nearer to us, Friedrich Lange,1 and, always and everywhere, in her people, with their

1 The leader of the “Deutsches Bund” whose Manifesto, issued in Heidelberg on the 9th of May 1894, could be signed by any true National Socialist.


invincible will to live, Germany has been, throughout her history, the healthy force in the West, — the force that has, stubbornly, stood against all forms of internationalism, whether political, religious or philosophical; against all forces of decadence, whether imperial Rome (no longer an Aryan power in the days of Augustus) or Christianity, that oldest and most successful invention of the Jew to emasculate the Aryan race, or the French Revolution, that grand-scale achievement of Freemasonry, or Napoleon, (that warlord whose dream was to unite all Europe, not under the rule of the best, in the name of any higher wisdom, but simply under the government of a large Corsican family, in the name of his personal ambition.)

It is a fact that the interest of the German Reich is, — and, which is more, always was, — the interest of Western Aryandom, and that, in particular, every Aryan who, during the Second World War, fought of his own free will against Germany, is a traitor to his own race. For the Second World War was not a war between rival States, but a war between incompatible faiths, — between the age-old Aryan scale of values and the Judeo-Christian one; both a religious and a racial war.

And it is also a fact that there is no hope for Western Aryandom save in the resurrection of the German Reich in Adolf Hitler’s spirit (if not under his personal leadership, if he still be alive) and in the unification of Europe — first step towards the unification of the Aryan race as a whole — under Germany’s leadership, according to National Socialist principles.

It matters little to what extent the “rights” of the non-German Aryans will be taken into consideration in that future West, — nay, in that future world, — for the establishment of which we are struggling. We are not struggling so that a few men and women, relatively better than most non-German Aryans inasmuch as they remained faithful to Adolf Hitler and to Germany in defeat, might acquire definite advantages after Germany’s revenge. We are struggling unconditionally for the coming of that revenge — for the resurrection and domination of Greater National Socialist Germany, — because we ardently believe in the justice of the German Cause; because we find it right that the Nation who staked her all, and underwent the actual experience of mass-martyrdom and death for


the defence of the Aryan race at large and of the true Aryan ideals, should rise and take the lead of that race, and impose those ideals upon future generations forevermore. I at least am struggling unconditionally for that impersonal goal, whatever be my official nationality.

I am struggling for that goal because I believe in the new Mythos of Salvation, which the heavenly Powers are slowly and patiently evolving out of the unprecedented sufferings of the privileged Nation: the Mythos upon which, one day, — I hope, — the new faith of Europe will be founded; the Mythos of world-redemption (in the natural, earthly sense of the word) through the voluntary sacrifice and martyrdom of the German people during these last ten years (and who knows how many years more?).

For the first time in the history of religions, the perennial Saviour Who comes again, age after age, “to reinstall the reign of Righteousness,”1 has offered not only Himself but His beloved people in sacrifice, for the fulfillment of the highest purpose of Creation: the survival of superior mankind.

And for the first time also, salvation is looked upon not as an escape from this earthly life, but as its full realisation in health, strength and beauty; in visible, godlike perfection. For the first time salvation means achievement of perfection on the physical plane and then, through the development of the natural capacities and virtues of the race, on other planes also; attainment of supermanhood deeply rooted in the earth — faithful both to this earth and to the Sun, Principle of earthly life and power. And the privileged Nation — Germany — conscious of her mission as ever before; purified in spirit through these long years of persecution, is to teach the racial élite of the world (her blood-brothers, and also her noblest allies of other races) the message of the Doctrine of Life in health and joy and honour; the Law of blood-purity; the duty of obedience to that immanent Godhead — Life-Energy — which abides in the Sun and in living Nature and in us, and which “has put every man in his place” and “divided the foreign peoples from one another.”2

1 The Bhagawad-Gita, IV, verse 8.

2 Longer Hymn to the Sun, composed by Akhnaton, King of Egypt, early 14th century B.C.


And just as all India reveres to this day the descendants of the Aryan invaders of old — the Brahmins — as “gods on earth”1) so will the Aryan world as a whole, one day, — we hope — revere the pure-blooded descendants of the modern Germans: the children of those millions who, along with Adolf Hitler and for the love of Him, laid down, in our times, the foundations of the new civilisation of the West, and who suffered and died for Aryandom to flourish.

* * *

And thus, through Adolf Hitler, — the first Man to integrate traditional Pan-Germanism into a deeper, worldwide Pan-Aryanism, — the perennial Religion of Light and Life and of superior mankind as the culmination of Life’s creative effort upon this planet, has found its expression in the cult of Germany.

This explains and justifies, as I have already said, the title of this book. This explains and justifies also my whole attitude to my German comrades and superiors, with whom I have identified myself in this struggle for the resurrection of the Greater German Reich. This foreshadows also — I hope, — the feelings of those racially-conscious Aryans of the future who will come to this Land as to a place of pilgrimage — the Holy Land of the West, — in the same spirit as myself, while continuing to work for the strengthening and expansion of that Greater Reich of our dreams which, in my own very words, “has no boundaries.”2 This foreshadows the slow but steady formation of a true brotherhood of Aryan blood and of Nietzschean faith, forever loyal to its natural leaders: Nietzsche’s countrymen and disciples; Adolf Hitler’s everlasting people.

Heil Hitler!

Emsdetten in Westfalen (Germany)

3 June 1953

1 Bhudêva (in Sanskrit).

2 “Defiance,” p. 578.


Chapter 1


So, this clean and pretty town that now welcomed me was Linz — the place where “he” had spent the early years of his life! I could hardly believe it.

And yet . . . how vivid was the consciousness of “him” in connection with this place, not only in me but in his people at large! I recalled in my mind the remark of an elderly gentleman who had been sitting next to me, in the railway-carriage on my way: “Linz!” had he said, looking enigmatically at me as soon as I had answered the usual question and told him where I was going, “that is the town where Adolf Hitler used to live when he was a boy!” And he had added, even more enigmatically: “Is that why you are going there?”

I had blushed at the hearing of the beloved Name, and more so at the idea that the man had seen through me. But I had merely smiled, without replying a word: two Frenchmen in uniform — two members of the hated Occupation forces — were seated opposite us. One should be cautious in presence of those creatures: say nothing that might be interpreted as an offence in the light of this or that paragraph of the Occupation Statute. (But smiling, of course, and blushing, however more eloquent they be than any spoken words, can never be held against one as an offence! . . .)

I also recalled the strange way in which the man sitting at the desk in the “Enquiry Office concerning rooms,” — Zimmer Nachweis — at the station, had looked at me when I had told him that I had come from Athens, somehow as though he had wanted to say: “All the way from Athens to see the place where ‘he’ has spent his childhood! . . . So, . . . you too are one of ‘his’ followers . . . and presumably a good one!” Oh, he had not uttered — doubtless not dared to utter — those words! But I had felt pretty sure that he had thought them. And he had spoken to me for over an hour about his memories as an officer in the


German Army in Greece, during the war, and had smiled most sympathetically when I had declared that I had never stood against Germany, whether during this war or before, or afterwards, but that I had, on the contrary, fought on her side “against the international money-Power, arch-enemy of the Aryan race.”

Yes, although one was hardly given a chance of speaking about “him,” one felt, here, that many, very many people think of “him” every day of their lives. The air one breathed was full of “his” presence.

And his presence attracted people — from far away, sometimes.

I remembered a conversation I had had in London, in 1947, with an Indian — a fair-complexioned Brahmin from Delhi — who, during a business journey across Central Europe, had gone out of his way to visit Linz solely for the sake of the memories of the Führer’s boyhood that the town evokes. And as I had told him how refreshing it was for me to hear of such a thing from a man from far-away India, he had asked me:

“Have you not visited Ayodhya and Brindaban, when you were in far-away India?”

I had acknowledged that I had indeed.

“And why, not being yourself an Indian, have you especially wished to see those old towns, both of little appeal to the eye in quest of ‘picturesque’?” had then inquired my interlocutor.

“Because I am an Aryan,” had I replied, “and because Rama, the miraculous Conqueror of the South, who lived and ruled in Ayodhya, and Krishna, the immortal Teacher of the Doctrine of Violence with detachment, who spent his early years in Brindaban, personify in my eyes both the warlike wisdom and the territorial expansion of my hallowed race, and start each of them a new epoch in the history of the awakening of Aryan consciousness in Antiquity.”

“And does not Adolf Hitler also personify, today, both the warlike wisdom and the will to expansion of the Aryan race? And has he not, in spite of Germany’s temporary defeat, started a new era? I have visited Linz because I too am an Aryan,” had answered the descendant of those who carried the Nordic culture of old to the Tropics.

I had been too moved to reply. And the idea of a new,


racially conscious Aryandom, extending to the four corners of the world — the idea of the real Greater Reich of my dreams, united, above all conventional frontiers, in the veneration of the common Race-Saviour, Adolf Hitler, — had brought tears into my eyes.

I thought of that episode, — and of that tremendous idea — as I now myself sat in Linz, before a table on the first-floor landing of the hotel that the man at the Zimmer Nachweis Office at the station had recommended to me, filling a form (Christian name, surname, permanent address etc. . . .) while the hotel-maid was preparing my room for me.

* * *

I had come from Athens, as I said already. And I was travelling under my maiden name. I had, under my actual name, been expelled from occupied Germany after my release from Werl. But I was determined to go back, and would, this time, be careful not to get caught, even if I did, once more, indulge in activities “intended to keep alive the military and the Nazi spirit.”1 I had, with the help of the immortal Gods, managed to secure myself a Greek passport, on the ground that my marriage, which had not taken place in any Christian church, was therefore not recognised in Greece.

I recalled my beautiful journey — first, that rush through transparent space, from the Phaleron Airport to that of Campini, over mountains, isles and sea, and clouds that shone like snow under the Sun, and through which one could catch, now and then, a glimpse of violet-blue water or grey rocky, earth, ten thousand feet below; and then, that rapid vision of Rome for the tenth or twelfth time; my wandering along the “Via dell’ Impero,” full of memories of our great days; my conversation with an old friend who had been a State minister under Mussolini after having been Consul for fascist Italy in Calcutta, where I had made his acquaintance and then, the railway journey northwards, towards Germany.

I recalled the feeling I had experienced at the Brenner Pass — the frontier. Our Führer had met there, number of

1 Occupation Statute: Law 8, Article 7.


times, the Italian Leader whom Dr. Goebbels has so tragically — and so accurately — characterised as “the last of the Romans.” There lay the actual spot of contact — and of separation — between the two portions of Western Aryandom: Greater Germany and the Mediterranean countries. “To which of these two worlds do I really belong?” had I thought, as the train had rolled, technically, into Austria, in fact, into what was, is and always will be Germanic land. In my youth, I had felt proud of my half-Mediterranean descent. Now that I had learnt how useless it was to expect any lastingly wholehearted, unconditional collaboration from Greece in particular and from Southern Europe as a whole, in the struggle for the reassertion of the Aryan values, I had felt grateful to my mother for the Viking blood she has given me. It had even occurred to me that, whatever Italian blood I had, from my father’s side, all came from Lombardy, i.e., was more Nordic than Mediterranean. And I had been pleased at this thought, as though this fact strengthened my right to claim a place in the future Nordic civilisation of my dreams. And I had crossed the frontier as one crosses the threshold of home. And the words in which the best English National Socialist I knew had once characterised Germany, in a letter to me, came back to my mind: our spiritual home. “The spiritual home of all racially conscious modern Aryans,” thought I.

I recalled my impression at my first renewed contact with this Germanic land: an impression of silent, methodical, perseverant work, coupled with intelligent organisation; an impression of cleanliness, of order and self-respect; of health, and will to live. Not yet the boisterous enthusiasm of the great days, surely; but the solid virtues that will make that boisterous enthusiasm irresistible, when it does come back. (And my conversation with a couple of Bavarian women in the train had been more than sufficient to convince me — in supposing that I needed to be convinced that it will come back.)

I recalled the wooded slopes and snowy peaks that I had admired on each side of the railway track, between Innsbruck and Salzburg, — and the two representatives of the French Occupation forces travelling in the same carriage as I. These would go, one day. But the gorgeous landscape — and the people — would remain to greet the resurrection of all I loved,


never mind after how many further years of struggle, and after what further upheavals.

I recalled my feeling as I had walked out of the station, across a square, and then, through a public park, to a fairly broad, well-lighted street, — the main street in the town, I had been told, — and then, along a side street on the right, to this hotel, thinking all the time: “Can it be true that I am in Linz, the town in which our Führer has lived?” It had all seemed to me — and it still seemed to me — like a dream. Of course, I would have to find out in which house “he” had lived. It was now too late anyhow to go asking people. But the next day I would ask. And I was bound to find somebody willing to tell me . . .

* * *

In the meantime the hotel maid had come back to inform me that my room was ready. She was a girl of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a sympathetic face, large, light blue, sad eyes, — too sad for her age. She took the form I had just filled and read it: Maximiani Portas, domiciled in Athens . . . It had seemed strange to me to write down that name instead of Savitri Devi Mukherji — the name under which I was known to all my German comrades. But what is there in a name? I was the same person, anyhow; the same disciple of Adolf Hitler, the same Aryan Heathen I had always been already long before I had started writing under the pen name of Savitri Devi (let alone before I had become Mrs. Mukherji). The girl did not, of course, know my real identity or the story of my life. Yet, something in her subconscious mind must have told her that she could trust me. She obviously liked the look of me, and wished to talk. And I felt that I could perhaps ask her where Adolf Hitler’s house stood, without running the risk of getting into trouble. But I let her speak first.

“Athens!” exclaimed she, repeating what she remembered of my “permanent address,” that she had just read upon the form. “You come from far away. You must be tired.”

“Not a bit,” said I. “I have stopped in Rome on my way. Moreover, I am too excited to feel tired.”

“Are you staying here long?”


“Tonight and tomorrow night. On the day after tomorrow — the twentieth — I am going to Braunau.” (I blushed as I uttered those words. For years I had been longing to spend the Führer’s birthday in his very birthplace. The materialisation of that dream now appeared to me as something miraculous.)

The girl looked at me intently. The date, apparently, stirred in her familiar memories. And she had noticed how moved I was . . . Her sad eyes suddenly brightened, and she smiled — as only one of us can smile when recognising a comrade.

“You came from Athens to see the place where Adolf Hitler was born and the place in which he lived,” said she with enthusiasm, in a low voice “Can it be true? Now! — eight years after the disaster!”

“Eight hundred years after this disaster and after many further upheavals, people will come to see these places in the same spirit as I, today,” replied I. “But should I . . .”

I hesitated to say more, although I had already spoken more than enough for anyone to guess what I was. The girl interrupted me:

“You need not be afraid to talk to me,” said she. “I have suffered for the love of ‘him’ and of the Greater Reich. My husband — an S.S. man — has died for ‘him.’ You need not be afraid to tell me how ardently you revere ‘him.’ I know it already: I can read it in your eyes.”

I felt sure she spoke the truth. “I belong to ‘him,’” said I; — “to ‘him’ and to those who love ‘him’ and whom ‘he’ loves.”

The girl’s eyes were full of tears. And she uttered the selfsame words which a young German had uttered over four years before, on that cold February night, after I had given him, at the Cologne station, a few samples of the dangerous posters that were, soon after, to cause his arrest and mine; the selfsame words, with the selfsame passionate devotion: “Our Hitler! — our beloved Führer!” — the cry of Germany’s heart for all times to come.

Then, after a pause, she took a further glance at the form I had filled, and said: “Excuse me, if I am being indiscreet; but are you really Greek?”


It was queer. Already in Rome, in several shops, and once in the street, people had taken me for a German in spite of my dark eyes and hair. What was there in my “aura” which proclaimed my allegiance to Adolf Hitler’s people?

I could have answered: “Half Greek and half English.” But no; it did not occur to me. Instead of that simple — and technically accurate — reply, I gave her spontaneously an unexpected, but in fact infinitely more accurate one — the same one I had given my young friend in Cologne, on that memorable night, four years before; the one that justified both the history of my life and my presence in Linz: “Ich bin Indo-Germanin” — “I am Indo-European, — Aryan,” said I with a smile.

“I can understand you,” replied the girl, rather to my surprise. Apparently, she remembered — and had assimilated — the knowledge of the world she had been given under the third Reich.

And she added: “It is late. But tomorrow is Sunday; I have more time. I shall come to your room, and we shall talk.”

“Could you, tomorrow, show me the house where the Führer lived, here in Linz?”

“I am sorry to have to say that I do not yet myself know where it is,” answered the girl. “I have come to Linz but recently, and have started working at once. Had no chance to see the town. But I can show you where you should take the bus for Leonding, if you like; you also want to go there, naturally?”

“I do.”

She explained me where I was to take the bus: only a few yards away from the hotel. She also told me her name Luise K. We parted with the ritual salute and the two now forbidden words: “Heil Hitler!”

It was a long time before I fell asleep.

* * *

“Is this Leonding?” asked I, as the bus halted.

“Yes, Leonding.”

I stepped out. My heart was beating. Before me, on the


border of the road, stood the little church behind which — I knew — was the cemetery where the Führer’s parents are buried.

I walked into the church. It was empty. Sunshine poured in from the narrow windows of plain glass, and stressed every curve or surface of polished wood upon which it fell, and every detail of chiseled metal upon the altar.

This was a pretty little village church like any other, with white-washed walls, a few artless pictures and plaster statues, and benches on which generations of pious folk had knelt and prayed. Perfect silence. It must have been about one o’clock in the afternoon. And an atmosphere of serene restfulness; of inexpressible peace.

I imagined a young, fair woman kneeling by one of those benches over fifty years before, with a thoughtful, blue-eyed child at her side — a child in whose face the light of boundless love and the flame of genius already radiated: her son, Adolf Hitler, the Chosen One of the Invisible Powers. And an overwhelming emotion caught hold of me at that thought. I knelt, and crossed myself automatically, — I, the Heathen, — as though that age-old gesture brought me nearer to the Christian mother of my Leader. And I wept for a long time.

Perfect silence; perfect peace. Frau Clara Hitler, the predestined Mother, had doubtless many times come here, when the church was empty — like it was today — to seek communion with God after her household work was finished. She was a simple-hearted and pious woman, who had found in the one religion she knew — Roman Christianity — a frame within which she could give expression to her inborn longing for Perfection and Infinity. One can read that longing in her eyes, on the pictures one has of her. Her only surviving son was to inherit both those magnificent, star-like eyes, and the more-than-human yearning of her ardent soul. He loved her, and — which is more, — understood her; knew that her serene Christian piety meant, to her, the very same thing which his own merciless Struggle against the dark Forces of disintegration meant to him: boundless aspiration to perfection without end. And therefore, he respected her faith, — he, the detached, far-sighted Exponent of the more positive faith in Blood and Soil; of the faith in everlasting Life rooted in this earth. “Were my mother still alive, I would be the last man to try to


prevent her from going to church . . .”1; “. . . but until some substitute, manifestly better than it, appears, only fools and criminals will destroy the religion that is there, on the spot.”2 His own words came back to me. And I acknowledged in my heart that they were words of wisdom, all the more impressive, all the more significant, while coming from one who has fought to the bitter end, as few men in history, not only “the Church” — the Churches — but the Christian scale of values, the very essence of the Christian doctrine as it has come down to us.

And I felt as though my loving intuition of his mother had bound me more intimately to him, during this hour, than had, hitherto, two and a half decades of enthusiasm.

* * *

Through the side door of the church, I stepped directly into the cemetery, and slowly walked along one alley and then along the next one. The graves, upon which I read in turn the names of the dead, were all relatively new; the one I was seeking was doubtless further away — nearer the wall; among the older ones. I followed the last alley, parallel to the wall. And there I suddenly stopped before a grave covered with overgrown creeper, upon which lay a wreath of fir tree twigs, utterly dried up and falling to pieces. Some pious hand had recently added a few fresh flowers in a tin can. At the back, a slab of black marble, inserted in a rough block of stone, bore in gilded letters the inscription:

Here rest in God

Alois Hitler,

who passed away on the 7th January, 1903, aged 67, and his wife

Clara Hitler,

who passed away on the 21st December, 1907, aged 47.

Alois and Clara Hitler — our Führer’s parents; the last link in that endless chain of privileged generations destined to give Germany the greatest of all her sons, and the Western world, the one Saviour of its own blood.

1 Quoted from the “Goebbels Diaries,” published after the war.

2 Mein Kampf, edit. 1939, p. 293-294.


I knelt before the grave.

All round me, like in the little church, there was peace, perfect peace. But a peace of a different quality: not the meditative serenity of the house of prayer, away from the turmoil of life; still less, the peace of death; but that of smiling Nature seething with impersonal life, — of Nature that has no memory and no history. High above me, the leaves of a nearby tree rustled. On the ground before me, a pretty brown insect, — a speck of life — crawled across half a foot of earth and sand, into the thick forest of creeper that covered the grave. A ray of sunshine fell straight upon the lovely pink and white double-daisies that one of “his” faithful followers, no doubt, — one of us — had laid upon the ground under which the Führer’s parents lie.

I imagined “him” laying flowers here, before a reverent crowd of people — his closest friends, and the officials (and population) of Leonding, — during the great days. Where was “he” now, if still alive? Would he ever come back, and stand once more before this grave, in silence, surrounded by his new collaborators? And if he was dead, was it yet possible that he might know — that he might feel — how ardently we love him? Or was the life of those who have passed into eternity impersonal and without memory, like that of Nature?

I had brought no flowers with me, for the shops were all closed in Linz, as it was Sunday. (And the day before, I had arrived at 9 o’clock at night or so, — after working hours.) My intention had been to try to find some here, in Leonding, and then to come to the cemetery. But when I had seen the church, I had walked in. And I had not been able to go out without stepping into the cemetery and seeing the grave. Now I would go and see whether I could get any flowers, and I would then come back.

* * *

I was soon talking to the owner of the one garden in Leonding where — I had just been told, — I should be likely to find the greatest variety of flowers.

“Forget-me-nots? Have you not got anything better?” said I. I had been picturing to myself a magnificent mass of


dark red roses. And I was ready to give any price for the joy of placing such a wreath upon the desolate grave.

“I am sorry I have nothing else,” replied the young woman. And she added sadly: “Don’t you like forget-me-nots? They are pretty — all flowers are — and they last a long time. I shall give you as many as you want, roots and all, so that you can plant them.”

She was most sympathetic, — and pretty, too: blonde, with regular features, and bright, sincere eyes. Moreover, she was right. Her words moved me, as though she had known for whose sake I had come, and had wished to tell me — indirectly — that “he” would surely not disapprove of forget-me-nots. And I felt guilty for having despised the humble sky-blue flowers.

“It is all right,” said I. “Give me twelve forget-me-not plants with their roots. Of course I like them. As you say, all flowers are beautiful.”

The young woman dug out the forget-me-nots and wrapped them up for me in a piece of newspaper. “I’ll also lend you a shovel and a watering can,” said she.

Her friendliness touched me. I wanted to know more about her. “Excuse me if I have spoken in a haste,” said I, recasting the way I had let her see my disappointment at the lack of variety in her garden. But it is only because I wound so much have liked dark red roses! . . . If you could guess which grave the flowers are for, perhaps you would understand me.”

The woman gazed at me, a ray of sunshine in her blond hair, and the expression of comradeship — like Luise K. — in her bright eyes.

“I think I can guess,” answered she. “But in that case I must warn you: take care nobody sees you; for it is forbidden to adorn that grave.”

“Forbidden! It is just like ‘them’!” replied I, meaning both the Occupation Authorities and the docile puppets whom they put in power to impose their hated Democracy: — our persecutors. “But I shall not get caught. I am accustomed to do whatever ‘they’ forbid. And if by chance ‘they’ do lay hands upon me, I don’t care: I have nothing to lose; and it will not be the first time. Only I would, of course, rather fall


into their clutches after my visit to the rest of Germany: I have several people to meet there.”

The young woman stretched out her hand to me and smiled. “I congratulate you,” said she, “I too am one of those who do not forget, and who are waiting for better times — for the second Seizure of power, never mind how and when. My husband also belongs to the Movement: he was an S.S. man.”

“It looks as though I have the knack of meeting people connected with S.S. men,” thought I, remembering Luise K’s sweet face. I felt happy. There is nothing so lovely as to discover one’s unsuspected comrades wherever one goes.

“I live in that house you can see there,” continued my new friend. “Come upstairs and have a cup of coffee with me. I have just been baking a cake.”

I walked by her side, holding my forget-me-nots. She asked me where I had come from.

“From Athens.”

The name of the glorious ancient city, here, in this garden where I had come to buy flowers for our Führer’s parents’ grave, sounded to me like a magical spell. And I felt once more — as I so often had — as though I were the inspired agent of a tremendous Destiny, just now beginning to work itself out.

“Athens!” repeated the young woman, as if she had suddenly became aware of the symbolical meaning of my presence. “And you were there also during the great days?”

“During the great days, and all through the war, I was in India,” replied I.

“India!” repeated she, in the same tone as she had said “Athens,” only with perhaps even greater interest. “And you intend to go back there?”

“One day, yes; but for a time only. I wish to settle in Germany — if I can manage to,” said I. And for the second time I felt as though I had been uttering a spell — two more words that had to be uttered, along with the name of the violet-crowned City, to give my presence in this place its full significance.

“Yes,” thought I, as we walked up a wooden staircase to my new friend’s room, and as I sat there alone while she


prepared the coffee; “yes, Greece, India, Germany: these are the three visible landmarks in the history of my life. Just as other women love several men in turn, so have I loved the essence of several cultures, the soul of at least three nations. But in all three and above all three, it is the essential perfection of Aryandom which I have sought and worshipped all my life. I have sought God — the Absolute — in the living beauty and in the manly virtues of my own godlike Race, as other women seek Him in their lovers’ eyes, and given everything for the joy of adoring Him in them; not in heaven, but here on earth.”

With the one, brilliant exception of my husband, I had met extremely few Indian Aryans that could stand the test, when compared with the German National Socialists, my comrades. No collectivity embodied, as the latter did today, the living, immanent Godhead of Aryandom. I had admired them from the beginning, no doubt. But I had needed to live all these years and to go through countless disappointments both in Greece and India, before I had turned my back to all mankind — nay to all Aryans, — save to them; before I had learnt to live less for their world order (that the silly world has rejected) than for them alone.

Words apparently unconnected with my trend of thoughts — words that a French author1 has put into the mouth of a temple courtesan of old, speaking to her last lover — came back to my memory: “Love is a difficult art, in which young girls are not well-versed. I have learnt it all my life to give it to theemy last lover.” Devotional nationalism — absolute consecration to the Godhead of one’s own Race, through absolute identification with and service of the collective Soul of a Nation: the only form of human love that I had ever really lived, experienced — was also, perhaps, “a difficult art” which I had learnt all my life to give it, in all its perfection, to the only ones among my Aryan brothers whom I deemed collectively worthy of it: my Führer’s people. I recalled the end of the French writer’s short prose poem — the meaning of it, at least, if not the actual wording: “I shall destroy for thy sake even my remembrances. I shall give thee the treasures that still

1 Pierre Loüys, “Les Chanson, de Bilitis.”


bind me to my dearest lovers . . .”1 And I thought, with the feeling that the whole poem could be, symbolically, applied to me; “I shall give you, German National Socialists, children of Light, forever young, all that which the old outside world has given me: the lasting mark of the Grecian landscape and of the Indian temple — love of this earth and yearning for the Absolute — in all my works, in all my gestures. If anything foreign to your spirit has ever passed through my life, it has already been so completely destroyed that I do not myself remember it.” And I could not help adding within my heart: “But you will not disappoint me, as the old outside world has! Or will you — you too, one day?”

But the young woman had come back from the kitchen with the coffee. She laid a most appetising cake upon the table, and was now talking to me as she filled my cup

“Many did not, then, grasp the full significance of our Movement,” said she; — “or they grasped it too well and did not like it, because their religious prejudices stood between them and the spirit of the Hitler doctrine. But now, — now that they have had a taste of Democracy and of revived Christianity, and know that neither the present-day State nor the Churches can give them the equivalent of what they have lost, — they are slowly turning round and coming to us. I honestly tell you: never were there, perhaps, so many sincere National Socialists, at least here in Austria, as now. Even those Austrians who, in 1945, were ready to betray the Greater Reich, — when they did not actually do so, — are now more conscious than ever of the fact that they are part and parcel of it, whatever they might do.”

But it looked as though she had read my silent question and was answering it: “The Church is, of course, more powerful than this puppet government,” added she; “yet, in spite of all, — even of the enormous effort of the priests to win us back, — we are freer than ever from Christian influences; more National Socialist than ever.” She did not say, but her answer was as good as though she had said: “No; we shall never disappoint you!”

“People of the same blood should come under a common

1 “Les Chansons de Bilitis,” same poem as quoted above.


State”1 quoted I out of the first page of Mein Kampf, in reply to what she had just told me of the awakening of National Socialist consciousness in our Führer’s own home, after the war. “I don’t believe in such a thing as a separate Austria.”

I paused to help myself to a cube of sugar and a slice of cake, and continued: “I don’t believe in it, and never did. As a child and as a young girl I lived for that which one then called in Greek the ‘Great Idea’2: the idea of all Greeks (those of Asia Minor as well as those on this side of the Aegean sea) gathered into one State in the name of their common Hellenic origin. I applied the same principle to all nations as soon as I was aware of the historical injustices that caused their grievances, and when I first read Mein Kampf I was amazed and inspired by the wonderful logic with which Adolf Hitler expresses his views — and mine — about artificial frontiers. I say: not only those of what they call ‘Austria,’ but all such frontiers should be abolished. No State that is not, at the same time, a nation — a collectivity with a definite racial personality; a people — should exist.”

“We all think the same. But the so-called ‘free’ world does not. And we are powerless — for the time being,” replied my new friend.

“Let the so-called ‘free’ world and its former ‘glorious allies,’ the Communists, both go to hell — as they are going, anyhow, — and let us rise and rule upon their ruins!” said I, with the conviction of one who, day and night, for eight years, had been thinking of nothing, wishing for nothing, praying for nothing, — willing nothing — but Germany’s revenge, and the definitive establishment of a National Socialist order.

“May it be as you say!” exclaimed the young woman, — Germany’s mouthpiece. And once more, as in 1948 and 1949, I felt that I was not alone.

* * *

“I shall take you to see the Führer’s old tutor, and also one of his school comrades, who lives nearby,” said Frau J. — my new friend. “Leave your forget-me-nots here: the earth

1 “Gemeinsames Blüt gehört in ein gemeimames Reich” (Mein Kampf, 1, p. 1).

2 e Megalee Idea”.


around their roots is damp, and you need not fear they will get faded so quickly. You can take them and go and plant them on your way back.”

We walked along a sunny country road and soon reached a garden, in which a man, who looked about fifty, but who must have been much older if he were Adolf Hitler’s classmate, was sitting under the trees with his wife. My new friend called the woman by her name: “Frau H., here is a person who has just come from Greece to spend a few minutes of silence before the Führer’s parents’ grave. I am taking her to ‘his’ tutor’s, and from there she will come by herself to see you and Herr H. Absolutely ‘in order’ — I don’t need to stress that: you will see for yourself!” And she explained to me that she could not wait for me and accompany me, as she had somewhere to go — some Sunday afternoon visit that she was expected to pay. Frau H. told us that she and her husband would be glad to make my acquaintance. (The husband greeted us also.) And we parted for half an hour. Frau J. took me a few footsteps further, to the house where Adolf Hitler’s tutor lives, and left me there after introducing me and bidding me good bye.

The Führer’s tutor — a man over eighty — was sitting at his doorstep, before an open space in the midst of which grew a beautiful big tree. He received me with utmost friendliness; bade me sit down at his side. I felt moved beyond words at the thought that his eyes — that shone, still so young, in his old face — had seen every day, as a matter of course, a fourteen year-old Adolf Hitler, whose coming glory no one yet suspected, but whose outstanding virtues — boundless, disinterested love for his people, coupled with extraordinary intuition, iron willpower and practical genius — were already those that were to carry him to power, to martyrdom (even if he be alive, his life, during the last part of the war and after the war, must have been a constant torture) and to everlasting leadership; at the thought that he had spoken to him as one speaks to a son.

“Tell me something about our Führer, you who have had the privilege of knowing him in his youth,” said I. “I have never seen him.”

“What can I tell you?” replied the old man. “He was a healthy, clean-minded, loving and lovable child — the most


lovable I have ever met. All I have to say is contained within these few words. The grown man retained the child’s goodness, honesty, love of truth. The world hates him only because it does not know him.”

“The world — the ugly, Jew-ridden world of today — hates him because it is, itself, congenitally sick and corrupt; decadent; and full of spite against all that is healthy, pure and strong — godlike — within the born-to-rule, whether superior individuals or superior nations,” answered I. “I hate this world which has waged war upon ‘his’ people!” . . .

Before I had time to finish my sentence, a cat, which I had not seen, had jumped unto my lap and was now settling down, making itself comfortable, in the absolute certitude — the intuitive knowledge — that I would not turn it away. I smoothed down the glossy white-and-grey fur, as the feline purred, and I recalled in my mind the starving cats I had once fed in India, and the thin, half-wild ones — afraid of man, all of them, — that I had, years before and again just now, seen in Greece. Here, in my Führer’s Land, along with “his” faithful followers, a homely, well-fed cat was welcoming me, forerunner of happy animalkind in our world to come.

“It looks as though she knows you,” remarked Adolf Hitler’s former tutor. “Practically all animals, and specially all cats ‘know’ me,” replied I. And I put him the question of which I could myself foretell what the answer could be — perhaps for the pleasure of hearing that answer from one of the few people who had known our Führer as a child

“Did ‘he’ love animals?” asked I.

“He loved every living creature that God has made: animals, surely, and trees too; everything that lives and that is beautiful. And he never did any harm to a living creature, even as a child.”

The words brought tears into my eyes. Never perhaps was I more vividly conscious of the injustice of the world’s verdict on the Man who is not only the best German, but also the best European of all ages. And oh, how I hated the ugly, stupid world! But here, all was so peaceful and so beautiful: this old man with childlike blue eyes, who loved our Hitler as his own son; those friendly homes nearby, in which — I now knew — people also loved him; this stately tree before the house;


and the sunlit, softly hilly landscape all round in the distance; and this glossy, comfortable cat, rolled up and purring upon my lap. Here I was away from the hostile world — for some time at least.

“Tell me more about ‘him,’” said I to the old man.

“I can remember ‘him’ as though it were but yesterday, going in and coming out of this door, greeting us with his frank face and his bright loving eyes,” replied he, thoughtfully. “It was fifty years ago. How many things have taken place during these fifty years!” And his voice was full of infinite sadness. He repeated, speaking of Adolf Hitler: “We all loved him. The wide world that has brought ruin on us would have loved him too, if only it had known him as he really was.”

He also spoke of the Führer’s parents: “His father was a hard-working man of few words; a man devoted to his family and to his land, but who had little leisure to exteriorise his feelings. His mother was the embodiment of selfless, unnoticed love, that gives everything and expects nothing. And she was pretty! Peace radiated from her large eyes, and one felt happy in her presence without understanding why. He was much like her, but of a more militant bearing, being a boy. And he adored her, — and she him.”

Words from the seventh Chapter of Mein Kampf came back to my memory: the description of Adolf Hitler’s feelings at the news of the end of the First World War: “I had never wept since the day I had stood by my mother’s grave . . . I had born my fate without a word of complaint. Now I could bear it no longer. Now I was aware how completely all personal sorrow fades away before one’s Fatherland’s misfortune.”1 “There is only one thing in the world which he loved even more than her,” thought I; “and that is Germany.”

I asked the old man: “Do you believe, as many do, that ‘he’ is still alive?”

He answered: “I do not. Not that I have any proof of his death: nobody has seen him dead. But I cannot picture him surviving the destruction of his life’s work and the defeat of all he loved.”

“Not even if someone had managed to convince him that

1 Mein Kampf, edit. 1939, p. 223.


it was the interest of the German people that he should live and carry on the struggle?” asked I.

“In that case, of course, he would have been willing to live in spite of all . . . But was anyone able to convince him? I don’t think so.”

For the first time since that memorable moment, five years before, when I had started believing once more in the possibility of seeing ‘him’ one day, I felt my heart sink within my breast and an unutterable gloom — the same horrible old consciousness of uselessness and of emptiness that I had experienced for so long in and after 1945 — overpower me for a minute. I questioned myself, — as then: “What is there to live for, if I am never to see ‘him’ in flesh and blood? — never; never!” The feeling was physically painful to me. But it did not last more than a minute, if that. There sat before me the old man, who loved ‘him.’ There stood before me the tree under which ‘he’ had played as a boy. There purred upon my lap a well-fed, friendly cat, living instance of that most eloquent of all marks of superiority in Germanic mankind: spontaneous kindness to creatures. There lived in the neighbourhood and far away, in every town and village of ‘his’ Reich, worthy men and women, in whose consciousness the service of their Fatherland and the service of ‘his’ ideals remain the same thing. From the depth of my heart, the voice of my better self — the voice of the woman I am beyond and in spite of all my weaknesses and failures, — cried out to me, as tears filled my eyes: “And even if ‘he’ he dead in the flesh, still there is Germany to live for, — ‘his’ Germany; the one great Being that he loved even more than his mother.”

Never had the old words: “Adolf Hitler is Germany; Germany is Adolf Hitler,” seemed to me so glaringly true. And never also, perhaps, had they in fact become so true as they had now, through me.

* * *

After taking leave of the old man — and thanking him for the hour I had lived in his company — I went and paid my visit to Herr H., Adolf Hitler’s classmate.

He kindly bade me sit down in a garden chair between him


and his wife, under his fruit trees, as though I were an old friend. He showed me photographs of the Führer: one which had been taken while he was laying a wreath of flowers upon his parents’ grave; another, in which he was seen shaking hands with Herr H. from a car, on one of his visits to Leonding.

“I envy you for having such memories,” said I, moved as I always am at the sight of such tangible reminders of the great days. “I have never seen ‘him’ — save on the screen, in the ‘newsreels’ of the time; — and never heard ‘his’ voice — save on the radio. I envy you indeed.” And the insurmountable regret, and the feeling of inexpiable guilt for not having come years before, tortured me once more, for the millionth time.

“Yes, it was a privilege,” said Herr H. “You cannot imagine the enthusiastic happiness of those splendid years! Shall we ever again live anything like them? And even if we do . . . ; without ‘him,’ it will never be the same!”

“Do you really believe that ‘he’ is dead?” asked I.

“To tell you the truth,” replied Herr H., “I don’t know. Nobody knows, — save a handful of people: those who saw him die (if he be dead), or those who are now with him, if he be alive. Time alone will answer the question.”

“I cannot bring myself to believe that he will never come back,” put in Frau H.

“Even if he be today dead in the flesh, Germany lives forever, and he lives in her,” said I, expressing aloud the very certitude that had so strongly imposed itself upon me only half an hour before. And I added, as though speaking to myself: “And even if he be dead, He will come back, sooner or later. He is eternal.”

In my consciousness, the beloved features of my Leader had suddenly merged into the impersonal Essence of the many-featured One Who he was — Who he is — and Who has said, thousands of years ago: “When justice is crushed, when evil rules supreme, then I come. For the protection of the good, for the destruction of the evildoers, for the sake of firmly establishing righteousness, I am born age after age.”1

But Herr H. had got up to get some other treasured remembrances of the glorious days. And Frau H. was intensely absorbed in the contemplation of a photograph that I had just

1 The Bhagavad-Gita, IV, verses 7 and 8.


handed over to her — one of the two best ones I possess, taken on the 22nd June, 1930; a photograph representing Adolf Hitler surrounded by eight of his earliest followers.

“Here is Hermann Göring. My God, how handsome he was, when he was young!” exclaimed she. “And there is Dr. Goebbels; and there, Ritter von Epp; Frick; Heinrich Himmler; Martin Bormann. But who is this one at the back of the picture? I have seen his face, but still I cannot make him out.”

“It is Muschmann, the former Gauleiter of Saxony,” replied I.

“Yes, Muschmann; that is right!” And she added, after looking at the date of the photograph: “Those years immediately before the Seizure of power were also great years — years of intense enthusiasm and of unforgettable comradeship.”

I was thinking: “What judgement will one pass, in times to come, — after our second Seizure of power — upon these present years of silent, stubborn, unnoticed day-to-day opposition to all the forces that stand against our Hitler faith? The bitterness of defeat is still too great in us, and the way out of this long-drawn humiliation still too indistinct, to allow us enthusiasm. But we too have experienced, — and are experiencing — in this phase of the Struggle, the meaning of broad-scale, indestructible comradeship.” And I remembered my comrades in Werl — in particular H. E., now eight years a prisoner for the sake of our ideals. When would they all be free? When would they enjoy at last the power that they have so deserved? I felt myself bound to them forever.

Herr H. came back with a heap of books, photographs and papers — publications from the glorious days; letters of the Führer, addressed to him; pictures on which he appeared at his side. With intense emotion, I handled and read and considered those remembrances of the heroic period of that new Western civilisation slowly emerging out of and in reaction against nearly two thousand years of Jewish influence. “Oh, why had I been so far away throughout all these years?” thought I once more. But something within me said: “Still you have played your small part in the unrecorded history of the tremendous eposeventhen.’ And you have come, at last. And the heroic period is not yet over.”


“What do people think, here, in this part of the country?” asked I. “Do they see the possibility of the return of our régime?”

“It is difficult to say what possibilities there are in the near future,” replied Herr H. “But one thing is certain: if the German people could have their own way — if, here as well as elsewhere, they had a say in the matter, — our régime would be back within six months. Even the fools who fought against it are everyday admitting that they were fools. They are now ready to support it . . .”

In a flash I recalled the description of “Austrian” freedom under present-day Democracy, so eloquently given me but the day before by one of the two French Occupation fellows in the train: “People are . . . ‘completely free’; we don’t interfere with them in the least: ‘all parties are allowed’ — except, of course, the Nazi Party (this goes without saying).” The man had made this pronouncement without the slightest awareness of irony, as though it were the most natural thing. And as I had pointed out that “to exclude any party was to destroy the very idea of ‘free’ expression,” he had shown such indignation that I had carefully dropped the topic.

Herr H. summed up his point of view — Germany’s point of view — in a sentence: “We have nothing to choose between the persecutors of National Socialism, be they of the eastern or of the western brand,” said he. “Alone reasons of practical expediency — and not ideological ones — can and will determine our attitude to each of them in the unavoidable coming conflict between them.”

“And which do you think we are likely to support against the other — for the time being?” asked I.

“I don’t know,” answered Herr H. “It depends entirely upon circumstances at the time the conflict breaks out. The right attitude, — ours, — will be that which will the most efficiently forward the interest of the Reich. What forwards the interest of the Reich is always right.”

“And what do you think?” enquired his wife, addressing me. “How would you yourself act, if left to do so according to your own initiative?”

“Thank goodness, I shall not have to act according to my own initiative!” exclaimed I. “I know too little, and am


also too much of a fool to understand where lies the real interest of the Reich. I shall blindly do whatever my superiors will tell me. By ‘my superiors’ I mean those who want the triumph of our principles and the resurrection of Greater Germany as ardently as I do, but who are cleverer, more farsighted, and better informed than I.”

Frau H. bade me have a cup of coffee with her and her husband. Their house was on the opposite side of the road. We got up, walked across the lovely garden in which the Sun, shining through the trees, projected patterns of light upon the grass. Frau H. walked ahead of me, showing me the way. She opened a door, and I stepped into a room in which “he” had doubtless sat many a time. The room was full of the most tempting smell of coffee. Frau H. brought out cakes and biscuits. And I found myself — I, who had not known the H.s two hours before, — spending the late afternoon with the Führer’s closest friends as a matter of course; as though I too had been a personal friend of his for years. The thought of this brought tears into my eyes. “But am I not also ‘His’ friend, regardless of the fact whether ‘he’ knows it or not?” reflected I. “Have I not sought Him for centuries, life after life, and all through this present life, until I realised that ‘he’ — the Founder of the Third Reich — is none other than He — the One Who comes back, whenever He should, ‘to establish the reign of Righteousness’?”

And it occurred to me that I was, perhaps, as near to him in spirit as — or, in fact, nearer to him than, — many of those who had had the privilege of seeing him in the flesh. Still I wondered: “Would I ever have that privilege?”

As we parted at last, the H.s greeted me — and I them — with the ritual salute and the two mystical words of power: “Heil Hitler!”

* * *

The Sun was setting when I reached the cemetery once more, carrying my forget-me-nots, a spade and a watering can that I had gone to fetch at Frau J’s house, as she had told me, after taking leave of Herr and Frau H. On the slab of black marble inserted in the rough block of stone upon the grave,


again — in a different light — I read the golden letters: “Hier ruht in Gott . . .” — “Here rest in God . . . Alois Hitler . . . and his wife: Clara Hitler . . .”

“It is forbidden to adorn that grave . . .” I recalled the words which Frau J. had spoken to me in the garden where I had bought my flowers. So, that was the reason why the poor grave looked so neglected! — practically the only neglected one in the whole cemetery. Once more I regretted I had not been able to bring the impressive wreath of expensive roses that I had intended: the meaning of my gesture — love, and defiance — would have been more glaring. But it mattered little: my humble forget-me-nots were also pretty; perfect, in their way, as all flowers are. They would take root in the good earth. They would be there, alive, in weeks, in months to come.

Thus were my thoughts as I pulled out the weeds, and carefully put every plant in turn into the hole I had dug for it, and covered its roots well, and watered it . . . I did not remove the faded wreath, still less the double-daisies in their tin can, both gifts of other pious disciples of Adolf Hitler like myself, no doubt. I just pushed them a little aside to make place for my forget-me-nots. And when this was finished, I knelt in the glow of sunset before the grave.

Alive within my mind was the Face of him whose father’s and mother’s dust lay under the dark stone and the sky-blue flowers; the Face that had beamed in the joy and pride of victory, in glorious ’40, and that had, also, more and more, reflected agony at the daily sight of Germany’s martyrdom. “Were are you now, on the surface of the wide earth, my beloved Führer?” thought I. “Will you ever know how much I have loved you?”

One of those everlasting words of wisdom — doubtless older than Christianity — that are to be found here and there in the Christian Gospels, came back to my memory: “Blessed are those who believe, although they have not seen.” And it seemed to me as if, from a distance, the nature of which I could not define — whether the distance from the realm of Time to that of Eternity, or that from one place of this earth to another, — the superhuman Face spoke to me and said “Live for my Germany! And you shall never part from Me, wherever I be.”

I pictured to myself the dismembered Land. (I had, only


a few hours before, on the very morning of that day, seen the American frontier posts and the Russian frontier posts at each end of the bridge over the Danube, in Linz itself: detested guardians of the division wrought at the criminal meetings of Yalta and Potsdam). The political unity of Germany was no doubt the first goal to attain. But what could I do, in order to bring it about more speedily? “Just contribute to the strengthening of the National Socialist spirit among my faithful people,” said our Führer’s voice as I heard it through my own heart. And I felt that he himself would not — could not — have told me anything more. For in this — the strengthening and expansion of our spirit first of all in Germany, — lies indeed the condition upon which depends the fulfilment of all he has ever striven for.

And I thought of the long stretch of land from the Brenner Pass to the Baltic Sea — that German world into which the old officer at the railway station, and Luise K. had welcomed me the day before. And I did not want to go away — although I wondered how (with what material means) I could stay. But I brushed aside all worries and gazed at the pure sky, already darkening. And I was overwhelmed by the peace that poured down from its infinity. “May the invisible Powers that rule the stars according to those laws which we call divine, guide my life!” thought I. “They know better than I do.” And I renewed my daily prayer to those unknown heavenly Powers — to the “Almighty Father-of-Light” of the ancient Germans; to the “Shining Ones” of the Aryans who once conquered India; the “Heat-and-Light-within-the-Disk” of King Akhnaton, Living-in-Truth: “Send me, or maintain me, there where I shall be the most useful in the service of the sacred Aryan Cause! — the Cause of Truth.”

As I got up, I noticed that three other people were standing at a little distance behind me, in silent reverence, by the hallowed grave.

I walked out of the cemetery by the back door, and found myself right before the little house that had been described to me as the one in which Adolf Hitler’s parents had lived in Leonding. There was light behind the closed windows. Other people were now living there. That fact — so natural, so simple, — appeared strange to me. I saw the garden around the


house — the garden in which “he” had probably sat and played, and read, as a boy. And a profound sadness filled my heart — until I felt for the second time sure that my Leader would tell me, if only I could hear him: “Live for those for whom I live, wherever I be: my people. And you shall never part from Me.” Sadness then gave way to serenity.

* * *

Herr H. had given me the address of the house in which Adolf Hitler had lived, in Linz itself, as well as that of the old school to which he used to go. I saw both on that evening, after coming back from Leonding.

I did not enter the school, naturally. (It would not have been possible at such a time of the day.) But I walked into the house — which is quite near the hotel where I was staying — and went up the stairs, to the third floor. (Herr H. had told me that the flat which Adolf Hitler’s parents had occupied was there.) And again it seemed strange to me that a different name was now to be read upon the door; that different people were now living in the flat. Were they at least on “his” side? I wondered. I could not bear to think that perhaps, after all, they were not. Most people, however, appeared to be on “his” side — or was it that I had the good luck of meeting only such ones as were?

The space at the back of the house was occupied by a garden full of fruit trees in blossom. Leaning against the windowsill in the staircase, between the third and the second floor, I let my eyes rest upon the sight before me: that garden, and, beyond it, dark against the limpid spring sky, other houses, and, in the distance, the spire of a church. The atmosphere was peaceful, soothing. Had “he” sometimes leaned against his windowsill, and looked at this selfsame landscape on his way downstairs? He probably had — and “she” too; “she,” his sweet, pious, dutiful mother, in whose eyes one read the same aspiration to infinity as in his. In fact, here, just as in Leonding, “he” and “she” were inseparable.

As I came back to the hotel, I found Luise K. waiting for me.

“I have kept something for you: a cup of coffee, some


buns with butter and a slice of apple tart, as you don’t eat meat,” said she, placing a tray upon the table in my room. “I am sure you had nothing to eat all day.”

I had been munching all the afternoon. Nevertheless, this humble chambermaid’s kind attention touched me as much as — if not even more than — all the marks of affection of which I had been the object. I could not help asking her “why” she was so good to me: was it mainly because she had guessed that I was travelling with very little money (as I was indeed) or was there . . . another reason?

“It is because I love you,” said she. “And I love you because you are one of us.”

The answer brought tears into my eyes. It was Germany’s welcome to me after three years of absence — and after nearly thirty years of silent allegiance to the greatest of all her sons.

It was past midnight when Luise K. left my room. I had shown her the one sample I possessed of the posters I had stuck up in Germany in early 1949: “German people, what have the Democracies brought you? . . .” She had shown me the photograph of her husband, who had died for the Führer and for the Greater Reich.

Having nothing better to give her, I gave her a box of raisins that I had brought from Greece. “Do you know what I would like from you?” said she, after thanking me.


“A postcard from Braunau, where you are going tomorrow; a postcard showing the house in which our Führer was born.”

“I shall send you one if I can find one,” replied I.

“The spirit of the great days lives in, you,” added she as she got up. “I shall never forget you! Heil Hitler!”

I lifted my right arm, conscious that I was accomplishing a rite, and greeted her in my turn: “Heil Hitler!”

These were the last words I exchanged in Linz.


Chapter 2


“May I ask you where you are going?”

A man put me the usual question in the morning train now carrying me from Linz to Braunau.

I named the place, and the familiar syllables sounded unreal to me, as though I could not, even yet, convince myself that I actually was going there — going to spend the 20th of April, “his” birthday, in “his” birthplace, according to my wish.

“Braunau am Inn,” repeated the man. And he suddenly became as inquisitive as any fellow from the Mediterranean shores. “You have relations there?” asked he.

“I have none.”

“Then, what are you going there for?”

“To see the place,” replied I — which was, of course, true. The man looked straight into my eyes and smiled to me.

“Going, on the 20th of April, to see the place where Adolf Hitler was born, eh!”

I blushed, as I had, two days before, in the train between Salzburg and Linz. The man stretched out his hand to me and added: “I congratulate you.”

Was he one of us, whose instinct had told him who I was, or was he just someone trying to find out about me? I shall never know. He got down at the first station in which the train halted, leaving me to my thoughts.

The train was going through a landscape of woods and meadows, in which a few slanting roofs — red or grey — could be seen here and there; a landscape much like that around Linz. The atmosphere was also much the same: an atmosphere of sunlit restfulness. “Sixty-four years ago, in a small town that is part and parcel of this peaceful landscape, a child was born . . . ,” I kept thinking. “And it is for the love of him that I am sitting here — on my way to “his” birthplace. And it is for the love of “him” that I shall be, to night, going further


on, to places where “he” lived and struggled; to his people, who are waiting for me without knowing me — on my way to the fulfilment of a destiny that I do not know; a destiny inseparably linked with that of “his” Doctrine and of “his” Movement . . .”

At every station in which the train halted, a few travellers got down, while none — or hardly any — got in. The railway carriage was becoming more and more empty as we were getting nearer the frontier town. (The train did not go any further.) In the end, I found myself alone with a group of five or six workmen who had been busy talking and joking among themselves all along the way.

“The next stop is Braunau — terminus!” said at last one of them, standing up to reach a bag full of iron instruments that he had put into the net above his seat. And suddenly noticing me in my corner, he shouted to me over the wooden separation that half isolated me: “Going to Braunau, also?” And without giving me time to answer, he added: “A nice place, Braunau. Staying there long?”

“Only spending the day there,” replied I. The young man smiled.

“Where do you come from?” asked he.

“From Linz.”

“You live in Linz?”


“Where do you live?”

“In Athens,” answered I.

“Athens . . . the capital of Greece! A fine city! I was there for a time during the war,” put in another of the workmen, who had also got up to take his things. “And you have come all that way to spend a day in Braunau?” added he, with a significant smile.

He was handsome: tall, well built, blond, and not more than thirty-five. I pictured him in uniform upon the Acropolis, between two columns of the Parthenon, ten years before: the living embodiment of that Nordic beauty that the builders of the Parthenon had striven to express; also the living embodiment of those ideals that were both those of the “godlike heroes” of the Trojan War and those of the fighters of the Third Reich.


My first impulse was to say: “Exactly! I have come to spend the 20th of April in our Führer’s birthplace.” I felt sure he would understand me. Yet I dared not speak so hastily: one can never be sure . . . It is one of the other workmen who answered his question.

“Yes, my friend. Don’t you know that it is Adolf Hitler’s birthday today?” And turning to me — who had blushed — he said, as he helped me to carry my heavy suitcase (full of books) to the door:

“You will find plenty people to show you the house where ‘he’ was born. We would gladly take you there ourselves. But we are not free: we are working on the railway. When coming out of the station, follow the road on your right, which leads straight to the town; and then, ask anybody . . .”

“I thank you,” answered I simply.

I did not ask him how he had felt — nay, how they all seemed to fell — why I had come to Braunau. As in Linz, the air one breathed, here, was full of the invisible presence of the Leader born sixty-four years before. The stones themselves knew, within their dim, matter-consciousness, that I had come for the love of “him.” Moreover, one of the workmen, — the one who had gone to Greece during the war — answered the question which I had not uttered: “We understand you, you know!” said he. “It may be that we hold our tongues, as everybody else — including yourself — nowadays. But we remember. We remember, and we wait . . . For ‘he’ is not dead. You probably know that, don’t you?”

I gazed at the perfect features of the strong, blond man — Adolf Hitler’s soldier — who had stood upon the Acropolis of Athens, a living symbol of the everlasting southward march of the Aryan.

“I know that ‘he’ can never die,” answered I.

The train halted. We all stepped out. And the men greeted me and wished me “a beautiful journey.”

The porter who took my luggage to the cloakroom was also a tall, strong, handsome blond, with a frank and friendly face — one of those typical specimens of Germanic mankind of whom I think, every time I meet one, that he — or she — could not possibly be anything else but one of Adolf Hitler’s followers (specially if he — or she — happens to be between forty


and fifty, that is to say, if he or she be old enough to have experienced all the enthusiasm of the early days of the Struggle.) I ventured to ask him whether he could not tell me, a little more clearly than the other men had, how I could find the house in which the Führer was born.

“Most easy!” replied he, with genuine amiability. “This road here, (on your right as you step out of the station) takes you straight to the square in the middle of the town. There, at the opposite end of the square, you will see an arch. Go through it, and over the little bridge that you will find on the other side. The house is just there: one of the first ones of the “Vorstadt.” Anybody will show it to you.”

“And . . . can I go in?”

“And see the actual room in which ‘he’ was born? Why not? It is on the second floor. You only have to go upstairs and ask the first person you meet.”

“And . . . nobody will take objection to my question? I am asking because . . . I have already, four years ago, got myself into trouble on account of my allegiance to the Idea, and I would not like, now that I have come back . . .”

“Rest assured; nobody will say a thing. We were all persecuted on account of our allegiance to the Idea and to ‘him.’ But things are changing . . . Now our persecutors are beginning to believe that they need us.”

These words, here in the Braunau station, had the effect of stirring up all the hatred stored in my heart since 1939, nay since 1935 — since ’33, the time the great wave of anti-Nazi propaganda in the name of the detested Judeo-Christian values had reached India, where I was then living, — against our enemies.

“I wish to goodness they do need us!” replied I vehemently. “And I wish we properly let them down, nay, turn against them, just at the time they need us the most! I wish we — and I, with the rest of us — become their persecutors, more ruthless than ever before, in the nearest possible future!”

I spoke to that German porter as though I were speaking to the German people.

He gazed at me with a happy expression of comradeship upon his rough and regular face.

Ganz richtig! — Perfectly right! That is what we all


wish!” replied he, as though he were indeed the German people — the German workers, faithful to Adolf Hitler, their Saviour and their Friend — speaking to me. “And do not worry we shall take good care that it happens exactly as you say!”

He refused the money I wanted to give him for carrying my heavy suitcase to the cloakroom.

* * *

I walked along the pleasant, sunny road, bordered with meadows, low houses and gardens, and reached the square, as I had been told. A large square, all round which stood fairly high, picturesque old houses, and on one side of which I immediately noticed the arch leading out of it to the Vorstadt — the “suburb” — where I was to seek the house for the sake of which I had come. The four-storied building through which the arch led was also picturesque, and looked old. Had I come “sight seeing,” I would have liked to study it. But I had eyes only for one particular building: “his” house; and for the town as a whole, — the pretty little provincial town, Braunau am Inn, where “he” had come into the world, exactly sixty-four years before, and in which he had spent the first years of his life.

I passed under the arch and slowly walked half way across the small bridge that lay beyond it; leaned over the stone parapet, for a while, to look at the little stream — some tributary of the Inn, — flow below, amidst bushes and high grass, rocks and gravel, between the back walls of the bordering houses; then moved on, and crossed the first street, parallel to the stream. On the corner, on my right, was a café-pastry cook’s, and on, or rather near the opposite footpath, on my left, a splendid chestnut tree, taller than the two-storied houses before which it stood. The Café-Konditorei was attractive; looked homey. I felt urged to walk in, as though something told me that I would find there the person who would show me “his” house.

I sat in a corner, near the window, from which I could see the street and the beautiful tree, and ordered a cup of coffee. The girl who took my order had a sympathetic face. “I should ask her,” thought I. She soon came back with my


coffee, milk and sugar upon a tray. And she seemed willing to talk.

“Fine weather, today,” said I, as I smiled to her, taking the coffee from her hands. And seeing that I had opened my mouth to speak, but that I was hesitating, she asked me “Would you like to have something else? Something to eat with your coffee?”

“I would like to know whether you could tell me where is the house in which the Führer was born,” said I, in a low voice.

“That! Of course!” replied she, in the most friendly manner. “And you need not go very far. You can see it from this window: it is not the house behind that big tree, but the very next, also two-storied, newly whitewashed one, on the first floor of which you can see two flag staves.”

“So, I have come and sat right opposite it without knowing! I thank you; I do thank you for telling me! I have come here today on purpose to see it . . .”

“Today, on the 20th of April — ‘his’ birthday,” said she. She too, knew; she too, remembered; she too was thinking of “him,” on this sacred day. They all were, apparently. At least, all those whom I had met seemed to be.

I sat and sipped my coffee, after ordering a slice of apple tart to eat with it. Other customers came in, mostly women, for it was Monday — a working day. Some of them had children with them: pretty, clean, well-behaved children, that ate decently and made no noise. The wireless was transmitting some solemn, classical music, in keeping with my mood. (“Thank goodness, no jazz!” thought I.)

I left my mind wander back to the Day of Destiny: the 20th of April 1889, at 6:18 in the afternoon. (Someone had also told me the exact time, once, years before; and I remembered it.) “A spring day like today,” I reflected. And the little town, with its broad, open square, its picturesque side streets, its houses built over the stream, that sent back their images like a mirror; its neat and homey shops, cannot have looked much different from what it does now. The old houses were already old. And the magnificent chestnut tree, now taller than a two-storied building, was, — unless I be


mistaken — already there: young, and, just as now, in all its spring-like splendour; covered with blossoms. Alois Hitler, a customs officer well over fifty, and twice a widower, lived in that house that I had been shown five minutes before — “not the one behind the chestnut tree, but the next one” — with his third wife, Clara, who was then twenty-nine. The child to which the latter was about to give birth was neither her first one nor her last one. Just another baby in the family . . . But the unseen Powers, Whose inscrutable Play lies behind the mystery of heredity, had ordained that all the intelligence and intuition, and all the willpower and heroism of generations and generations, — all the virtues and genius of the privileged Race, fated to rule — should find in that Child their highest expression; that the Babe should be a godlike one: whose consciousness was, one day, to be none other than the deeper consciousness of his people and of the Race at large, for all times to come, and whose dream was to inspire a new civilisation. And far beyond the clear blue 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 in relation to any particular spot on earth. And at the appointed time — 6:18 in the afternoon — the Child came into the world, unnoticed masterpiece of a twofold cosmic Play: of the mysterious artistry of Aryan blood in infinite time; of the mysterious influence of distant worlds in infinite 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 He, a Child of the Sun; a predestined Fighter against the forces of death and a Saviour of men, marked out for leadership, for victory, for agony and for immortality.

Around me, women chatted in a low voice and children ate cakes in silence. “German mothers and German children — “his” people,” thought I. “The agents of the forces of death now forbid them to praise his name. Many of the little ones probably have never even heard of him . . . But that is only for a time; only until the next war rids us of our persecutors. After that . . .” After that, I expected this place would become,


for thousands and hundreds of thousands, what it already was for me: a place of pilgrimage.

* * *

It was not far from twelve o’clock. I would, in the afternoon (if not exactly between six and half past six) visit the house and see the room in which “he” was born. In the meantime, I would see something of the town.

I walked back over the small bridge and, through the arch, once more across the large square full of sunshine — but this time in the opposite direction. There was, at the other end of the square, an opening beyond which the horizon was limited not by a further perspective of houses, but by green hills. I walked towards it, and soon reached a wide, swift, bluish-green river: the Inn, tributary of the Danube.

“Braunau am Inn,” thought I. The name of Adolf Hitler’s birthplace had always been linked in my mind with that of this beautiful river. The river now took shape in my eyes; became, to me, a reality: a stream of bluish-green, foamy, noisy water, rapidly flowing in the sunshine through a broad, green, hilly landscape, under a large, modern stone and concrete bridge; no longer a mere name on the map, but a living thing of light and colour, sound and speed, the picture of which would now remain forever in my memory, side by side with that of the main square of Braunau, with its old fountain and old houses; with that of the arch, and of the bridge over the tiny, quiet stream; with that of the chestnut tree and of the hospitable café, and of the two-storied house opposite — of the house in which “he” — my Leader — was born.

I walked along the bridge over the Inn. On each side of it, at the other end, I noticed a tiny house — a mere “ground-floor,” that looked as though it could not have had more than a room or two. A light iron railing, something like those that bar the road at a level-crossing before the passage of a train, ran from one footpath to the other between the two little buildings, as though cutting off the bridge (and all that stood on this side of the Inn) from the rest of the landscape. And suddenly the meaning of these two insignificant-looking ground-floor houses and of that railing dawned upon me: “The frontier!”


thought I, — the hated artificial frontier between German land and German land; the shame that “he” — our Hitler — had fought to abolish; that is what now stood before my sight.

I recalled the immortal words in which Adolf Hitler has forever connected the sense of his mission with the fact that he came into the world but a few hundred yards away from this artificial frontier: the very first words of Mein Kampf: “It appears to me today a lucky sign that Destiny should have appointed me Braunau am Inn as a birthplace. This little town is indeed situated on the border of the two German States, the re-unification of which seems, to us young men at least, the purpose of our lives, to be carried out at all costs. German Austria must go back to the great German Motherland, and not on account of any sort of economic considerations. No, no; even if, considered from the economic standpoint, this re-unification were a matter of indifference, nay, even if it were harmful, it would still have to take place. People of the same blood should come under the same State . . .”1

And tears came to my eyes at the idea that the frontier — that had not existed, as long as “he” still was in power — now stood there once more: the tangible sign of the victory of the dark forces over “him” and over Germany, for the time being at least.

“But,” thought I, “Adolf Hitler has not fought only to abolish all artificial boundaries on the map, — to create a German State that would enclose ‘all Germans to the last one’ and no foreign elements, within its borders; — he has also fought to abolish classes, and all manner of artificial divisions among people of the same pure race; all manner of divisions which lie in things that one can acquire, and which hide and pretend to suppress that one real, God-ordained bond among men — that one bond that man can neither buy nor earn nor create —: the bond of the same blood. Today, after the defeat of his people, the Jew-ridden Democracies have not only set up, once more, the old frontier-posts that “he” had done away with, but they erected new and equally shocking ones that had not existed,

1 “Gleiches Blut gehört in ein gemeinsames Reich,” (Mein Kampf, I, p. 1).


even before the expansion of the Reich. They have cut Germany in two, if not in four — or in ten.1 And this is merely the external sign of their whole distorted, mad policy, — of their policy against Nature, monstrous outcome of their monstrously artificial outlook on life and on man. It is merely the external sign of their lasting war, in the name of silly, sickly fantasies, against all that is God-ordained.

In a mood of defiance, I walked up to one of the frontier posts, and found myself before a fairly large room with a glass separation — or at least a transparent separation — in the middle of it. On one side of the separation sat the German frontier-guard, on the other, the “Austrian” one, i.e., another German, in a slightly different uniform. (In fact, in this particular instance, the “Austrian” looked — outwardly — more “Germanic” than his colleague.)

People came and went, on foot and on bicycle, showed the men in the double office a card — something like a permanent pass; a permit to cross the artificial border any number of times a day — and walked or rode further on. I had no such thing as a permit to cross the border any number of times a day, but only a Greek passport bearing a transit visa for Austria and an entrance visa for Germany, valid until the 31st of May 1953. (I could, of course, cross the frontier at Braunau. But I intended to spend the next day, or days, at Berchtesgaden, and therefore would cross it at Salzburg. Moreover, I had left all my luggage at the station.) I tried my chance, and asked the man in the first compartment of the room — the “Austrian,” apparently, — whether I could not, with my passport, take a stroll along the street that went up past the frontier, between two rows of houses and gardens, and come back within half an hour or so.

“You have an entrance visa for Germany?” enquired the man.

“Naturally,” replied I.

“Where was it issued?”

“In Athens, by the German Embassy.”

The man looked carefully at my passport, and then, with

1 If one counts, apart from the two main “Zones,” the different German territories under Russian, Polish, Czech administration etc. and the Saar, still detached from Germany at the time this book was written.


curiosity — and not without what appeared to me to be sympathetic interest — at me.

“You have a Greek passport, I see.”

“I have.”

The man called his colleague — the lucky German who, being born five hundred yards away from him, on the other side of the arbitrary line, (and despite the fact that, as I already said, he looked definitely less “Germanic” than the former) had retained the right to call himself a German, even after the disaster of 1945.

“Unfortunately,” said the latter, “this visa allows you to enter German territory only once. It is not valid for several journeys. I can let you go, and come back. But then you will not be permitted to enter Germany again . . .”

I was thinking to myself: “What a farce! Oh, if only we had not lost this war! There would be, then, no frontier here, anyhow; and I . . . would not be travelling clandestinely under my maiden name with a Greek passport — even if a Democratic Indian Government had refused to renew my Indian one.”

“It is all right,” said I to the two men. “Of course I am not sacrificing my possibility of entering Germany, for the pleasure of walking up that street and back. But here, among ourselves, may I speak quite frankly — even if my frankness verges on cheek? May I tell you what I think of this frontier of yours?”

The two men — the two Germans — smiled: the same sympathetic smile.

“To us, you can say whatever you please.”

“Yes,” replied I, ironically; “good Democrats, I suppose . . . In which case you should encourage freedom of expression that is the democratic creed — men say.”

The two frontier-guards smiled even more heartily than they had at first.

“Less good Democrats than you seem to think; that is precisely why we are glad to hear you,” said the lucky German (the one who had retained the right to call himself one, openly).

Will, then I shall speak all the more according to my heart . . .” answered I. “Listen. First, I find this frontier perfectly ridiculous. You speak of my ‘entering Germany.’ But I am, here, in Germany. This is German land, whether the


big bosses of this Jew-ridden post-war world care to admit it or not! Look at the landscape on either side of the Inn — that German river —: the same landscape. Look at the people: the same people. Look at yourselves; question your hearts in all sincerity. Your hearts will echo the undying words: “People of the same blood should come under the same State.” (The words are not mine; I need not tell you — I hope — whose they are.) A ridiculous thing, this artificial frontier between Germany and Germany. Ridiculous . . . and criminal, also: a standing lie, and a standing shame. And this is my second point: this border is by no means less objectionable than that which separates the Eastern Zone from the Western Zone. It marks, likewise, a vivisection of the living Reich. But the Western Allies — who speak of German unity, now that they have found out that they cannot resist their former partners without Germany’s help — will not admit it — the vile liars!

“And third I detest all man-made frontiers; all ‘borders’ between people of the same blood; all States comprising, as ‘citizens,’ people who, in accordance with their race, should belong to a different State. Not only so-called ‘sovereign’ Austria, not only the Saar, and Silesia and Danzig and East and West Prussia, and all the provinces torn away from it by the Russians, Czechs, Poles or French, but also the Flemish half of Belgium, the whole of Holland, Denmark, Scandinavia, etc. . . . all lands in which the Germanic race prevails, should one day be integrated into the Greater German Reich . . . That is what I believe.”

“That is exactly what we believe,” answered the so-called “Austrian,” to my amazement. “Do you imagine we have had a say in the matter, when this frontier was once more set up? Do you believe we want it? But we are powerless. What can we do about it?”

“Think of revenge day and night, and wait — like I do!” replied I.

That is exactly what we also do,” declared the other man.

“Good for you, if it be so! Auf Wiedersehen!” said I, as I walked away. I dared not say: “Heil Hitler!” in such a public place.

It was nevertheless refreshing to hear these two men’s reaction to my profession of faith with regard to frontiers, on


this sixty-fourth birthday of him who said: “Gleiches Blut gehört in ein gemeinsames Reich.”

* * *

I spent the rest of my time wandering about the little town, observing things and people. I entered a baker’s shop to buy a few buns to eat in the train; I went and posted a card to Luise K. (I was lucky enough to find one with a picture of the house in which Adolf Hitler was born) and a letter to India; I sat for a while upon a bench in a public garden and watched the children play — as “his” mother had probably watched “him” play, sitting, perhaps (who knows?) in the selfsame place, sixty years before. In a side street, — through the back door that happened to be open — I took a glance at a workshop. On a stool, near a machine, the nature and use of which I could not makes out, was sitting a big black cat, its green eyes half-shut, its front-paws stretched out, its body in that restful, sphinx-like position, which is one of the outward signs of feline happiness. I stroked the creature of beauty and of mystery. It thrust its round head forwards, shut its eyes completely, and purred. One of the workmen, who had just caught sight of me, smiled to me and greeted me: “Guten Tag!” I returned his greeting. Then, seeing that the cat was apparently enjoying the attention I paid it, he added: “It looks as if he fancies you. He does not allow each and every person to stroke him,” — nearly the selfsame words that Adolf Hitler’s old tutor had spoken to me on the day before, at the sight of the favour shown to me by another specimen of the feline family.

“It looks indeed as though he does,” replied I.

I reflected that this workman probably would have made the same remark to me during the great days, with the only difference that he would have said: “Heil Hitler!” instead of saying: “Guten Tag!” Did he know, — did he remember — that it was today the Führer’s birthday? He doubtless did: he was old enough to have been educated in the Hitler Youth. He too, probably, looked back with nostalgia to the; bygone years when one greeted anybody with the glorious words, as a matter of course. But he could say nothing. I had not spoken a word that could have encouraged him to do so. For a second, I


felt as if I would have liked to give him a hint — to mention, for instance, that I had been in Leonding on the day before. But I did not. I merely smiled sadly; and, after a common place, harmless “Auf Wiedersehen!,” I went my way.

A little further, I stopped to admire a garden full of flowers. A kind looking old woman could he seen at the open window, on the first floor of the neighbouring house. At her side, upon the windowsill, was seated . . . another well-fed, happy cat — a yellow one, this time; but too far away for me to stroke it! I noticed a bee fly out of a flower in which it had been gathering honey. The atmosphere of the whole town was peaceful, sunny, homely. “It must have looked like that when ‘he’ was a child,” thought I, once more.

The earliest picture I have ever seen or our Führer is one taken in Braunau when he was about a year old. I recalled that picture — in which the extraordinary eyes already draw one’s attention — and again I imagined “him” with his mother — in her arms or at her side — in those far-gone days of which he says himself that “only a little remains of them within his memory.”1 Peaceful years; years without history; years of slow life, the type of which most people in Braunau apparently live still today; years that interest us only because “he” has lived them.

“In fact,” reflected I, as I wandered along another picturesque, neat and quiet street, “if I am at all so moved at the evocation of the one year old and two year old child that Adolf Hitler has once been, it is only because that child was already “he” — the Man destined to fight alone against the downward rush of Time; the Man destined to raise Germany out of the dust, to power, and to show every Aryan of the world the way he can free himself from the unseen tyranny of Jewish lies: our Führer. It is just the same with all children: I see in them that which I presume they are likely to become; the forces that they are likely to help — and those against which they are likely to fight — in the future. And I love them (as I do my comrades’ children) or dislike them, or remain perfectly indifferent to them, in consequence. In “his” case I know what the child was to become; what he became, to the knowledge of everybody. But . . . who could, then, have presumed it? Who could have presumed what Josef Goebbels — also born in a Catholic environment — was likely to become? Who could have

1 Mein Kampf, edit. 1939, p. 2.


guessed the evolution of most of the prominent — and even of the non-prominent — early fighters of the National Socialist Movement, when they were children? And (although I be the most insignificant of all) who could have foreseen, in the Greek nationalist that I was as a child and as a young girl, the future wholehearted disciple of the German Leader, Adolf Hitler? Watching a person’s evolution is like watching a tapestry pattern take shape under the artisan’s fingers: one has to wait till its main features have come to light before one can grasp the guiding idea, the hidden inner logic, that underlies the whole of it.

But of course, there exist certain glaring probabilities, and also certain down-right impossibilities. One can be practically sure that my comrades’ children will grow into fighters on our side. And it is absolutely certain that a young Jew, if let to live, will become a grownup Jew, and a young half-Jew, quarter- Jew, or eighth-Jew etc. . . . something no better.

And just as I love the predestined Babe on account of the Superman that he has become, so do I love this little town, with its quiet, slow, smiling life, for the sake of the grand life of faith and struggle, song and pride and resistance, and triumph — triumph in spite of all, yes, even now, — that the son of Alois and Clara Hitler, born here, has brought us.

I imagined the enthusiasm that must have prevailed, here in Braunau, on a day like this, when Adolf Hitler was at the height of his power. How I would have a hundred times preferred that atmosphere of boisterous collective joy, to this slow life, unfolding itself day after day, in peace! I recalled the words in which Robert d’Harcourt, a French Academy writer and an enemy of our faith, had once characterised our régime, in an article I had read in a literary magazine: “In the Third Reich, there was place only for two feelings: enthusiasm . . . or terror.” “Yes, my dear Sir,” reflected I, reacting to the memory of those words; “that is exactly what I want: enthusiasm in our hearts; terror in those of our enemies; proud and beautiful National Socialist youths marching through the streets and singing, in the intoxication of re-acquired power: ‘We are the Storm Columns, ready for the racial Struggle1 . . .”; and the Jews and the slaves of Jewry trembling behind their closed windows and barricaded doors, conscious of the fate awaiting them! Yes, by all means, give us back

1 “Wir sind die Sturmkolonnen, zum Rassenkampf bereit . . .”


that, invisible Powers of Light, Aryan Gods Who are but the magnified Projection of the latent possibilities of our own Race! Give us back that, instead of this so-called ‘better world,’ as dull as a provincial Sunday afternoon, that both the Christian Churches and the servants of international Freemasonry would like to impose upon us!” The French Academician doubtless thought he was running us down — he wanted to run us down — when he wrote that wonderful sentence. I wish I could tell him to his face that, on the contrary, his sentence describes my own most cherished aspiration. I wish I could tell him: ‘It is precisely because he gave us that, — instead of the commonplace, meaningless life, free from warlike joy, which you probably like, — that we adore our Führer!”

And I also recalled something that I had myself told an English gentlewoman (much to her disgust) a year or so before “I find peace dull . . .”

And again I wondered: would I ever be granted to see that merciless revolutionary joy that abides in us, again express itself on a scale of millions, in our Führer’s name? Would I be there, when the day really comes for it to express itself? Would I have the pleasure — and the honour — of kindling it?

Something in the depth of my heart answered: “Why not?” Was I not already in Braunau am Inn on Adolf Hitler’s birthday, as I had so long wished to be? This was a sign from Heaven.

* * *

I found myself again not far from the main square — wandering somewhere behind those houses that form the left side of it when one is looking towards the Inn. Before me stood a church. It occurred to me that it was quite possibly there that Adolf Hitler had been christened, as it was not far from the house in which his parents lived. I was of course not sure, and might have been entirely mistaken. But I stepped in.

It was a very old church, much larger and much more richly decorated than the one I had visited in Leonding. A few elderly women — and one very young girl — were kneeling here and there in prayer. I also knelt; but in quite a different mood from that in which I had been in Leonding. I knelt and reflected, and became intensely aware of the one reality that has been, throughout my life, the centre of all my speculations, the theme of nearly all my conversations, the motive of all my actions:


the standing — unavoidable — conflict between the Aryan and the Christian spirit, in which I have, from the beginning, fought on the Aryan side. Then, I recalled a few episodes of German history. And I marvelled at the fact that not merely I — the lonely, powerless individual, that will die and leave no trace, — but Germany as a whole, Germany as a historical force, has also, from the beginning, fought on the Aryan side. And the birth of Adolf Hitler in this town, in a Catholic family, on a day like this, sixty-four years before, — that miracle — appeared to me as Germany’s long-deserved and final victory over the international Teaching that places “man” at the centre of all things and proclaims that the soul of a Jew or of a Negro is worth that of the purest Aryan, in God’s eyes.

Whether in this church or in another (it makes no difference) the divine Child was christened a Catholic; forced, through the power of the traditional rites and, priestly spell, into that international brotherhood in Christ, that thinks itself above blood and soil and all bonds of this earth. But in him, stronger than the sacramental Words, and stronger than the centuries of Christian influence that those words implied, lived the hitherto half-conscious Germanic Soul, ready to reassert itself at the appointed time, in the appointed manner. By the decree of the “All-powerful Father-of-Light” — the mysterious Life-Force within the Sun, worshipped in the forests and at the hearths of immemorial Germany — and of all the Aryan Gods, he was to be the living Incarnation of the Consciousness of Blood and Soil in our times. He was already the One Who comes back, when the truth of Blood and Soil — and the truth of War as a duty, for the natural aristocracy of this earth — is forgotten; the tardy but irresistible Avenger that many a German warrior had called in vain, as he had heard the sacred Oak crack, and seen it fall, under Boniface’s axe, a thousand years before. And therefore the spell of Christian baptism remained without effect.

Yet, the happy mother walked out of the church with the white-clad Babe in her arms. The father, and guests, stood at her side. And there was a feast in the home. But not one of those who sat around the well-decked table on that day was ever, perhaps, to realise — even in the course of following years — Who that predestined Babe was.

And suddenly, it dawned upon me that I had realised it;


that I knew Who my Führer was — Who he is — I, who have never seen him. “Would you forsake this privilege for that of having seen him?” asked a still voice within me. And I answered definitely: “No!” I was — for a while — filled with immense satisfaction. I felt nearer to my Leader than all those who have seen him, but not understood . . . Still . . . Why had I not seen him also? Would I ever see him? wondered I, for the hundred thousandth time, as I got up and walked into the street.

* * *

I went back to the two-storied house not far from the chestnut tree — the house in which “he” was horn. It is now a library and a school. I went upstairs, walked along the passage on the first floor; had a look, through the massive, whitewashed stone arches that ran along a part of that passage, on my right hand side, at the courtyard, trees and other houses at the back of the house. The passage was paved with crude bricks. The arches shone, dazzling white, against the deep blue spring sky. The view one had was a broad, open one, the houses in the immediate neighbourhood being fairly low. I went up to the second floor; followed the corridor, partly bordered with massive, whitewashed arches exactly like the ones below, and took another glance at the courtyard and low roofs; walked back to the staircase, and then once more along the corridor, wondering whom I could possibly ask to show me the particular room that I had come to see — for there was nobody to ask.

The doors that opened into the passage were all closed save one, behind which I could hear somebody displacing furniture — putting the place in order, apparently. I gently knocked, once, and then again. A woman peeped out, without opening the door completely. “Guten Tag!” said I. But something in her bearing made me hesitate.

Guten Tag,” replied she. “What do you want?”

“Excuse me if I am disturbing you,” answered I, rather shyly. “I am a visitor. I would like to know whether you could be kind enough to show me . . .”

I did not say what I wanted her to show me. I had no time to, for she interrupted me bluntly: “There is nothing to see, here,” said she: “nothing at all but schoolrooms, and


a library downstairs. Surely you did not come to see that.” And she closed the door in my face.

Was she against us — against Adolf Hitler? Could there really be anybody against him, here in Braunau, where he came into the world? thought I, — and immediately I myself judged the question silly. Even in Braunau, evidently, there could be such people, and this woman could be one. Or was she, on the contrary, so fanatically conscious of the sacredness of the place that she did not wish foreigners to see it? I shall never know. I was bitterly disappointed, anyhow.

“I wanted to see the room in which our Führer was born. Who knows? It is perhaps that very one,” reflected I, feeling tears well up to my eyes. “And an angry fate forbids that I should see it; forbids even that I should know behind which door it lies!” But I thought after a second: “It is not worse, anyhow, than the angry fate that has forbidden that I should see him at the height of his glory . . .”

I walked once more up to the arch at the end of the passage, and looked out at the blue sky — so pure, so blue!

“Adolf Hitler has, no doubt, walked along this corridor, and gazed at the sky through this arch any number of times during those uneventful years of his early childhood — those years in which there was little for him to remember” — thought I.

And again the idea that I had never seen him — that it might be that I shall never see him — oppressed me. But the still voice of my better Self, as distant and as serene as the blue sky, rose within my heart and said: “True, you have never seen him, but you have realised Who he is; true, you were not at his side, — not even among his people — during the great days, but you belong to him. And the words you have uttered or written in praise of him and of his people are true for all times to come; true outside the moving realm of Time. And Time that reduces worlds to dust, cannot tear you away from Him!”

And I felt the peace of the Sky, which is above and beyond all struggles — even ours — descend into me.

I slowly walked downstairs, took a last glance at the house, and went back to the station.

Less than an hour later, I was in the train on my way to Berchtesgaden — my next landmark in the pilgrimage I had undertaken.


Chapter 3


Salzburg — another artificial frontier between Germany and Germany. “Until when?” thought I, as I entered the Customs’ Office, carrying as much as I could of my luggage, while the porter followed me, holding my heavy suitcase.

A Customs’ officer in uniform addressed me: “Leave your things here: the men who will examine them have not yet arrived; you have ample time to go and have a cup of coffee — or change some money, if you need to,” said he. I thanked him for the information, and walked into the Exchange Office.

“How many marks will I get for twenty thousand francs?” asked I. I wanted to get rid of my francs first. (The dollars would be easily changed anywhere, I reflected.)

The girl at the desk calculated . . . “Twenty thousand . . . You will get a little more than two hundred marks. The German mark is worth nearly, if yet not quite, a hundred francs, nowadays. It has gone up.”

My face brightened, and a cry of triumph sprang from my breast: “Oh, how glad I am to hear that!”

Five years before, one had given seventy-five and even sixty-five francs for a mark, and the official rate of exchange had been eighty. In a flash, I recalled those atrocious days, when Germany was hungry; when her factories were every day being, dismantled by “diese Lumpen,” — as I usually called the Allied Powers, unless I was absolutely compelled to be polite. I repeated, with all the convincing stress of sincere joy: “Oh, how glad I am!”

The girl at the desk gazed at me in surprise: travellers who came to change money did not, generally, express their feelings so vehemently. Moreover, from the point of view of the average tourist, who wishes to buy as much enjoyment as he can with as little money as possible, there was, in the steady rise of the German mark, nothing to be glad about — on the contrary!


“But you are losing through the fact that the mark has gone up,” said she. “Don’t you understand it?”

“Of course I do; but I could not care less!” replied I with enthusiasm. “I can see only one thing in what you tell me: the tangible sign that Germany is rising again — economically, at least. Well, it is surely not everything. It is hardly the beginning of that which I am longing to see. But it is something — specially when one looks backwards into these eight horrid years. A hundred French francs for a mark. A hundred and ten, in six months’ time. And next year hundred and fifty, — I hope! I remember the days when ‘they’ had put forward that satanical ‘Morgenthau Plan’ of theirs . . . Where is the damned plan now? ‘Gone with the wind!’ — gone where all their utopian schemes — including the ‘European Army’ under American command, their latest — will go, one after the other (I hope!). Nothing can stop the German people in their forward march — nothing! Oh, I am so glad! — Give me, please, whatever marks you can for twenty thousand francs.”

The girl, who had listened to my half-political half-lyrical tirade with silent pride and quickened interest, took my passport. “But I thought you were German!” said she, as she looked at it.

“I am Greek,” answered I. “Or partly Greek and partly English, to be more precise.”

She gazed at me, more amazed than ever. In her mind, my tirade and my passport could not possibly both be genuine. One of the two was necessarily false. She could not doubt the sincerity of my tirade any more than the colour of my eyes: it showed; it was too evident to be denied. She therefore doubted the authenticity of my passport . . .

“Hum!” muttered she, referring to my nationality; “nobody would have thought so!”

And she added, as though to explain more clearly what she meant: “Both England and Greece fought against us during this war.”

“That may be, but I did not!” exclaimed I in protest. “From the other end of the earth, where I was then, I did all I could to help Germany’s war-effort. And I shall always regret I had not the opportunity of doing much more. Don’t lump me with those who worked for the victory of the dark forces!


The girl gave me a sympathetic smile. “Far from ‘lumping’ you with our enemies, I am, on the contrary, convinced that you have done, — and, which is more, that you are still today doing — all your duty,” replied she.

“Yes,” reflected I, while she was counting the money; “it was and it is the duty of any racially-conscious Aryan like I to stand or fall with National Socialist Germany.” And turning to her I said: “You are right: I have at least done and am doing my best.”

I wanted to explain my attitude. But just then, another person stepped in, also wishing to change money. And the girl remained under the impression that I was a German travelling with a false passport.

* * *

Five minutes later, at the Customs, where I had gone back, I was feeling a little uneasy as I opened my suitcase. Not that I was, like in 1948, travelling with several thousands of Nazi leaflets. But I had quite a number of copies of my two books Gold in the Furnace and Defiance — now both printed — as well as of my yet unpublished prose poems For-Ever and Ever. And those writings are surely as National Socialistic as any of my former leaflets or posters, and surely as dangerous — if not more so — from the democratic standpoint.

My uneasiness increased as the Customs’ officer lay his hands upon a copy of Gold in the Furnace, opened it, read the dedication — “To the Martyrs of Nuremberg” — saw the frontispiece — a photograph of the Werl prison — read the last words of the preface: “Heil Hitler!” and asked me: “You have plenty of these books with you?”

“Just this copy,” replied I, lying with genuine indifference I had suddenly become perfectly calm — inwardly also — as always, in similar circumstances.

“After all, how is this man to guess that I am ‘Savitri Devi,’ the author of the book,” reflected I. “I have re-become ‘Maximiani Portas’ in the eyes of the world.”

But it looked as though the man were not satisfied with my answer. He took another book out of my suitcase, — Defiance, this time — and opened it likewise! He saw the frontispiece; my


own photograph, with the author’s name, Savitri Devi, written below it; he turned over the page, read the dedication:

To my beloved comrade and friend

Hertha Ehlert,

and to all those who suffered for the love of our Führer,

for the greatness of his people,

and for the triumph of those everlasting truths

for which he and they fought to the bitter end.

I had not thought of this possibility . . .

Once more the man looked intently at me and then . . . at the photograph.

I was planning with calm: “If there be trouble, I shall tell these people that the books were written by my twin sister who uses the pen name of ‘Savitri Devi.’ Maybe they will believe me and not make any further enquiry . . .”

But I did not need to put the practicability of my plan to test. For the man gave me the unmistakable smile of comradeship — the same that had brightened Luise K.’s face, and Frau J.’s; the smile that meant as much as a hand stretched out to me and the words “I congratulate you!” And without uttering a syllable, he put the book back, shut my suitcase himself, and applied upon it, with chalk, the cross indicating that I was free to continue my journey, — free to carry my written tribute of allegiance to my German comrades and superiors.

* * *

The Sun was already high when I woke up on the following morning in Berchtesgaden.

I went to the window, pulled aside the blinds, and gaped for ravishment at the sight of the landscape: behind the slanting roofs of the houses that faced my hotel, steep hills, covered with woods; and behind these: other hills, of a darker, bluer green; and still further, and still higher: snowy peaks that shone like silver against the radiant blue sky. The river — the Salzach, a greyish-blue mountain torrent, — rushed passed, noisy and full of foam, under the bridge that I had crossed the night before, when coming from the station to this hotel situated right opposite.

I opened the window and breathed deeply, I felt light and


young; invigorated with cosmic life; for once, unaware of all my past omissions, weaknesses and failures, as though I were reborn. The fragrance of pine woods and the keen air from the snowy peaks, and their resplendent, dreamlike whiteness welcomed me in the hallowed mountain resort, the name of which is forever linked with that of Adolf Hitler: Berchtesgaden.

But how quiet it all was! — how unlike what it had probably been during the great days! And “he” was no longer there. At this thought, I forgot the splendour of the woods and of the shining mountain range, and was again seized by the old feeling of irreparable failure, of inexpiable guilt. Had I only been able to come ten years before, I could have seen “him”; perhaps heard his voice address me personally (who knows?). And when disaster came, I would have disappeared with him, died with him, or died for him — one of the three. While now? . . . Now, everything was so silent — on the surface at least. Now, of all I loved, everything looked dead — save the pine woods in their spring-like loveliness, and the emerald-green meadows, full of daisies and buttercups, and the distant white peaks, so white against the pure sky, so blue. But I recalled Luise K. and Frau J. and the Führer’s old tutor and the H. family; and the young workman in the train, on my way to Braunau, and the guards at the false frontier, awaiting with me the resurrection of the Greater Reich, and the Customs’ officer at Salzburg who had given me the smile of comradeship and allowed me to take my books into the country, fully knowing what they are and what I am. And it seemed to me as though they all said: “Are we not also alive, although it may be that, at first sight, we look dead? Have you already forgotten how ready we all are to open our arms to you who love ‘him’ as we do? You will find us everywhere in this silent, occupied, enslaved land — us, ‘his’ people.”

And at the thought of them — and of the comrades I was expecting to meet very soon, — I felt ashamed of having, be it for a second, questioned the growing hold of our faith upon the German people. And I was sure that, no less than in Linz and Braunau, I would find here, along with the evocative remnants of the recent past, unmistakable signs of the triumph of our spirit in a future without end.


I washed and dressed speedily, went downstairs and had a cup of coffee, and, after asking my way to Obersalzberg, walked out into the sunshine.

I followed the road along the riverside, as I had been told. More wooded slopes, behind which rose further snow-clad ranges, faced me on the opposite side. I admired them as I walked on. I also admired the beauty of the houses and gardens along both the roads bordering the river, or, here and there, upon the slopes, in the midst of trees; the neatness of the little town (much larger, by the way, than I had thought) and the river itself, the roaring bluish-grey river that ran its way on my right.

My attention was, however, soon attracted by some mooing of cattle. It seemed strange to me, as I could see no farms in the neighbourhood, no cattle grazing in any meadows nearby. It sounded as if it came from somewhere on the side of the road. I walked a few steps further and found myself before an open courtyard at the back of which stood a rectangular building, neither attractive nor ugly in appearance: a building that could have been anything. But as I read the notice upon one of the open doors that led into the courtyard — the harmless, casual (definitely “non-political”!) notice, that ninety-nine per cent of the “reasonable” two-legged creatures of this earth would have read as a matter of course and forgotten a minute later, — I shuddered. The notice ran: “The entrance of the slaughterhouse is forbidden to all those who are not working within its enclosure.”

So, that is what this building was! And that is what the lowing meant: the reaction of instinctive fear before impending death; death as sudden as painless as possible — at least, I hoped so, — but still: death. That within this town, that Adolf Hitler’s presence has sanctified for all times to come! I recalled in my mind a passage from the famous Goebbels Diaries referring to the Führer’s respect of animal life and his definite objection to flesh eating: “He” (Adolf Hitler) “is more than ever convinced that meat eating is wrong. He knows, of course, that he cannot upset our whole food economy during this struggle. But after the war, he seriously intends to tackle


that problem also.”1 The mere fact that the notice I had just read was worded in German, in “his” language — natural as this was — appeared to me as a sacrilege; and the existence of this house of death at the foot of those hills in which he chose his abode, as a still greater one. For he had not wanted that. He had wanted a Germany, a Europe — a world — without slaughterhouses. And “after the war,” he intended to set himself also to the task of bringing about such a world. Oh, had we — had he — but won this war!

I recalled that series of laws against any form of cruelty to animals, which had always been, in my eves, one of the greatest moral achievements of the Third Reich: I recalled the fact that certain standing horrors in the way of experimentation upon live animals, in certain foreign universities, of which I knew, had been forbidden, during this war, by order of the German Occupation authorities; I recalled also that commandment of our glorious National Socialist creed, contained in a booklet compiled by Alfred Rosenberg, and alluded to by his accusers at the Nuremberg Trial. “Thou shalt believe in the presence of God in all living creatures, animals and plants.”2

No régime in the West has ever done as much as ours to impose upon people the conviction that animals have rights. No faith in the West or in the East has ever proclaimed as clearly as ours the priority of animals over potentially dangerous human beings — let alone over actually dangerous ones. No state has ever acted tip to this particular scale of values — my scale of values — with such absolute consistency as the German National Socialist State.

It occurred to me that it was, perhaps, this particular and thoroughly heathen scale of values which had, more than anything else, cut me off from my environment, and made me what I am, before I even knew what to call myself. My oldest grievance against the Jews, and the one thing that had indeed made me beforehand impervious to any sort of sympathy for them, was the “kosher” slaughter-house. And in my heart I had always despised any meat eater who talks of “humanity” and of “universal

1 The Goebbels Diaries, New York edit. 1948, p. 188 (Entry of the 26th of April, 1942).

2 Quoted by M. Bardèche in his book Nuremberg II, ou les Fauxmonnayeurs, p. 88.


love,” and considered any founder of a new era, who happens to be of that description, as thoroughly inferior to our Führer.

He” not only ate no flesh, and tolerated no “kosher” slaughterhouses in his Aryan land; but he was, “after the war” — after victory; after Germany would have controlled the West, and become in a position to acquire the foodstuffs of the whole world at cheap rates — planning to suppress, gradually but thoroughly, once and for all, that standing dishonour of so-called civilisation: the slaughterhouse in general, however “perfected” it be. He was planning to do away with that industry of death, not only out of respect for animal life, but also because he saw something definitely ugly and unhealthy in the fact of higher mankind feeding upon corpses of slaughtered beasts when other food is available; and also — above all, perhaps — because he realised, more keenly than anyone, what a thing of horror the life of a professional killer must be, and because he could not bear the thought of any son of his people being urged, through custom and circumstances, into such a life.

And I thought once more, for the millionth time, as I bore all this in mind: “Oh, had we but won this war! Had our beloved Führer but been given the opportunity of carrying out his great plans!”

* * *

I walked on, found the road on the right, of which the girl at the hotel had spoken — the road leading uphill, to Obersalzberg. And I slowly followed that road, deeply inhaling the fragrance of the woods that stretched on both sides of it.

The sun was becoming hotter and hotter. Now and then I stopped and looked back at the landscape below me. The actual valley through which I had come was no longer to be seen; the slopes on the opposite side of it were also now practically hidden from me, for the road was winding through new hills, equally covered with woods. But the higher ranges shone as gorgeous as ever, dazzling white, under the Sun. The further I went up, the better I could see them. And more snowy peaks appeared behind the new green hills through which the road led me. I sat down for a while upon a log on the border of the road and listened to a bird’s twittering, to the rustling of leaves — to the Voice of


Life within the woods. Occasionally a car, or a motorcycle, passed by and disappeared in the direction of Obersalzberg.

I got up and resumed the uphill walk, feeling that every step took me nearer to the place where my Leader had sat in all his glory. I imagined the cars that must have rolled up and down this magnificent road, then, in the great days, carrying officials and distinguished visitors to him who was the visible soul of Germany, and the centre of the Western World. How all was calm and quiet, now that “he” was no longer there! And again the one question imposed itself upon my consciousness: Where is “he” now, if alive? Shall I ever be granted the honour and joy of seeing him face to face, once more in power? And along with that one question, the one same old regret that has been torturing me since 1945, and that will apparently keep on torturing me till I die, unless I see “him” one day, at the head of the West: “Oh, why have I not come before?” And the one same inexpressible bitterness filled me, as I walked on and on, through the dreamlike landscape.

I crossed a young couple. They greeted the; we exchanged a few commonplace words:

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes, lovely!”

“A little too hot, however. We should have taken the bus.”

“Oh, it makes little difference. At any rate, I prefer to walk.”

Aufwiedersehen! — Aufwiedersehen!”

I went my way and they theirs. I was thinking: “Indeed I do prefer to walk. In the glorious years, when “he” was here, I might have taken the bus — or a private car — and reached the place an hour earlier. But now? To see the ruins of the immortal Dwelling? — its ruins . . . or rather the bare site where its ruins once stood . . . For I knew that the very foundations of the once lovely Berghof — Adolf Hitler’s house — had been systematically blown up. Now, had I dared, — had I not feared being censured even by my comrades for “pointless exhibitionism,” — I would have walked all the way barefooted, as pilgrims in India walk miles and miles to certain sacred spots. For the place had become, through the seal of martyrdom, twice holy in my eyes.

I walked on and on. It cannot have been, by now, far from eleven o’clock. The Sun was indeed unusually hot, and seemed so even to me, who had just come from Athens. The snowy


peaks, that dominated the scenery on my left as well as behind me, impressed me as the picture of untarnished indifference above all the destructions, persecutions and resistances in the world. But I had not come to seek divine Indifference.

I caught up another couple, and this time, it was I who spoke first: “Guten Tag! Can you be so kind as to tell me whether it is still a long way to the Hitler house?”

“The Hitler house?” replied the man, “It is just around the corner; on your right, after the first turning of the road. But there is nothing to be seen there; ‘they’ have not only blown up the very ruins, but ‘they’ have poured tons and tons of earth over the site, so that nothing might show, not even the plan of the house!”

That clear reference to the irreparable deed stirred all my hatred against those who perpetrated it. “I have not come to examine details of architecture,” I burst out; “I have come to sit upon the spot till sunset, and to think of the coming revenge. Auf Wiedersehen!” (I nearly said: “Heil Hitler!”)

And I went on, hastening my footsteps, without noticing whether the apparently bewildered man and woman had returned my words of farewell or not.

* * *

There were now hardly any trees on either side of the road or on the slopes that I could see at some distance before me. These, as well as the whole space that led downwards to the depression on my left, were covered with grass. Woods could be seen below, and above: in the depression itself; on the slopes that faced me on the opposite side of it; and, on my right, beyond the masses of earth, gravel and stones that formed like a wall along the border of the road.

But suddenly I halted and held my breath, meanwhile an icy sensation ran along my spine and throughout my body: I had just noticed what looked like the cornerstone of a wall, emerging, along with a few withered treetops, out of the enormous heap of sand, gravel and pulverised blocks of mortar that towered before me. And I had understood: this was the place where the famous Berghof — the Hitler house — had once stood in all its loveliness, in the midst of lawns and flowerbeds and trees;


this was what “they” had reduced it to, so that no trace of it should be left; so that men should forget! . . .

I felt tears well up to my eyes, and my mouth quivered. I crossed the road to see the devastated site from a few yards’ distance. Yes, it was the site of the Berghof, unmistakably! Above it — at the edge of the wood that extended from there to the top of the hill — ran, parallel to the road along which I was walking, a whole foundation wall that had withstood both the power of dynamite and the power of hate. And another wall that formed with it a right angle could also be detected, although it was entirely buried under earth and gravel, save for one end of it the, block that had first attracted my attention. That; and withered branches, sticking out of the general desolation — tops of trees or bushes that had apparently grown upon the ruins, and that had been buried alive by those who had set out to kill the very ruins themselves. I shuddered before the enormity of the hatred that had urged men to work out this systematical destruction seven years after the end of the war. How long would it last, that relentless execration of our Führer, of us, of all we stand for; that savage and methodical will to erase whatever reminds the world of him, of us, of all that he and we have created together? wondered I, as I gazed at the pure blue sky — so blue! — at the green meadows full of buttercups, at the woods and the bright mountain ranges in the distance, and then again at the place where the Berghof had stood. How long would the world persecute us?

And from the depth of centuries — through my intuition of history: about the only form of intuition which I possess — came the answer: “Forever!”

In a flash, I recalled the yellowish desert covered with scattered ruins under the burning sun of Egypt: all that now remains of the proud City-of-the-Horizon-of-the-Disk, seat of King Akhnaton’s New Order — which lasted twelve years like ours — mercilessly torn down stone by stone by his enemies, over three thousand three hundred years ago — another historic instance of the untiring persecution of all that which is godlike.

And in a loud voice, as though speaking to myself, I recited with bitterness the first lines of the hymn of hate intoned by the priests of Amon — the embodiment of the Money Power in Egypt at the time — after the destruction of the sacred city:


Woe to thine enemies, O Amon! . . .

Thy city endures, but he who assails thee falls . . .

And with still greater bitterness I paraphrased the words of old, adapting them to present-day circumstances:

“Woe to thine enemies, O Israel! . . .

Thy unseen rule endures, but he who assails thee falls . . .”

The persecution of that which is godlike — and of those who are godlike; of those whom the dark forces, in possession of money, can neither buy nor frighten — appeared to me to be a perennial feature of human history. It would last as long as the world.

“But we too will last to resist it, and to crush it in the end!” thought I. “Our faith is rooted in truth. And we have the Powers of Light — the Shining Ones, as the Aryans of India still call Them to this day — on our side. And I recalled a sentence of one of my own writings: my final verdict on our enemies: “They cannot ‘de-Nazify’ the Gods!”1

Still, the sight of the desolation of this place, glaring sign of the victory of the evil: forces for the time being, filled me with resentment, with hatred, with grief; once more, with the awful awareness of defeat.

I crossed the road again, walked a few yards further uphill in search of a place from which I could reach the Berghof site. I discovered something like a path — a trodden track in the midst of gravel, showing me the way many others had come before me. I followed that track slowly and reverently, feeling myself on holy ground, and sat down upon the bare earth, fairly far away from the road. And there, I sobbed desperately, as I had not for years.

* * *

Exhaustion — and time — gave me back a certain amount of composure, and I was again able to think.

A soft warm breeze brought me the healthy emanation of the woods. Before my eyes spread in the sunshine a mountain scenery, the equivalent in beauty of which I had seen only in Kashmir. I imagined my beloved Leader in one of those moments of relaxation that he must have enjoyed sometimes,

1 Gold in the Furnace, edit. 1952, p. 87.


even if it were seldom. I pictured him on a spring day like this, letting his star-like eyes, athirst of infinity, rest upon those meadows and woods, those dark green and violet hills, those shining white ranges, the harmonious outlines of which close the horizon, and, beyond them, — in spirit — upon that luminous bluish valley that one guesses rather than sees from here: the valley in which lies Salzburg. I pictured him alone, in tune with the Soul of this land, that he so loved, breathing its power and its beauty, communing with it and, through it, with the Essence of himself and of all things — immanent Godhead — while his magnificent dog, the creature of devotion who was never to betray him, never to forsake him, lay, watchful, at his side. I pictured him, — or rather, I felt him — all-loving, all-knowing, above happiness and sorrow, detached in the midst of worldwide action, looking over this dreamlike scenery on the border of that extended Germany, which he had reconquered, into the realm of eternity that was — and is — his impregnable realm; into that intangible world in which success and failure fade into nothingness before the one thing that counts: timeless Truth; sure that he was right whatever men might say, whichever events might occur; sure that Germany’s mission was — and is — that which he proclaimed; sure that Germany’s higher interest was — and is — (in the words of the most ancient Aryan Book of wisdom) “the interest of the universe.” Sure, and therefore serene. Sure, and therefore sinless, — perfect.

And I lost myself in the contemplation of this real Adolf Hitler: the one of whom no newspaper has ever spoken, and whom no man (even among those who have seen him, perhaps) ever understood. All the forces of my being embraced him — Him — in an act of adoration, as the only One I had loved, life after life, for millions of years. I felt nearer to him than ever; nearer to him than before his parents’ desolate grave; nearer to him than on that most beautiful night in my life — the 20th of February, 1949 — when I had been so happy to be arrested for the love of him and of his people.

But then, as my glance fell bank upon the torn and tortured earth upon which I was sitting, one fact imposed itself upon me: “He” is no longer here; I cannot see him in the flesh, as I would have then.” And I sank back into the old unbearable feeling of once possible, nay probable, but now irretrievably lost


happiness; of guilt that nothing can ever wash away, — into hell. For that is hell: not a place, but a state of consciousness; the knowledge that one has missed, through one’s own fault, the fulfilment of one’s real mission, and, that it is henceforth too late . . . There exists no feeling worse than that one.

For the millionth time that feeling caught hold of me, as strong, now, upon the ruins of the Berghof, after eight years, as then, in that primitive South Indian café in an out-of-the-way hamlet of the Western Ghats, in which I had, in 1945, three weeks after the fact, first heard the news of Germany’s capitulation and been told that Adolf Hitler was dead. For the millionth time, my accusing inner voice rose against me, as merciless and as bitter as ever: “Where were you, all these years? Why did you not come in time? You would have seen ‘him,’ your Führer, the one Man you worship. You would have seen him in this setting, at the height of his power. What were all the joys you have had, compared with that joy? Now . . . see! Nothing is left of the lovely Dwelling; nothing is left of the great Reich; nothing is left of all that ‘he’ had built or planned. And you will never see him. It is too late; too late. You came too late. Why did you not come before?”

Oh, those words, which contain the one real torment of everlasting damnation: “too late!”

I started weeping once more as I looked back into my useless life. Yes, where had I been at the time my beloved Leader had risen to power? Somewhere in South India. Where had I been, when he had spoken at that great Nuremberg Party Rally, before five hundred thousand people? In Lucknow: listening to him on the wireless: speaking of him . . . instead of being there on the spot, one among the many thousands — the confounded fool that I was!

I remembered details of my life in Lucknow, in September 1935, during those unforgettable days: the dark red silk “sari” that I was wearing, while the aether waves brought me, over six thousand miles of land and sea, the music of the Horst Wessel Song, and then — in the midst of that religious silence of the multitude — Adolf Hitler’s voice; the conversation that I had had with my Indian friends about the spirit of National Socialism and that of the age-old Caste system; the song that the fifteen-year-old daughter of the house — a graceful, fair-complexioned


Brahmin girl named Atashi, — had played upon the harmonium after supper:

Nanda, Nanda, Nanda Rani . . .”

— a Bengali song which had remained ever since, indissolubly associated in my consciousness with the memory of the famous Party Rally. I remembered the gold swastika that I always wore on a chain around my neck — and that I had lost in London in 1947 — and my Indian earrings, also in the shape of swastikas, that I was now wearing. I had wanted to be the link between the Aryan Tradition, kept alive in India, and that great Aryan revival of the West that National Socialism embodies. But who (save one man) had understood what that meant, even among my closest collaborators?

I remembered the words which that exceptional man — destined one day to give me his name — had addressed to me on the very day he had met me: “Go to him, who is truly life and resurrection: to the maker of the Third Reich. Go at once: next year will be too late!”

Why had I, in my incurable conceit, thought myself useful in my far-away field of action, and not listened to him?

And again I imagined Adolf Hitler sitting alone before this dreamlike perspective of wooded hills and valleys and proud snowy peaks. I pictured his stern features, stamped with willpower that nothing can break; his inspired eyes, radiating love that nothing can kill; selfless, boundless, conquering love.

How many thousands of people had seen that extraordinary Face of his, and yet not understood it; not responded to the love that shone in it?

Foreign journalists, writers, ambassadors — some of whom had, afterwards, earned money by slandering him — had seen him; I, never. Opponents of his; enemies of all he stands for, — such as the Communist leader Thälmann — had seen him; I, never. Traitors, who secretly worked against him: traitors, who on the 20th of July, 1944, tried to kill him, had seen him; I, never!

I recalled the most wondrous sights I had admired in journeys over half the surface of the earth: the Bosphorus; the Acropolis of Athens: Delphi; Karnak; the Upper Nile; the temples of South India, of Khajuraho, of Bhubaneshwar; moonlight over the desert of Iraq; moonlight over the Marble Rocks and the Narbada Falls; the Backwaters of Travancore; the


Caves of Ajanta and of Ellora — that marvel among marvels; Ellora, of which I had written, meaning it: “One can die, after having seen this!” — the Midnight Sun; Mount Hekla in eruption; the Himalayas — no end of inspiring beauty; no end of history and legend. People envied me for having such memories . . . And yet . . . I would have renounced them all for the joy of feeling “his” eyes rest upon me — for five minutes, once — just once! — for the privilege of greeting him — just once! — with my arm outstretched and the spell-like words expressing on my part centuries of love: “Heil, meinem Führer! Heil Hitler!

The merciless: accusing voice rose within me once more and told me: “You should have thought of that twenty-five years ago, you silly fool! Now it is too late — too late!”

Time passed. The shadows of the trees above the ruined site were slowly turning.

I continued weeping, in the hot silence of the afternoon. I had not moved from the place where I was sitting. A few people — about ten in all — came, one after the other, wandered here and there upon the site, without speaking. One or two of them passed quite close to me — looked at me, greeted me discreetly, and went their way, respecting the solitude that I was obviously seeking.

How long would the accusing voice of self-criticism keep on torturing me? It had been doing so, day and night, for already eight years. I knew it was right. In one of the beautiful rooms of the famous Dwelling; the scattered stones of which lay buried under the tons and tons of earth upon which I now sat, I could have seen the Builder of reborn Aryandom — the Founder of my faith — then, had I come, in time. But I had not. What could I do now, but nothing? It was too late — alas! Would it still be too late if our Hitler be alive, as some say? I wondered. But was he really alive? I did not know what to believe.

I lay upon the earth and gravel brought here in order to destroy all trace of his passage, and I sobbed as desperately as before. Then, from within — from far-away; from I do not know where; perhaps from another world — Something spoke to me; soothed me; not my own voice but “his” — or rather some strangely keen awareness of what “he” would tell me if he could reach me, be it from the world of the living or from beyond.


It is never too late! Live for my Germany, and you shall never part from Me!”

And again, as in Leonding before his parents’ grave, I knew with certainty what “he” — “He,” Who can never die — expects of me, in the name of the logic of the National Socialist creed; in the name of the logic of my whole life.

And from the depth of my heart I thought, “Jawohl, mein Führer! — I shall. Don’t I already love Thy Land as though it had always been mine, and Thy people as my brothers? Is Thy Land not already mine? — “holy Land in the eyes of every racially awakened Aryan.”

And I felt power in me — more-than-human power, in spite of all my failures.

* * *

The resplendent snowy range beyond the hills that faced me was already changing colour. And the Sun was less hot, and the shadows longer.

I saw three men appear one after the other, coming from the road, along the same track that had guided me. They followed that which had seemed to me like the trace of a wall running perpendicularly to the one which could be detected a few yards behind me, at the edge of the wood. And they halted. One of them, who had probably visited the Berghof in the days of its splendour, was explaining its topography to the other two. Sentences that he uttered reached me now and then: “. . . and here was the hall in which the Führer used to hold council . . . ,” “. . . here stood a huge window, some six metres long; a gorgeous window . . . ,” “. . . and here . . .” Gestures accompanied and stressed his words.

I was strangely moved. The little I heard of the man’s description suddenly gave new life to the hallowed site. The Dwelling, seat of beauty, seat of power, seat of my Leader’s communion with the Infinite at his moments of restful solitude, rose in precise outlines out of the past. Had I only come a few years before . . . The bitter thought rushed back to me in a flash. But I had no time to ponder over it. I wanted to hear, to know, from one of those who had seen. I got up, wiped my tears on the back of my hand (for I could not find my pocket handkerchief) walked straight to the newcomers and greeted


them: “Guten Abend!” And then, addressing the one who had been acting as a guide: “Excuse me,” said I, “if I am so bold as to disturb you. I heard you describing the Berghof as it once stood. I understand that you have seen it; that you have probably seen the Führer within these walls now reduced to dust. I was six thousand miles away during the glorious years. I have now come for the first time and have been sitting here from half past ten in the morning, thinking of the past and of the future. Do you mind if I listen to your description?”

The men were all three between thirty-five and forty-five, i.e., old enough to have lived the enthusiasm of the early days of National Socialism.

They considered me with surprise, yet felt they could trust me, for my words rang true — and, after all, who would come and sit a whole day upon the ruined site of the Berghof unless he (or she) were a sincere follower of Adolf Hitler? “It is a pity indeed that you were not here before,” said the man whom I had addressed. “No description can give you an accurate idea of the place of beauty that this house was, when you have not seen it yourself. You have seen pictures of it, probably?”

“I have,” said I.

“We are here just above the hall from which one looked out on the surrounding scenery from a huge window, several metres long.”

“I have seen pictures of that window and, if I remember well, a picture of the Führer standing by it. Now, alas! even the stones of the house have been pulverised, and their dust hidden — covered with earth — so that we should forget that this place is holy; so that we should cease coming to it as to a place of pilgrimage. But I shall never forget — never forget, and never forgive, as I already said a hundred thousand times. I only hate the damned Americans all the more for this savage and pointless desecration!”

“The damned Americans are not the authors of this deed,” replied the man, to my astonishment. “It is these gentlemen of the S.P.D.,1 who compose the present-day Government of Bavaria, who ordered it.”


“Yes, — unfortunately.”

1 The “Social Democratic” Party.


This unexpected information brought new tears into my eyes. “I should never have thought it,” said I, with sincere grief. “But surely the American Occupation authorities were behind those who gave such an order, weren’t they?”

“Bitterly as I myself detest the Occupation as a whole and the Americans in particular, I am compelled to say that this is, to my knowledge, entirely the work of our criminal S.P.D. Government.”

I did not know what to say, or to think. There is nothing so painful to me as the awareness of the fact that Aryans, — let alone Germans, his own people, — can, and so often do, hate Adolf Hitler, their Saviour. The idea that some Germans hate him to that extent was positively unbearable to me.

“I just do not know what to think,” I kept on saying. “It seems to me too monstrous for one to believe. And yet, I do believe it, for I know hatred has no limits — any more than love. I know that there is nothing that those slaves of the Jews cannot do. But one thing I can say, and that is that I cannot look upon such people as Germans.”

“We look upon them as traitors and scoundrels, — the worst enemies of Germany,” replied the man.

He then asked me where I had spent the time during which our régime had lasted.

“In India,” replied I. And I added, expressing aloud that which I had been thinking with such bitterness half an hour before.

“Few Europeans have seen as much as I have of that ancient and wonderful land; few have lived as intensely as I have in connection with all that they have seen — for I approached India in the light of my National Socialist outlook: the only light in which a western Aryan can really understand it, strange as this may seem. And yet, I tell you in all sincerity: I would renounce all the joys I have had, for the one joy of having seen Adolf Hitler at the height of his glory, or for the satisfaction of having proved him my loyalty at the hour of disaster.”

“And you have now come from India?” asked one of the other two men.

“No, from Greece. I arrived three days ago. Was yesterday in Braunau; the day before, in Leonding . . .”


“I understand . . . And you say it is the first time you come to Germany?”

“The first time I come to Obersalzberg,” replied I. “I spent a year and some months in Germany in 1948–1949.”

The third man asked me in his turn: “And you intend to remain in Germany?”

“If I can,” answered I; “if the heavenly Powers judge that I should . . .” (As at Leonding, I remembered my daily prayer to the Lord of the invisible Forces, whoever He be: ‘Send me or keep me there where I shall be the most useful in the service of the National Socialist Cause, which is the cause of Truth.”) And I added, summing up in a sentence that which I had been thinking the whole day — that which I had been thinking for eight years —: “My one regret in life is that I did not come long ago; before the war; nay, before the Seizure of power . . . and that I have never seen the Führer.”

“You are right,” said my interlocutor; “there has never been a man like him and there has never been an ideal comparable to his. Unfortunately, he put too much of his confidence in people who were not worthy of it, and who, through their mistakes — not to say their treason — brought about his downfall and that of Germany. In particular, he trusted implicitly whoever had stood by him in the early phase of the struggle. That was his only weakness.”

“Gratitude, appreciation of past services, is no weakness,” thought I; “moreover, the memory of past services did not blind him to later realities. Roehm had surely rendered services to the Cause, and yet . . . our Führer did not hesitate to sacrifice him, in June 1934, when he judged it necessary . . .”

I was going to tell the man what I was thinking, but had no time to. Another one of my new friends (for they were, apparently, all three “friends,” i.e., on our side) put further emphasis on that which his comrade had said: “Yes,” stressed he, “you say you so desperately regret not having come to Germany before . . . In one way, it is better that you did not come . . . You are an idealist. You have lived National Socialism through the beautifying perspective of distance. Had you been here, specially after the Seizure of power, you would have discovered many things — and many people — to criticise . . . Why, for instance, did the Führer not . . .”


“Our Führer can do no wrong! Don’t criticise him!” exclaimed I, interrupting with vehemence. “He can neither order not allow anything which is not justified. As for his followers — or those who pretended to be such ones — you can judge them: you are a German. I have no right to do so. I have never criticised any German — save, of course, the all too obvious, well known traitors. Not that I am incapable of detecting failures — words or deeds out of keeping with the National Socialist doctrine or spirit — but it is, with me, a matter of discipline. It is not my job to pick out faults in other National Socialists, but only to do my best to be, myself, as good a one as I possibly can. And I am sure that, had I had the privilege of coming earlier, all the shortcomings of which you speak would have in no way altered my allegiance to the Führer and to the Reich. You were taught the National Socialist principles; I discovered them within my heart, within my own logic, within that best of all demonstrations of them: the history of all the nations of the world. And, fully knowing what I was doing, I came to Adolf Hitler as to the only Leader in our times who speaks and acts according to those principles, true for all times; as to the only one who (to repeat a very old and exalted expression) ‘lives in Truth.’ Nothing can detach me from him now, and nothing could have done so then. The truth of a doctrine is independent of the faults of a few of its real or supposed supporters. And he, — our Hitler — and his régime, are the very embodiment of the National Socialist doctrine.”

The man to whom I had first spoken answered me this time

“All you say is perfectly consistent; could not be more so. The only trouble is that we lost the war. Had we but gained it, rest assured that the Führer would have himself put order in our affairs, and that many Party members who were no National Socialists at all (but only pretending to be) would have got what they deserved. And the promised new era would really have begun.”

“It has already begun,” said I with conviction.

The three men gazed at me in bewilderment.

“Our enemies rule the world,” replied one of them. “We are persecuted: — powerless. How can you say: ‘Our era has


already begun’? You know yourself what the post-war world looks like.”

“It is twenty years since Adolf Hitler became the master of Germany. And it was yesterday exactly sixty-four years since he was born. Tell me,” said I, “what did the Roman world and Europe at large (Europe destined to be the seat of Christian civilisation) look like in year twenty or even in year sixty-four A.D.? Could one have then believed in the triumph of the Christian values for two thousand years? Nobody believed in it, in fact, save the early Christians themselves. Christ was dead, and his followers, a persecuted handful lost among the many strange sects of the Roman Empire. And. Yet . . .”

The three men were, for a while, silent; as though overwhelmed by the immensity of the hope that my words implied. Something told them that I was right, although they hardly dared to believe it. At last, the one to whom I had first spoken — the eldest of the three — asked me (and there was deep emotion in his voice)

“What makes you have such confidence in us, German people? You have not seen us at our best, in the great days.”

“That is true,” replied I; “But I have seen you in the dark days of trial: hungry, destitute, uprooted from your homes, persecuted in your own land, slandered by the whole world — vanquished (for the time being, thanks to those slaves of Jewry who, even under the National Socialist régime, had managed to work themselves into responsible posts). And yet . . . I have admired you then — even more so, perhaps, than I had in glorious ’40; more so than I had in ’42, when the Swastika Flag fluttered over the Caspian Sea, over the Libyan Desert, over the Arctic Ocean . . . I shall never forget the emaciated, proud and dignified faces that I met in Germany, then; the sombre glance of those young men who had, to the end, trusted the Führer and believed in the invincibility of the Reich, and waited till the very hour of the Capitulation for the miracle that was to give Germany the mastery of the earth, and who, even then, had forsaken neither that confidence nor that certitude — for they felt within themselves, in their day to day struggle from the bottom of the abyss, the living proof of their own superiority so many times proclaimed. I shall never forget the words I have exchanged with those men of gold and steel (as I called them in a book


of mine); I shall never forget that I have, for months, lived a dangerous life in Germany, and that not a single German has betrayed me — not for any reward: not for the bare necessities of life; not for milk for his starving children. Oh, how I admired you then, my comrades, my superiors! And how I admire you now, in your silent, stubborn, untiring resistance, to the agents of disintegration and to all their lies! . . .”

The Sun was setting. The gorgeous snowy range facing us was pink. I stretched out my right arm in a broad gesture, as though I were, beyond this barrier of mountains, and beyond this life — this minute in time — speaking to the German Nation of all times; and I continued, after a pause:

“As Alexander the Great lay upon his death bed in Babylon, in 323 B.C., on his way back from India, his generals asked him whom he appointed as ruler of his world empire. He replied: ‘The worthiest!’ I was an admirer of the godlike Macedonian, embodiment of conquering Aryandom, before I became the disciple of the Builder of the new Aryan Age: Adolf Hitler. And today, from this sacred spot on which he stand, I tell you — you three, and you eighty millions — from the depth of my heart (and I wish my persecuted superiors in Spandau, in Werl, in Landsberg, in Wittlich, in Breda, in Stein, in all the prisons and camps of our enemies, in and outside Germany, could hear me): “German people, you are the worthiest! I tell you today, remembering the ancient words, true forever — Alexander’s will: — my dearest desire is to see you rise out of this long-drawn humiliation, and rule the world!”

The three men had listened to me in solemn, reverent silence, fully conscious that, through my voice, a mysterious, divine Destiny had uttered its decree. And indeed I was not, in that magical moment, a mere individual, but a symbol. I was remote heathen Aryandom — Alexander’s Hellas; the beautiful primitive Hellas of the Iliad; also the wise and warlike India of the Bhagavad-Gita — acknowledging the existence of its eternal Nordic Soul in present-day pure-blooded Germany. The three men felt it — although they could not have, perhaps, just now, analysed that feeling; although they perhaps lacked the historical background that would have enabled them to do so.

I turned my back to the road, gazed at the copper-coloured sky between the trees: the Sun’s glow, after the Sun had


sunk behind the hills. I stretched out my right arm in the age old ritual gesture — the National Socialist salute — in the direction of the hidden Orb.

“As He — the Father-of-Light — will certainly rise, so will you, my German brothers!” said I. “As He is immortal, so are you. Es lebe Deutschland! Heil Hitler!”

The three men lifted their right arms in their turn, and the everlasting Words, profession of faith of a new age, resounded loud and clear over the buried blocks of mortar that had been Adolf Hitler’s house, over the dreamlike landscape that is and always will be his beloved Germany: “Heil Hitler!”

We stood, for a minute or two, in silence. Then, the eldest of the three men — the one to whom I had first spoken — looked at me intently and said: “You are right — right in spite of this relentless hatred that strives to crush us; right in spite of these ruins: we are living in year twenty of a new Age. And whether our Führer be alive or dead, this new age is his, and ours — Germany’s. He has re-given us full consciousness of our mission and of our rights. Nothing can hold us back in our onward march!”

* * *

The three men accompanied me to the spot where I had been sitting, and where I had left my things. They remained there with me for a while. We spoke of the new Age. We spoke of our Führer. “Do you believe he is alive?” my new friends asked me.

“I was practically sure of it,” answered I. “People who seemed to know had told me so. But now other people, who also seem to know, tell me that he is dead. I do not know any longer what to believe. All I know is that, if he be alive, all I want is to see him once more in power; and if he be dead in the flesh, all I want is to see those who love him and who embody his spirit rise to power and control the West — and, with the help of the Gods, the world — in his name, forever. All I know is that, whether he be alive or dead in they flesh, he is immortal. He is Germany.”

“You are right, he is.”

And after a pause, the same man asked me: “And what do you intend too do, now?”


“I have already told you: remain in Germany, if I can possibly find work there (the little money I have will be exhausted within less than a month) and contribute — in what way? I do not know, but in some way — to the resurrection of the great Reich as ‘he’ wanted it to be; continue writing books, if I can do nothing better.” (I told my new friends a little about the books I had already written and about my life.)

“You will find plenty of sympathy in Germany, and a lot of people who, for the love of this Idea, will help you to stay,” replied the man. The land is quiet — on the surface. But rest assured: National Socialism is as alive as ever — far more so than those Johnnies of the Occupation and their henchmen, the German time-servers, now in; power, seem to think. You probably know that without us needing to tell you so. And now . . . the air is getting chilly. We should go back to our hotel. We have a car. Would you like us to give you a lift?”

“It is exceedingly kind of you, but I wish to stay here a little while longer,” replied I. “Moreover, I prefer to go down on foot, as I have come.”

They wished me good luck, and I greeted them — and they, me — with the unchanging words of faith: “Heil Hitler!” And they departed.

I had not told them why I wished to stay a while longer. I judged it was better not to: it might be that they would have failed to understand my gesture and considered it childish, and despised me within their hearts (who ever knows?). But as I heard their car roll away in the direction of Berchtesgaden, I walked up to the only standing wall, at the edge of the wood, discovered upon it a fairly smooth plastered surface, and wrote upon it, with a pointed stone, the following words:

Einst kommt der Tag der Rache. Heil Hitler!

Then, my right arm outstretched, I sang the old “Kampflied” out of which the sentence is taken, and slowly walked down the beaten track, back to the road, feeling that I had done all that I now possibly could: accomplished the magical gesture; uttered the irresistible incantation of revenge and awakening, destined to bind free Germany to her Führer, for all times — “free Germany, conscious Germany, stronghold and hope of reborn Aryandom,” thought I.

I walked further uphill, visited more ruins: houses of


different close collaborators of Adolf Hitler, blown to pieces by order . . . of the Americans? . . . or of the S.P.D. Bavaria Government?

The moon now shone in the pure sky. Under its livid light, the ruins took on a ghostly appearance. Towering above them and above the whole landscape (and still covered with snow) stood in the distance the steep rock at the top of which is built the famous “Eagle’s Nest” — another of the Führer’s cherished abodes. This was not destroyed (I had been told) but is today . . . a café, and tea room.

A few steps away from the ruins of the Berghof, the house in which the Gestapo officials were formerly lodged has also, been transformed into a tea room and guest house. I stepped in, more for the thrill of feeling myself sitting there where important defenders of our New Order — as uncompromisingly devoted to it as myself — had once sat, than for the sake of a cup of hot coffee. I experienced that thrill, that same feeling of reverence coupled with ever-recurring sadness (bitterness of defeat; sadness for not having come before) that is the keynote of this whole pilgrimage of mine. And I felt even sadder, as the woman who served me told me that, “on account of the snow,” that still lay, over a metre deep, upon the road, my walking up to the Eagle’s Nest on the following day was “out of the question” — ausgeschlossen. I had not the money to remain several days more at Berchtesgaden, waiting for the snow to melt. So I had to make up my mind to see the Eagle’s Nest another time.1

Late in the evening, in bright moonshine, I followed the downward road through the woods, back to Berchtesgaden. Many times, the ever-recurring sadness gripped me. And yet, deeper than it and stronger than it was, the soothing conviction — once more strengthened in me upon the desolate site of the Berghof, by the words I had exchanged with those three Germans — that National Socialism will, in the end, impose itself upon the Aryan world.

* * *

Early next morning I walked from Berchtesgaden to Königssee, where I spent the whole day, alone by the lake.

The road is beautiful — running for five kilometres through a hilly track of land covered with emerald green meadows and

1 I saw it on the 5th of June, 1954, on my second visit to Obersalzberg.


dark woods, with, here and there, a picturesque looking house — guest house or farm — and a few fruit trees, every one of which was now (the twenty-second of April) a mass of pink or white blossoms.

Many cars rolled passed me. I noticed only one: a car running full-speed in the direction of Königssee and bearing in English the hated words: Military Police — reminding me (as though I did not know it!) that Germany is still occupied by the victors of 1945; still now, in 1953, eight years after the disaster. “Until when? Oh, until when?” thought I. I knew the blunt excuse, repeatedly set forth: if the Western Allies, were not here, then the Russians would be. The Western Allies are waiting for the German Federal Parliament — the Bundestag, — to ratify their agreements with the Bonn Government concerning the utopian “European Community” (based upon big business interests) and the “European Army” supposed to defend it (and them). Then, once those agreements are ratified, the Allied forces (of which I had just seen and heard a noisy and speedy instrument of action) will no longer be “occupants” but “friends”; friends in the common struggle “for the defence of Western civilisation” against the common foe: Communism. But I still failed to understand what there is for anyone of us to choose between Communism and capitalistic Democracy. And I hated the “values” of Western civilisation — those Judeo-Christian values, which I had so bitterly fought, all my life, to uproot — as fiercely as ever. In the name of those unnatural “values” which we deny, which we detest, coalesced Communism and capitalistic Democracy had stirred the fury of a whole world against National Socialist Germany; in defence of those “values” they had waged war on our Führer, on our régime, on our healthy, heathen faith, and staged the all-too-famous, sickening “war crime” trials after our defeat, and branded us as “monsters,” “murderers” etc. Why on earth should we, now, become the allies of Democracy against Communism rather than those of Communism against Democracy? thought I, for the millionth time. True, Democracy lacks the fanaticism in which lies the strength of all conquering ideas, and I had myself written that, inasmuch as they are more stupid, its votaries are easier to deceive than their ex-allies of the East. “But what if, after crushing their ex-allies and present-day rivals, with Germany’s help,


the Democrats managed to impose their unseen control — the Jews’ control — and their hated way of life permanently upon Germany?” I now wondered . . . And the mere idea of such a possibility made me shudder from top to toe. I forgot to look at the smiling landscape and walked mechanically, wrapped up in my bitter thoughts; longing for the Third World War whatever it might cost — even if my dearest comrades and I should perish in its flames — provided it be the best opportunity for Germany to free herself from the pressure of both the international, man-centred creeds, and to rise and conquer and rule once more, under the sacred Swastika banner.

I walked on, with that intense, one-pointed yearning which has filled every minute of my life, all these years.

Immediately before one reaches the lake, there is, on one’s left (there was, at least, in 1953) a railed-off square of American military ground and, in front of it, one one’s right, a post guarded by a sentry. I saw, standing there, the first American in uniform whom I was to meet in Germany after three years’ absence: a very young, fair-haired man, who looked exceedingly bored. I glanced at him with undisguised contempt and went my way. I walked past an open-air café, also on my right. From somewhere behind the trees, in the shade of which were disposed the many neatly-laid garden tables, came a horrible noise banging and shrieking and squeaking, howling and rattling, that which the “common man” of U.S.A. calls “music” — jazz. It grew louder and louder — more and more horrible — as I neared the lake. When I actually reached it, it became unbearable.

I have been tortured by all sorts of noises: by all-night kettledrum and castanet concerts in every part of India, including the half-wild hill districts, and by my neighbours’ wireless sets in Europe as well as in Asia. But this was something worse than all other noises rolled in one. That which came out of my neighbours’ wireless sets was sometimes musical. And the deafening rhythmical brawling and drum beating of the hill tribes of Assam or of the Kohls of Bihar expressed at least something: the collective soul of an altogether inferior people, no doubt, but a living soul; something natural; something real. While this — if anything — expressed a derivation to boredom on the part of bastardised descendants of once healthy European emigrants, steadily and rapidly sinking to the level of apes in


spite of — nay, with the help of — every manner of ultra-modern technique. Those whom one is used to call “savages” always had been inferior people, or (if the scholars who consider them not as primitives but, on the contrary, as products of decay of better races, be right) they sank to their present-day state slowly, gradually, over centuries of hardly noticeable degeneracy. They, at least, were in their place, and had not invented “de-Nazification.” These creatures — unfortunate Germany’s occupants — stretched out in the sunshine on the border of this dreamlike mountain lake, or drinking Coca-Cola before the luxurious café that seemed to be their gathering centre, were people partly, if not entirely, of my own race; some of them, — perhaps — descendants of Germanic emigrants without admixture of South European blood: purer Aryans than myself, strictly speaking. And they were here “to keep the Russians away,” no doubt, but also to keep (as long as they could) National Socialism from rising again in Germany. Bastardised Aryans, and pure Aryans in the service of the enemies of their race, trying their best to combat boredom with Coca-Cola and jazz, in this land that they have been oppressing and defiling for eight years! Definitely, I preferred the Kohls!

Thus were my thoughts as I gazed at the steep wooded hills behind which rose further hills, and finally, shining snowy peaks; at the blue sky; and at the gleaming reflection of all that beauty in the smooth waters of the lake — Königssee: the Royal Lake, — that our Führer has loved. The American noise shocked me as a profanation both of Nature and of Germany; sounded to me like a drunkard’s obscene brawl shattering the peace of a cathedral. And the thought that I could do nothing to stop it brought back into my heart the acute consciousness of defeat, so bitter, that it was physically painful to me. I walked as fast as I could along the road that ran parallel to the border of the lake, away from the vulgar noise, away from the silly Yanks — away, away, in the direction of the woods. A series of sheds, under which boats were being built or repaired, hid from me, for a while, the sight of the lovely landscape. An old man was standing before one of them, perhaps waiting for somebody. I could not help speaking to him.

“What a horrible noise!” said I. “Is it every day the same?”


“Yes; every day, or practically so,” answered he. “That is the ‘Amis’ — a plague on them!”

“I am glad to see you don’t like them any more than I do!”

“Who likes the damned Occupation forces, be they American, English, French or Russian? Who wants them? We shall welcome anything — any new development — that will force them to leave this land, the accursed lot of them! For they will never go of their own account; they are having too good a time, here, at our expense.”

I wish a day comes when they will all find things so changed that they will long to go, but will not be able to . . . I wish not one of them shall come out of Germany alive!”

“And it might well be so . . . Anyhow, I can tell you one thing: you are not the only person to wish it . . .”

Less than hundred yards from us, the ‘Amis’ persevered in their endeavour to combat boredom, unaware of our conversation; unaware of the resentment of the great Nation that they are trying in vain to convert to their idiotic conception of life; — unaware of their impending fate.

I greeted the old man and walked on, — uphill. On my right, a road led to an attractive café looking over the lake. I followed that road, reached a terrace from which the view was gorgeous, sat at one of the garden tables there, and relaxed — to some extent. The jazz noise, although one could still hear it distinctly, was not so loud; no longer unbearable.

* * *

I relaxed — or tried to, — for a while. I let my eyes rest upon the beauty of the lake. But even though it was no longer a positive physical torment, the jazz noise kept on reminding me of the Occupation forces in general and, in this case, more specially of the Americans, in Germany. And I could not think of anything else.

“U.S.A., the nation-killer,” reflected I, my elbow on the table, my chin in my hand, my eyes looking towards the lake without really seeing it, the coffee, that had been brought to me a quarter of an hour before, getting cold; “U.S.A. the nation-killer, that is not itself a nation but merely a federation of interests . . .


I suppose that is the reason why I detested it so fiercely, even before the war . . .”

I remembered a Greek woman who had once come over from America to my native town in France, for her brother’s wedding, bringing with her young son, aged ten or so. I had asked the little boy what he was, and he had replied unhesitatingly: “An American!”

“But how can that be? Your father and mother are both Greeks, as well as your grandparents, uncles and aunts.”

“It makes no difference,” had answered the boy. “I am born in the U.S.A. I am an American. I want to be one. What does it matter to you? Am I not free to be what I like?”

“No, Yanaki; one is not free to be what one likes. You can love and serve the U.S.A. if it pleases you. But you cannot be an American. Moreover, there is no such thing as an American people: there are only different people of our continent whose fathers went and settled in America. Each one belongs to his own fatherland, — when he is lucky enough to have one, like you, whose whole family is Greek . . .”

“You are like my granny: you must always argue,” had said the lad. “Only with her, it is God; with you, Greece. And call me Johnny, not Yanaki. I tell you I am an American!”

That conversation between a child and myself, nearly thirty years before, now came back to my mind. Yes, that — the fact that it makes nearly every European who is born there forget his blood and the land of his blood, — was what had, from the beginning, set me so violently against “Amerika.” That, and also the description of the slaughterhouse in Chicago in a famous French book.1 The former had filled nee with indignation, the latter with disgust. And then, — years later — came the war, and Roosevelt, that deficient specimen of humanity, jealous of the healthy world we were creating; Roosevelt, whom his morbid envy, coupled with effective power, had turned into a positive criminal — and America’s intervention: Roosevelt’s achievement, without which National Socialist Germany would have won the war.

But it was only because the Germans and Italians born


in the U.S.A. held themselves to be “Americans,” that Roosevelt’s policy had been conceivable. The root of the evil — the fact that stamped the U.S.A. as a force of disintegration — lay there, in the Greek child’s answer to me; in the answer that millions of children — and grownup people — descendants of pure-blooded Europeans of all nations, would have given me, had I reminded them of the sacred brotherhood of blood am an American. I want to be one.”

And I thought of that sinister “American,” descendant of German emigrants, Eisenhower, the “Crusader to Europe,” who burnt the German people alive in streams of flaming phosphorus, in order to crush National Socialism, the purest expression of the Germanic soul. “And how many descendants of German emigrants, and how many men of Nordic blood are there to he found among the ‘Americans’ responsible for the Nuremberg Trial and other shameful mockeries of justice of the same sort?” reflected I.

I had a sip of coffee — completely cold, by now, — and continued thinking.

What was there at the back of all that? What made little Yanakis and millions of others — young Greeks, young Italians, young Englishmen; young Germans such as Dwight Eisenhower (or his father or grandfather) had once been, — want to be “Americans”?

There was, first, the influence of the American school, telling them how “great” the U.S.A. are. Most people believe what they are told. Those who, already in their childhood, question the very principles they are asked to accept as basis of all truth, are rare. And then came the material facilities which the U.S.A. offer to clever boys and girls who wish to “get on in life.” It needs not only an adventurous spirit but also a tremendous contempt for the country in which one is born, to refuse deliberately all such facilities, preferring the perspective of a bitter day-to-day material struggle — life-long insecurity — to “a situation” as a citizen of that country. Didn’t I know it! — I who had refused French citizenship! And how should the child born in the U.S.A. feel such contempt, when he has believed what he has been taught at school and when, as it is the fact, in most cases, he does not possess a sufficiently definite


scale of values of his own to be shocked to such an extent by the things he sees and hears, that he would rather undergo anything than be “an American”?

I thought of my own childhood in France. What had really set me against France? The knowledge, rather than the actual sight, of hypocrisy, injustice and cruelty on an international scale, and the direct contact with inconsistency and shallowness, and with that detestable French habit of making fun of everything; that entire lack of fanaticism, so contemptible, and so boring, to a born idealist and a born fighter. But how many foreign children born in France had, to my knowledge, waited till they became twenty-one to proclaim, in a spectacular gesture, their refusal of French nationality and of all the material advantages attached to it? How many adolescents, — let alone children, — had been in lasting rebellion against the hypocrisy of the war propaganda inflicted upon us in the French schools, during the First World War (of the tale that the Germans were “monsters” for having marched through defenceless Belgium, while the French, who landed in defenceless Greece a year later, were not . . .)? How many had been upset at the news of the long blockade of Greece by the Allies, in 1917? Or of the French atrocities in the Ruhr, after the war? I had been a very peculiar child, in whose heart such things had had a tremendous echo. Such things, and other horrors also: instances of the way man treats dumb animals (I remembered that the little I had then known of slaughterhouses and vivisection chambers had been the great nightmare of my childhood, and my oldest grievance against “civilisation,” for which France was supposed to be fighting).

A new and louder sound-wave rolled over the smiling waters and brought me the banging and shrieking of jazz — the soul of the Africanised U.S.A. And I recalled the words of the Greek emigrants’ child: “I want to be an American. Am I not free to choose?”

Free, after having his head stuffed with nonsense about the ‘greatness of the U.S.A.’ from the age of six!” thought I, bitterly. Then, in contrast with that, the ever-vivid memory of my own rebellion against the values that one had tried to teach me to hold as the highest, filled me with pride. “Free to


choose! . . .” I too, had been told that, over and over again, in the course of my democratic education. And that was, in my whole upbringing, the one thing that I had retained — and put to profit! “Free to choose” — free to say — and to do — what my conscience told me . . . The trouble for the Democrats, who had given me that blessed liberal education, was that my conscience and theirs did not have the same conception of right and wrong. Mankind’s “universal conscience,” of which they made — and still make — such a fuss, apparently did not exist in me. And my conscience had weighed their Christian — their so-called “human” — scale of values, instead of swallowing it unquestioningly as something wonderful, as they had expected. It had weighed it, and found it wanting. It had considered their man-centred morality issued from the Christian teaching, and found its attitude to the animal world repulsive, its attitude to “all men,” silly, and felt for it nothing but contempt, and for the bastardised “civilisation” resting upon it, nothing but hatred. My conscience had discovered that I had no better reasons to be loyal to France than I had to support Christianity. And I had chosen to be loyal to my Aryan blood: the one thing pure, the one thing real in me, in spite of that blending of nationalities that I represent. And I had chosen Adolf Hitler’s life-centred, cosmic, — heathen — scale of values even before I had known of its existence. I had used that “individual freedom,” that “right to choose” that the Democrats so loudly proclaim; used it to identify myself with National Socialism in all its uncompromising aggressiveness, in all its healthy violence, pride and youthful joy, and to expose, in its name, the false idea of a “universal conscience” and the standing lie of “individual freedom.”

“Free to choose anything — even one’s national allegiance” . . . (And how many times have they not repeated it, to this day! They have killed all our martyrs for not having betrayed Germany in the name of that non-existing “universal conscience,” supposed to be present in “all men”). Well and good! Just as many choose the U.S.A., the Dollar-land, in which one “gets on in life,” so had I finally chosen Germany, the Nation that gave her all in defence of the rights of Aryan blood. The French had taught me: “Tout homme a deux patries: la sienne, et


puis la France” (every man has two fatherlands: his own, and France). But I was free not to believe them. I was free to work out my own conclusions, in accordance with my “reason and conscience.” And my “reason and conscience” had told me, more and more clearly, that “every Aryan has two fatherlands: his own, and National Socialist Germany.” Every person goes to that which he or she really loves, really wants. More than to “get on in life” — or to acquire a professorship in France, — I had wanted to feel myself in perfect oneness with Something true and great, and everlasting; Something that I could admire without reservations, and fight for, without the slightest hope of personal gain — for the love of it alone.

A pity, surely, that I could not yet go and tell this, on the wireless, to all the Democrats of the world; rub it into their heads until they became sick of hearing me! A pity that I could not gather those clever defenders of the rights of “conscience” who staged the sinister Nuremberg farce, and put before them the question — the puzzle: “What do your Lordships say when they come across an exception to the dull rule of “universal” conscience — like me; someone who feels “free to choose,” and who chooses Nazism; someone who has a conscience of her own, which is not universal; and which tells her, as plainly as plain can be, that “right is nothing else but the Führer’s will: that which he orders; that which others order in his name; that which is in accordance with his spirit”?

* * *

The Sun was not unusually hot. And people were having lunch at the neighbouring tables. It was getting late.

I had long drunk my coffee, and would have welcomed something to eat: — a boiled potato and a plate of lettuce salad; or a slice of apple tart, or both. But I had a long way more to go, and would run out of funds if I were not very careful. Since the day I had spent in Braunau I had been living on dry bread and coffee and was none the worse for it. So I decided to continue.

The Americans had at last ceased producing their insane noise. “The monkeys are quiet; feeding time, apparently,” thought I, with relentless hostility towards them and towards the Occupation as a whole. At that moment, an elderly man


came forth, carrying a photographing machine. He stopped at every table where people were eating, spoke a few words — asking everyone whether he should take a picture of him or her — and went away, as nobody seemed interested. He came to me, put me the same question with utmost courtesy and dignity, without insisting in the least. He had a sympathetic face with regular, energetic features; racially irreproachable. I wondered what his convictions were, feeling inclined to believe that, with such a face, he could hardly be anything but an admirer, when not an active follower, of our Weltanschauung. But I had no time to start imagining and supposing: I had to decide within a few seconds whether I should have a photo of myself taken or not. “Two marks for three pictures,” said the man; he would send them on to me wherever I pleased . . .

“Two marks . . .” That meant three cups of coffee with three buns — three meals, for me. And I did not require the pictures . . . But nobody had said “yes” to the old photographer. He would leave the place without having earned anything, if I also refused. And it was so pleasant to hear his voice, after that jazz noise — honest German, after the Negroid brawl. And who knew what he had gone through, to be forced to earn his living in that insecure manner, at his age? — poor, dear old man!

I took two marks out of my purse, and asked him to photograph me. It would be, anyhow, a tangible remembrance of the lake which our Führer loved.

When it was finished, we talked. It turned out that the man was, indeed, perfectly “in order” — as much on our side as anyone can be. He took me to his house, a few steps away from the terrace; introduced me to his family; offered me a second cup of coffee with a bun, that I gladly ate. And we spent about an hour praising the Führer and the great Days; deploring the disaster and all its consequences; telling each other the reasons we had to believe in the invincibility of the National Socialist spirit and in Germany’s resurrection.

* * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering in the woods around the lake, in the hot sunshine, in the fragrance of pine trees;


in the contemplation of the shining waters, of the surrounding hills and of the blue sky, and of the inner vision of him, whose thought constantly filled my consciousness. All was silent, save for the usual noises of life in forests: rustling of leaves, birds’ voices, humming of insects — noises that never disturb me but, on the contrary, lull me into meditation. Now and then, also, could be heard the motor of a pleasure-boat cutting its way over the luminous water surface.

The perspective of the lake, that stretched out in length between the steep hills (with their upside-down reflection within it) was magnificent. I thought of him — our Leader — who loved Nature so reverently, coming to relax in this abode of radiant peace. And the question rose in my heart, as it had so many times already: if he be alive, on what landscape do his eyes now rest? Where can he be? Would I ever see him Again I envied all those who had once sat with him before this vision of beauty. And again I put myself the practical question: “What can I do, now, for him and for Germany, apart from writing books?”

“Continue thinking day and night of revenge and resurrection, as you have these last eight years replied my innermost Self. “Thought is also something real, something positive, in the realm of the Invisible. And the realm of the Invisible governs this visible world.”

I was sitting alone at the foot of a pine tree, quite near the border of the lake. For a long time, I watched the ripples on the surface of the water. Then, I threw a pebble into the lake, and followed the transmission of the movement it had stirred, in broader and broader concentric circles, endlessly . . . It is said that the spreading vibration does not stop at the limits of the water that has transmitted it, but prolongs itself, indefinitely, throughout the earth.

“And such are also — probably — the magnetic waves that the power of thought sets in motion in the realm of the Invisible,” reflected I. “Nothing can hold them back. And who can tell what amount of energy they represent when relentlessly produced day after day, hour after hour, for years and years, be it by a lonely, powerless individual like myself? Completely out of the clumsy individual’s control, but faithful to the impersonal Purpose of the indefatigable Will that sent them


forth — the individual will, no doubt, but also the collective Will behind it — on and on they go, through limitless space, preparing, maybe at the other end of the earth, that which will, sooner or later, bring about the materialisation of the one Purpose; making the lonely, powerless, clumsy, but conscious and sincere individual personally responsible for that materialisation and for every happening that leads to it . . .”

I was raised above myself at this glorious feeling of responsibility.

It was anything but the first time that this idea had come into my head. All through my life, even as a child, I had felt myself personally responsible — and wished to be personally responsible — not only for everything which I had (with or without success) tried to do, but also for everything which I had wanted; he it for events that were, as such, entirely out of my reach. And I had, later on, proclaimed as loud as I could that I held myself morally responsible for anything that had been, that was, or that would one day be done for the triumph of National Socialism; in particular, for anything that was done in the name of the Third Reich. But seldom had I been so acutely, so tangibly aware of the truth of this statement, as I now was. Now, I watched the concentric circles upon the shining surface of the lake, rising and sinking at calculable distances from one another, further and further away from the common centre where my pebble had disappeared into the depth. And I knew that similar waves of unseen magnetic power linked me — and every one of us, who embodies our one-pointed collective Will — to every present and future development which contributes, directly or indirectly, to the triumph of our truth. The waves of burning indignation that I had sent out seven years before, during the dismal Nuremberg Trial, against the four Allies, were now in Egypt, in Kenya, in Persia, in Korea, in Indo-China, all over the world, working to bring about der Tag der Rache — the Day of Revenge — the downfall of our persecutors.

There is nothing sweeter than to feel oneself personally responsible for the destruction of those who hate all one loves; nothing more elating than the knowledge: “I, I shall crush them — and avenge my tortured comrades; I, powerless, insignificant as I may seem, shall at least contribute to that end through the uncontrollable working of patiently concentrated


and consciously directed thought! I, — or rather we — alone against the power of arms, against the power of money, against the power of lies! We . . . or rather He — the Lord of the unseen Forces, in harmony with Whose divine Will we think and act and live, already preparing in the realm of the Invisible our second Seizure of power on the visible plane . . . !”

Oh, to feel that; to know that!

Our opponents, Democrats and Communists, can, of course, also produce thought-waves. But the Democrats at least are, in that respect, no match for us, reflected I. They drink Coca-Cola, and dance to the sound of jazz bands, and have love affairs, and worry about their psychological “problems,” while we send out, relentlessly, into impalpable aether, the irresistible magnetic currents that steadily undermine the whole structure of their silly world, opening the way for the future Brown Battalions.

And I sat, with my spine erect, upon the mossy ground, gazed for a long time at the dazzling white peaks that dominated the scenery at the other end of the lake, and then shut my eyes, cutting myself off from all things visible. And while inhaling and exhaling the fragrant air of the woods, I pinned my mind unto the inner vision of the Cosmic Dance at the back of which stand the everlasting laws of being — our hope; our victory, whatever may happen. And I imagined the glorious Figure through which India has expressed the idea of that Play of forces without end: Shiva, Lord of the Dance, Lord of Life and Death, serene, and merciless, surrounded with flames — the supreme, non-human, immanent Godhead Which we all worship, without knowing it, we, heathen Aryans of the West.

And at the back of Him, filling the immensity of limitless Space, I imagined — I saw, with the inner eye, — the resplendent Wheel of the Sun; our Sign, older than the world; our eternal Swastika.

And I was filled with ecstatic joy at the feeling that we are eternal, and that nothing can destroy us.

It was late when I walked back to Berchtesgaden.


Chapter 4


23 April 1953

Seated in a corner of the railway carriage, by the open window, I breathed the early morning air with delight and admired the scenery, refusing deliberately to think of the inconvenience that I should perhaps have to face at Freilassing. That inconvenience consisted in being compelled to wait an hour and a half for the next train to Munich, in the case I should not have time to collect my heavy suitcase at the cloakroom within the mere eight minutes this “through train,” in which I was travelling, was to halt at the junction station. “Why had I at all left the suitcase there, to avoid the trouble of dragging it with me to Berchtesgaden?” I wondered.

But to bother my head beforehand would not solve the coming difficulty. So I brushed the thought aside. I had rolled along this same track three days before, on my way to Berchtesgaden, but at 10 p.m., or so. So it was the first time that I was seeing the scenery. And it was too beautiful for me to miss a single glimpse of it: woods, and still more woods; then, suddenly, a stretch of gleaming water full of the upside-down reflection of bordering trees, bright, yellowish-green in the sunshine, and of steep dark slopes, at the top of which emerged, now and then, an impressive spur of rock; and, always, always, — above all that, far away — the resplendent outline of snowy ranges against the pure sky: the same Bavarian Alps, of which I had been admiring the splendour from the moment I had opened my eyes in Berchtesgaden; the same, but seen from an ever greater distance.

Freilassing — an abrupt return to practical reality. This time, I brushed aside every thought save that of my suitcase. Eight minutes’ time only! I had to make haste if I wished to catch the same train. I had explained my trouble to a tall, handsome, sympathetic young man who had helped me to step


out of the train with the luggage I had with me: a smaller suitcase and a travelling bag, which I could not leave in the railway carriage, as I was not at all sure that I would have time to come back. The young man accompanied me to the cloakroom, carrying half the things for me — thus enabling me to walk faster

The train had halted on platform 3 — as far as possible from the cloakroom. “It would!” thought I in a flash, inwardly acknowledging my bad luck. This meant that I should have to take the underground passage — to go down a flight of steps and then up another one; and then, down again and up once more with my suitcase weighing thirty kilos. And no porter anywhere to be seen! It was clear that I would miss this train and have to wait an hour and a half. Still . . . What could be done?

We reached the cloakroom. I produced my receipt, paid, took my suitcase. But I could not possibly carry it myself and be back to my train in time. The young man took it in one hand; held my travelling bag in the other: “Follow me as fast as you can!” cried he, as he walked down the steps, back into the underground passage through which we had come. “You have three minutes more; still time!”

I trotted along as fast as I could at his side. We reached the train within a minute. The young man pushed my things in, helped me to lift my heavy suitcase and place it in the net above my seat. “I do thank you!” exclaimed I, overwhelmed at the idea of all the trouble that he had taken for my sake. “It was most kind of you. I do thank you!” But it was not only that the man had spared me the inconvenience of waiting for the next train. What really touched me in him was that spontaneous will to help me. He was about thirty. “Twenty-two at the time of the Capitulation,” thought I; “ten, in 1933.” Which meant that he had been brought up in our principles. I was practically sure that he was one of us. (I had met only one German of that generation, who was not.) But he did not know me. He had not spoken to me in the train. He could not guess who I was. And yet . . . I felt sure that there existed in him some subconscious certitude concerning me. His subtle self knew who I was, if his conscious self did not. And he probably expressed the certitude of


his subtle self by finding me “extremely sympathetic” (or something of the kind) without knowing why.

In my eyes, he was Germany — Adolf Hitler’s people — responding to my love. And to the extent this was possible, I could not help telling him so.

“Do you know,” said I, leaning out of the window while he stood on the platform; “that I have never been shown such friendly attention — such affection, I can say: the word is not too strong — on the part of any people, as I have here in Germany? It looks as though they feel how much I love and admire them. And you have, once more, strengthened in me that impression.”

“Yes,” replied the young man; “you are right: I have felt . . .”

But the train had started, and I shall never know what he was going to say.

* * *

I sat down, and one single thought, one immense expectation filled my consciousness: “I am now really going to Munich, the birthplace of National Socialism.” The mere name of the town had upon my imagination a magical effect. Letting my head rest against the back of the seat, I shut my eyes and thought of the early days of the Struggle, and for the millionth time deplored the fact that I had come to Germany so late, while the oldest, strongest and deepest aspirations of my life should have drawn me there directly, even long before 1933.

We were nearing the hallowed city. Soon I read in large letters, on the side of the railway, the indication of the coming station: München. And tears welled up to my eyes. I recalled the words of one of the oldest and most beautiful songs of the early days of the Struggle for power: the song in honour of the sixteen first Martyrs of National Socialism:

In München sind viele gefallen;

In München war’n viele dabei . . .”

I also remembered Adolf Hitler’s enthusiastic praise of the predestined town: “A German city; what a difference with Vienna!”1 . . . “What drew me to it more than anything else

1 Mein Kampf, edit. 1939, p. 138.


was that wonderful blending of primitive vital energy and of refined artistic disposition.”1

I got out of the train, went and left my luggage at the cloakroom, as usual, and wandered for a while in the newly rebuilt station. I remembered the railway stations with gaping walls and no roofs that I had seen five years before all over Germany, and I was elated at the sight of the contrast. And as I had not yet had anything to eat or drink, I sat at a table before the Refreshment room, and ordered a cup of coffee and a bun.

A man came and sat opposite me. I did not much like the look of him. He had none of the external traits that usually induce me to feel that a person is (or at least might be) one of us. But I told myself that he was, anyhow, a German. And I was romantic enough to hope that the first German who spoke to me in Munich could hardly be anything else but a sympathiser of National Socialism when not a fanatical supporter of it. But fate is sometimes bitterly ironical.

The fellow, who turned out to be anything but an embodiment of what I call a worthy German, had very definite views about foreigners. And he held, in particular, that a foreigner — and specially a citizen of one of those countries that fought on the side of, the Allies during this stupid war — is necessarily — must necessarily be — an Anti-Nazi, and consequently a person full of tenderness towards all “victims of National Socialism.” No sooner had I answered his first question and told him that I had come from Athens and that I was Greek, he imagined he had discovered someone who would not fail to admire him. “You know,” said he, utterly pleased with himself; “I have been interned in a concentration camp . . .”

I despised him. “Another of those confounded ‘victims of the Nazi régime,’” thought I. “And one who, on the top of that, has the impudence of imagining that he is going to stir my sympathy. Whom does he take me for?” But I refrained from letting him notice any sign of my reaction.

“Is it so?” said I, politely. “And in which camp were you?”

“In Dachau. You must have heard of Dachau, surely?”

“Heard of Dachau? I should think so!”

1 Mein Kampf, edit. 1939, p. 139.


And I could not have been more sincere than in this exclamation. I had indeed heard of the horrors that took place there: of the unbelievable tortures inflicted upon S.S. men by Jews in American uniform (and by degenerate Aryans, worse than Jews) in 1945, 1946, 1947 — after the all-too-famous camp had been taken over by the defenders of humanity in their “crusade to Europe.”

But the stupid ass took my exclamation for an unmistakable mark of sympathy. “Well, I have been there three years,” declared he, more pleased with himself than ever.

I could not help smiling. Then, I put him a most unexpected question: “Were you there before 1945, or after?”

The man looked at me as though he could not understand what I implied. “Before 1945, naturally,” said he.

“And what were you there for?” if it be not too indiscreet to ask you,” pursued I bitingly, in an icy-cold voice, with a sarcastic smile. “Was it, like so many other internees, for having transgressed against Article 175 of the German penal Code? Or was it for something even worse: for having worked against the National Socialist régime, for example?” (“Violation of Article 175 of the Penal Code” was an euphemistic way of referring to homosexuality — already bad enough, specially in our eyes.)

The “victim of National Socialism” was too abruptly taken aback to speak. I thought he was going to get up and walk away, disgusted by the brutality of my questions. But he did not. He answered me — after a few seconds.

“Oh, for nothing of all that, and surely for nothing connected with politics!” exclaimed he. “Don’t think I was an enemy of the Party, although I never belonged to it. I never was a member of any party . . .”

Now that he had become aware of the enormity of his blunder, he was trying his best to justify himself — at least, to lessen his culpability in my eyes — as though we still were in power, or as though he were sure that we would soon again be. “A good sign!” reflected I. But the man resumed his apology “I had merely punched the mayor’s face, in the course of a discussion, in our village. It was to teach him a lesson, for he had spoken haughtily to me. But he happened to be a Party member while I was not; that is why I was so severely punished.”


“Under any régime one is severely punished, if one assaults representatives of the established authority with one’s fists,” remarked I bluntly. And I got up.

“Another time,” added I, “you should not be in such a hurry to tell your adventures to the first person you meet, be he (or she) a foreigner. Now, of course, it is of little import. But you can never know what consequences it might have for you in the future.”

And I went my way, leaving the bewildered man to his thoughts.

I walked out of the station and, turning to my left, — as though some instinct had told me that this was the direction in which I should seek all that I had come to see in Munich — I followed the street. Munich has, during this war, suffered from Allied bombing as much as any German town. The station has been rebuilt, admittedly; and so have also many houses, bearing tangible witness to the peoples will to live. But there are still immense empty spaces to be seen — like gaping wounds — amidst the standing buildings, old and new; whole localities that have not yet come back to life. And there are ruined spaces over which have been built nothing but shops (and an occasional cinema) — no houses . . . I thought of the millions of uprooted Germans who, eight years after the end of the war, are still packed in “temporary” refugee camps or in no less precarious wooden lodgings. More of them are pouring in every day from the Russian Zone, one is told. And I thought of all the money that has been extorted from poor bleeding Germany during these eight years, and spent — wasted — on different useless luxuries for the benefit of the detested Occupants, or on shameful “compensations” granted to Israel as a State, to individual Jews, and to the traitors of Aryan blood, voluntary slaves of Jewry, “victims of National Socialism!”

I recalled a fairly large sign board that I had once noticed against a certain wall in Baden-Baden — somewhere on that avenue leading to what is now the French Gendarmerie —: “Office for Relief to the Victims of National Socialism.” With what delight had I, upon a foggy night of January 1949, at 2:30 a.m., stuck up one of my posters in the middle of that sign-board, and then walked past the place three or four times to


enjoy the defiance effect produced by the impressive black Swastika (that occupied one third of the surface of the poster) under the mendacious words: Victims of National Socialism!

I knew who those self-styled “victims” were: fellows of the type of that one whom I had just now met at the station, and worse. All the downright criminal elements among the women who, in 1949, composed the bulk of the non-political prisoners in Werl, had spent more or less time in concentration camps under our régime. I now remembered one of these who had remained four years in one for having killed a pig in a cruel manner — and in a flash, I compared that righteous verdict with that of the English tribunal which had, in 1950 or 1951, sentenced a man to a mere month’s imprisonment for having thrown a live cat into a burning oven. And once more I glorified our New Order. Many women who, under the Nazi régime, had been condemned to life-long internment for such crimes as abortion, complicity in murder of infants, etc, were afterwards set free by the champions of the “rights of man” and . . . had begun again. One, — a Czech, whom I had met in Werl, — had been nineteen times sentenced for theft and for abortive practices, by democratic judges, after we “monsters” had lost all power! And what is true of the women is no less true of the men. Such people were now given pensions; were paid for being criminals, “victims of National Socialism,” thought I bitterly, as I walked on, not having found yet, on the right side of the street at least, a single old building standing, nor a single new residential house, but only shops and still more shops, many of them luxurious. And I wondered how many of those shops were finally owned by Jews — Jews who had had them built and equipped with German money, here, upon this martyred earth, in the place of the German homes that their bombs, their war, their hatred of the predestined Aryan Nation, had destroyed!

Oh, until when would last this rule of Mammon, — of the Money Power, — which we came to crush? Until when would Germany be forced to pay those who are responsible for this war and for the disaster of 1945: the Jews of Palestine, the Jews of Europe, the Jews of the whole world, and their friends, — the German traitors and the foreign Occupants?


* * *

I walked straight on to Marienplatz, where I was glad to see that at least one side of the square had been spared by the Allied bombs. I wanted to see “the famous Feldherrenhalle, the building before which the Sixteen were shot on the 9th of November 1923; and someone had told me that I should first go to Marienplatz, and there, ask. But whom to ask? Obviously any “tourist” can wish to see the Feldherrenhalle, a historical building. Yet, it seemed to me as though every person would at once guess why I wanted to see it, and put me embarrassing questions. And I was determined to avoid questions, now, after my first conversation in Munich, at the railway-station. A young man who, at first sight, struck me as sympathetic, was standing before a shop. I asked him.

“The Feldherrenhalle? That is quite near,” said he. “Come with us; we are going in that direction; we shall show you.”

As he had finished his sentence, two other youngsters — for whom he had apparently been waiting stepped out of the shop and joined him. I now understood the meaning of “us,” and followed the three men. I followed then, without saying a word. I did not particularly like the two newcomers: and as I had a further look at him, one of them even struck me as possibly Jewish. It seemed strange to me to he walking to wards the Feldherrenhalle in his company. In a flash, I recalled the early Struggle, the sacrifice of the sixteen first blood-witnesses, and then, the clays of triumph, the years of power . . . What must have been the atmosphere of Munich, — cradle of the Hitler faith — then?, thought I. Oh, why had I not come then? Now, the man I had met at the station and this fellow, here, whose ears (in this connection, far more significant a feature than the nose, whatever most people might think) were placed too high, were the people one came across. The others? Those who had made the great days? Dead; or rotting in Landsberg and other prisons; or leading, as inconspicuously as possible, an eventless, when not hopeless, day-to-day life; faithful, no doubt; as ardently attached to Adolf Hitler as ever — more ardently than ever, perhaps, after their direct experience of Democracy, — but powerless and silent. I felt depressed.

But the three young men soon parted from me. “Now, it


is easy for you to find your way,” said the one to whom I had first spoken; “follow this street, straight on, till you come to a square. As you enter the Square — Odeonsplaz — the building on your right is the Residenz, the building on your left, the Feldherrenhalle. You cannot miss it.”

Indeed I could not. For after I had walked two or three minutes, there it stood, only a few yards away from me, facing, the square, with its three arches (that I had seen on pictures), its bronze group of victory, its two statues, — one on the right, one on the left of the allegorical group — its inscriptions upon two bronze tablets against the wall, and its two stone lions, one on each side, at the top of the flight of steps leading up to the statues and to the victory group. I walked up the steps, read the names of the warlords whom the statues represent: the famous Tilly, and Prince Karl Wrede, Fieldmarshal of Bavaria. I read the inscriptions upon the bronze tablets “During the victorious war 1870–1871, 134,744 Bavarians fought for Germany. Of these, 3,825 were slain upon the battlefield. The Bavarian generals were Ludwig Freiherr von und zu der Tann Rathgarnhausen, and General Jakob Ritter von Hartmann”; and, on the other side: “During the World War 1914–1918, 1,400,000 Bavarians fought for Germany, and 200,000 of them were slain upon the battlefield. Fieldmarshal Krownprince Rupprecht of Bavaria, General Fieldmarshal prince Leopold V of Bavaria, and General Oberst Fieldmarshal Count von Bothmer were in command.”

I was happy to read those words, everlasting testimony to Bavaria’s loyalty to the German Reich. But I had especially come to be silent upon the spot where the Sixteen had died for all that the German Reich means to me; to think of them; to think of him, full of whose burning faith they had died. I wanted to know where, exactly, the tragedy of the 9th of November had taken place.

It was not so easy to ask that as it had been to ask where stood the Feldherrenhalle: foreign travellers who are nothing more than tourists are not generally interested in such recent history. To them, the “Putsch” in Munichour Führer’s first attempt to seize power in 1923and the repression on the part of the so-called German Government of the time, are just episodes of the inner political life of a foreign country.


I stood before the building, seeking among the passersby a sympathetic face — someone of whom I could feel that “he might be one of us.” I soon spotted one out. There are plenty of them in Munich after all, — even now.

“Excuse me, if you please . . . May I ask you a question? I hope you will not mind . . .” began I, still a little hesitatingly. “I have come from abroad, and I would like to know . . .”

The man, — a tall, handsome blond of about thirty-five — stopped and considered me with curiosity. “Of course I am glad to help you if I can,” said he most courteously. “What is it?”

“I would like to know . . . where exactly did the Sixteen fall, on the 9th of November 1923. ‘Vor der Feldherrenhalle’ says the old song . . . Was it actually there, in the midst of the square?”

The young man’s face suddenly brightened. But he did not at once allow himself to believe that which, in his subconscious mind, he already knew to be true, concerning me. He looked at me earnestly and instead of answering my question, questioned me. “You have come from abroad to ask me that!” exclaimed he, as though it were something hardly conceivable. “May I know why you are at all interested in the fate of the Sixteen? Is it just . . . from a historical point of view?”

“It is because I look upon them as the first martyrs of my faith,” replied I simply. “They died for Germany to become once more free and powerful. Thereby, they died also for my Aryan ideals, which Germany has embodied from the dawn of history onwards — unconsciously or half-consciously, for centuries; in full awareness, since Adolf Hitler’s message . . . I have come from abroad to pay homage to them; to think of them in religious reverence, on the spot.”

The young man gazed at me more earnestly than ever, stretched out ‘his hand to me, in the gesture of comradeship, and said: “Come, I shall show you. You have the right to know . . .”

He took me round the corner and showed me the wall of the Feldherrenhalle facing the Residenz building. “It was there,” said he, “in this street, before this wall. In the great days, there was there a commemorative board with an inscription


reminding us of the heroes’ sacrifice. Look: you can see the mark of it.”

He showed me, between the, blocks of stone, bits of iron that had once sustained the commemorative board. “And a Guard used to keep watch here, day and night, like before the sarcophagi of the Sixteen, on Adolf Hitler Platz,” added he. “S.S. men were permanently stationed in that building, part of the Residenz, now being reconstructed, on the other side of the street. But these people have taken down the board with the sixteen Names and smashed it to bits, naturally. They have destroyed everything that reminds us of our Struggle and of our martyrs. Never mind! We remember, nevertheless!”

“We do!” exclaimed I. “We shall never forget those first blood-witnesses, nor the others — the more recent ones. Never forget, and never forgive!” stressed I. And as I uttered those words, I remembered my beloved comrade Hertha Ehlert: those words had been my last message to her, before I had left Werl, over three years before. I had been three years free. But she was still there, as far as I knew; still behind bars, while I stood here in the sunshine, in the broad, busy street . . . I felt small before her; small before all those who suffered; before all those who died for our ideals.

I remained silent at the side of the faithful young German who could not have been more than four or five years old in November 1923. Looking straight before me, I thought of the Sixteen.

I recalled their names: Alfarth, Bauriedl, Casella, Ehrlich, Faust, Hechenberger, Körner, Kuhn, Laforce, Neubauer, Pape, Pfordten, Rickmers, Streubner-Richter, Stransky and Wolf. I knew them by heart. For years, on those great anniversaries that remind us of heroism and sacrifice for the love of our Führer, I had, with reverence, repeated those names within my mind. They were, — they are, like those of our other martyrs, — sacred names to me. And I pictured to myself the scene that had taken place on that 9th of November 1923 at 12:30 p.m. I imagined the Sixteen (and along with them, the wounded, among whom was Hermann Göring) lying there in their blood, on that very footpath where I now stood, shot by order of so-called national authorities, because, in Adolf Hitler’s


own words, they had “believed in the resurrection of their people.”1

“Where had I been, then, at that tragic hour?” reflected I. I knew; I remembered; I had been then in Athens — eighteen years old (the two youngest among the Munich blood-witnesses, Karl Laforce and Klaus von Pape, were only nineteen). I was already full of the one same lofty dream for which I had always lived: the dream of a people of my race building now, in our times, a civilisation of iron, rooted in truth; a civilisation with all the virtues of the Ancient World, none of its weaknesses, and all the technical achievements of the modern age without modern hypocrisy, pettiness and moral squalor. Only I used to speak — then — of “Hellenism,” not yet of “Aryandom.” But the dream was the same. And then, just as now. I lived for that dream alone. And I was already beginning to realise for the first time, perhaps, (although I did not want to realise it) how few were the modern Greeks who understood “Hellenism” as I did.

I now recalled those days of my early snuggle against every aspect of what I then called “the West,” meaning Democratic capitalism dominant by Christian values. I had spent the whole afternoon of the 9th of November upon the Acropolis of Athens, seeking in the sight of the unparalleled ruins, of the aetherial landscape, and of the deep blue sky, the inspiration that would help me to surmount all bitterness. I was living not far from the Acropolis, and had gone up just after lunch. Yes, at 1:30 p.m. — i.e., when it had been 12:30 or so in Munich — I had most probably been there . . .

I had not known what was taking place in Munich. Still less had I suspected the meaning of it. But I clearly remembered that, on the next day, one had read in the papers about “unrest” in the capital of Bavaria, where “a certain Hitler” had tried to seize power, and where the “agitator,” who had already given much trouble to the Allies (and to Germany’s own Democratic government) had been arrested with thirteen of his followers, while sixteen had been killed by Reichswehr bullets during the “unrest.” The event had been variously commented upon at lunch time, in the boarding house — “International

1 Mein Kampf (dedication).


Home,” 54 Leophoros Amalias — where I was then staying. And although I had been far from connecting the Leader who had (temporarily) failed, with my own dream of an out and out beautiful world of warriors and artists, I had exclaimed in a sincere outburst of sympathy for him: “I wish he had been lucky enough to seize power! — whoever he be. That would have taught ‘those swine’ a lesson!”

“May I know whom you call by such a name?” had asked the manageress, Mademoiselle Mauron, a sour Swiss old maid, thoroughly prejudiced in favour of everything French. She had been properly shocked at my vulgar language.

“You mean to say that you wish to know who ‘those swine’ are had I retorted, purposely stressing the objectionable word. “Why, the Allies, of course! I hate them ever since the French landed in Greece, during the war, after blaming the Germans for having marched through Belgium. And I wish they, or their agents, had not been able to lay hands on the German patriot. I wish he does, one day, succeed in tearing up their Versailles Treaty, that monstrosity, if any!”

“Will you please keep your opinions for yourself?” had replied the sour old maid.

“They are not ‘opinions,’ but unshakable convictions and deep-rooted feelings.”

That had been the very first time in my life that I had openly stuck up for Adolf Hitler, without (as I said) yet knowing that he embodied infinitely more than Germany’s will to rid herself of the Versailles Treaty, and surely without suspecting what a place he has to occupy in my life. I had stuck up for Germany during the First World War, — out of sheer indignation at the sight of the Allies’ vile hypocrisy. But this had been my first contact with real National Socialist Germany, six years or so before I had discovered that the Movement also aimed at the creation of a world such as I wanted it. I now recalled the whole scene, and for the millionth time I repeated to myself: “Oh, why did I not come then and join the Movement? Was I blind? Had I not yet been able to see that my struggle in Greece was a hopeless one? that individualism, the lure of Democracy, and belief in “human values,” were endemic diseases in the old classical land? Could I not have guessed the meaning of the new power that was rising against all I


hated, here, in those fearless men, under the inspiration of their fearless Leader?”

It is easy to say that, now. But how could one guess, then? With his extraordinary intuition of historical realities, Adolf Hitler was, doubtless already as early 1923, aware of the fact that the German cause and the cause of Aryandom were one and the same. Many passages in Mein Kampf go to prove it. But were even his closest followers aware of it? Did even the hallowed Sixteen themselves know for what a lofty Idea “exceeding Germany and exceeding our times” they gave up their lives, here, before that wall before which I now stood, in silence and reverence, in memory of them? They died for Adolf Hitler and for Germany, knowing that Adolf Hitler was Germany, and loving Germany because it was their fatherland. But they could not foresee what a significance Germany was soon to take on in the eyes of a racially conscious non-German Aryan élite, thanks to the spirit of Adolf Hitler’s revolution.

“They died for Germany,” said I, breaking the silence at last; “they also died, without realising it, perhaps, — for the liberation of the whole Aryan race from the Jewish joke under every form, foreshadowing Germany’s total sacrifice during and after the Second World War. I am the outer Aryan race, not as it stands now, poisoned by Jewish doctrines, but as it will one day be: wide-awake, conscious of its debt to Adolf Hitler and to Germany; I am Northern Europe, Italy, Greece, Aryan India, come to pay tribute to the Sixteen first Martyrs of National Socialism and to their people. Oh, I wish I could contribute to the resurrection of Germany as they wanted it: free; powerful; building, to the music of war songs, a new world in which the worthiest will rule . . . I wish I could contribute to the restoration of National Socialism . . .”

“But you are contributing to it!” said the young man, to my surprise.


“By your mere presence here. And by the things you say with the unfailing accent of truth.” And he added: “Where did you come from?”

“From Athens.”

“From the capital of classical Antiquity!” exclaimed he.


“Is it an omen?”

“I hope so.”

Then, after a while, as we were leaving the place, he asked me: “Are there many people in Greece today who feel as you do?”

“To the degree I do, perhaps none. I, at least, do not know any,” replied I. And I added: “In the days of the Trojan War you might have found Hellenes with our outlook on life. But that was more than three thousand years ago. Since then, more and more instances of blood-mixture have slowly made possible the advent of such a levelling creed as Christianity. And Christianity has largely contributed to promote further blood-mixture. There are, of course, still number of real Hellenes. But few among them are sufficiently free of prejudice and sufficiently aware of the world outside Greece to behold our Weltanschauung in its real light.”

We walked side by side for a while. I then asked the young man to show me the way to the Hofbräuhaus, and after he had done so, we parted. We could not, at the corner of the street, before everybody, greet each other with our ritual salute and the words of faith: “Heil Hitler!” We merely shook hands. But I uttered a formula which means: “Heil Hitler!” to those of us who know. My new acquaintance repeated the formula with perfect spontaneousness. He knew, apparently. And he gave me a friendly smile as he walked away.

* * *

I reached the Hofbräuhaus. Before walking in, I halted for a moment, not in order to study the architectural effect of the facade with its picturesque old arches, but to imagine the people pouring in through the door leading upstairs, some thirty-three years before, — on the 24th of February 1920, at 7:30 p.m. — to hear Adolf Hitler lay out before them, in an immortal speech, the programme of the new Party.

“In February, at 7:30 p.m., it must have been dark, outdoors,” thought I; “dark, and cold.” But the great festive hall was brightly lighted, and warm. And even if it had not been, it would have made little difference. The people could think of nothing but of the immense hopes that this extraordinary


young man — Adolf Hitler — was to awaken in their hearts; they could feel nothing but the divine magnetism of his leadership. They poured in by hundreds — more than the great hall could contain.

I went upstairs — yes, up those stairs, up which “he” had walked, on that historic evening, to tell Germany and the world that, with him and his handful of uncompromising followers, a new era had begun. I stopped on the first landing, on which is the restaurant. Several people, who had walked upstairs behind me, stepped in. It was about twelve o’clock, and they were apparently going to have lunch. But I had no time for such trivialities now. All that the restaurant meant to me was that, on that evening, many of those who were present at the great meeting had probably had supper there, in order to go straight from there to the hall, before the bulk of the audience would arrive. Would any of the Führer’s earliest close followers also have had something to eat there? I wondered. Maybe, of course, I was mistaken; but my answer to that question was “no; probably not” — for most of Adolf Hitler’s early followers were, at the time, too poor to treat themselves to a meal in such a restaurant as this one. But I would nevertheless go and have a cup of coffee there, after I had seen the historic hall.

I went up another flight of steps and found myself on the second landing. I pushed open the glass door before me, turned to my left, opened another door and entered the place in which the Twenty-five Points of the Party Programme — the basic articles of the National Socialist creed — have been proclaimed; in which Germany was given the new faith, the new principles destined to raise her to the leadership of the Aryan world. The platform from which Adolf Hitler has spoken was at the opposite end of the great vaulted hall, right in front of me.

The hall was empty. All the chairs had been piled up in rows, near the walls. Several workmen were busy decorating the place in view of some festive occasion. They were fixing streamers of variously coloured paper to different spots all round the hall, and to the three bulky clusters of glittering glass and electric bulbs that hung from the ceiling. A frame of brightly painted cardboard ran along the top and sides of the platform and, right above it, a clown’s face grinned against a canary-yellow background, doubtless intended to add a touch


of gaiety to the whole scheme. In a corner was an enormous semi-spherical drum and all the sound-producing instruments of a jazz band. Copper wires intercepted the space between the workmen and myself. There were, from place to place, blue and red bulbs fixed onto them. A huge basket, full of paper flowers, was to be seen under a table, near the workmen.

I stood in the midst of the hall, deeply moved, feeling tears well up to my eyes. I could not help gazing at the platform. I saw the crude decorations, the cheap, gaudy cardboard, the streamers, the paper flowers, the electric wires with their red and blue bulbs, the jazz instruments and the grinning clown: the whole carnival paraphernalia. And yet, I saw nothing of all that. Lost in a nostalgic dream, my eyes looked beyond the vulgar colours and forms — beyond the vulgar world of today — to the glorious meeting held in this hall by my Führer, on the evening of the 24th February 1920. I saw him — and heard him — young, and full of ardent certitude, full of confidence in the future — thirty years old — with his voice that could be in turn harsh, ironical, bitter, witty, passionate, prophetic; a voice that drew crowds like a magical spell; with his compelling gestures; his inspired eyes. I heard him develop his theme with crystal-clear logic, and all the burning eloquence of love, hate and despair . . . and yet confidence, in spite of all; the confidence of love; also the confidence of youth. I saw him and heard him: the one Man who adored Germany as no one ever has, and whose love prompted him to re-invent, in order to save her, the everlasting Wisdom of the Aryans, and to express it in modern language.

And I saw the crowd gathered in this great festive hall, listening to his message of salvation. To those men and women, — to most of them, at least, — “salvation” meant “freedom and bread”; the immediate possibility for the German people to live; nothing more. But in the new Gospel of Germanic pride that Adolf Hitler proclaimed before them and before the world, on that memorable evening, were implied the principles of cosmic wisdom, outcome of his intuition of perennial, cosmic truth. In order to secure his beloved Germany “freedom and bread” — and honour — for all times, he brushed aside, in one sweeping sentence, two thousand years of untruth, and founded the new Aryan Order, based upon community of blood alone,


irrespective of personal metaphysics, in contrast to the decaying Christian order, based upon community of faith, irrespective of blood. He proclaimed a new — or rather a very old — morality; a morality of this world, centred around the value of blood purity and the duty of racial pride, in contrast to the Christian one, centred around the false idea of the equal dignity of all human “souls.”

The people listened to him — grateful, enthusiastic; won over to him who promised to rid them of the burden of the Versailles Treaty, and to give them “work and bread”; ready to follow him wherever he would lead them. And he was leading them not merely back to being a “great power,” but back to being themselves, — the Germans of all times; the proud Aryan Heathens who had, for centuries, defied all spiritual powers based upon human equality, all temporal powers founded upon force of money and force of lies. It mattered little whether they were, at that time, conscious of this or not.

I stood in the middle of the hall, my eyes intently fixed upon the platform from which our Führer had spoken, and I shuddered from top to toe at the awareness of the immensity of the meaning of his ultimatum: “Future, or ruin,” as mercilessly in keeping with fact, today, as it was thirty-three years ago. It mattered little that this ultimatum was, literally speaking, the subject of one of Adolf Hitler’s later speeches, and not that of the one he had delivered for the first time in this hall. His whole career was an untiring proclamation of that tragic dilemma to Germany and to the Aryan race at large. I recalled the unforgettable words. “Future or ruin,” thought I; “yes; either back to the eternal Aryan wisdom of our forefathers, to whom the holy Swastika, the Wheel of the Sun, was sacred, as it is to us National Socialists, or else . . . onward, — and downward, — to slow decay in a boring world, in which the scientific genius of the Aryan and his technical skill, and his sense of organisation, will increasingly be put to the service of petty personal pleasures and personal vices, for the greatest glory of Democracy, and the greatest profit of the international Jew, whose business it is to exploit the weaknesses of the higher races, nay, to create weaknesses in men of the higher races, whenever he can do so. Either back to Aryan wisdom or . . . downward to slow decay in a world in which the warlike virtues of the


best Aryans will increasingly be put to the service of Jewish interests . . . until false doctrines of individualism, “human rights,” and pacifism, coupled with large scale blood mixture, irretrievably destroy the race itself!”

I recalled Adolf Hitler’s words concerning the representatives of the privileged, creative Nordic race: “If they cease to be, the beauty of this earth will sink with them into the grave.”1

“My beloved Führer, how right you are!” thought I. And remembering how England had, in the interest of the Jews, in whose hands she had given herself up, waged this criminal war on Germany, and remembering the intervention of the U.S.A., and Eisenhower’s “crusade to Europe,” I formulated once more within my heart the judgment that I had so many times expressed during and after the war: “Every Aryan who fights against National Socialist Germany is a traitor to his own race.”

Carefully stepping over the electric wires, I walked up to the platform, remained there for a while, absorbed in my thoughts, and then walked back to my former place. A man came in, holding a ladder. I waited till he had put it down, and then addressed him: “Could you please tell me what are all these preparations for?”

“For the First of May. There will be dancing here, on that occasion. Many people will come, including Americans . . .”

Americans! . . . I understand,” said I. I had heard enough.

Once more I looked around me at the great festive hall as it was now — on the 23rd of April 1953. It struck me as a picture of the clownish world which they — our enemies — are trying to build upon the ruins of all we created and all we loved. Once, I knew, there had been, somewhere in this hall, a bronze tablet upon which was related the tremendous event that had taken place here on the 24th of February 1920: the birth of the National Socialist Party. That inscription had been removed, or more probably destroyed. Naturally! People were to forget the 24th of February 1920; they were to forget our Führer, to forget us — or rather, to be taught to hold us for a pack of “monsters”

1 Mein Kampf, edit. 1939, p. 316.


henceforth unable to do any further harm; they were to forget our record of sacrifice and glory, and to dance, to the noise of jazz, with ridiculous paper hats upon their heads and paper flowers in their buttonholes, here, in the very hall where our manly message of salvation had been proclaimed! They were to live and to earn money, and carry on their little amusements and little intrigues, as though Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich had never existed. I lifted my eyes and saw the grinning Clown, — the Symbol of the post-war West — above that platform where our Führer had spoken, and tears filled my eyes; and a bitter hatred filled my heart against that peace-loving, silly, “secure” world that the Democrats would like to establish with the help of a “de-Nazified” Germany. And one desperate yearning sprang from the depth of my being: “If we are not to rise and win and rule, then . . . may the Mongols set fire to all that!” (Forgive me, my millions of comrades, who suffered and died in Russia and far-away Siberia! But, between a world according to the bourgeois ideals of the “Crusaders to Europe” and death, I prefer death.)

Death . . . or, indeed, revenge and resurrection; there was, there is — there can be — no other alternative for us

I went and sat for half an hour in the restaurant, had a cup of coffee, came back, took a last glance at the historic hall. I remembered Adolf Hitler’s own impression of the great meeting: “As, after nearly four hours, the public began to leave the hall in a slow and compact crowd, I was aware that now, in the German people, had been laid the basis of a movement that would last. A fire had been lighted, out of the glow of which a Sword was to emerge, which would give back freedom to the Germanic Siegfried, and life to the German Nation. And, in the coming upheaval, I felt the presence of the Goddess of revenge that nothing can hold back, fighting with us to efface the act of treason of the 9th of November 1918. Thus the hall became gradually empty. And the Movement took its course.”1

1 “Als sich, nach fast vier Studen, der Raum zu leeren begann und die Masse sich Kopf an Kopf wie ein langsamer Strom dem Ausgang zuwälzte, zuschob und zudrängte, da wusste ich, dass nun die Grundsätze einer Bewegung in das deutsche Volk hinauswanderten, die nicht mehr zum Vergessen zu bringen waren. Ein Feuer war entzündet, aus dessen Glut dereinst das Schwert kommen muss, das dem germanisichen Siegfried die Freiheit, der deutschen Nation das Leben wiedergewinnen soll. Und neben der kommenden Erhebung, fühlte ich die Göttin der unerbittlichen Rache schreiten für dit Meineidstat des 9. November 1918. So leerte sich langsam der Saal. Die Bewegung nahm ihren Lauf. (Mein Kampf, edit 1939, p. 406.)


I knew that, in spite of all, he was right; that the German people would never forget — could never forget, even after a greater disaster than that of 1918. I had so many times already felt the fire of the tremendous Awakening burn, as ardently as ever, within my comrades’ hearts as well as in mine. No, we would not perish in the coming crash; our enemies would, with both their man-centred, equalitarian, international creeds of Jewish inspiration; we would rise for the second time upon their ruins. And the humiliation of 1945 would be avenged more thoroughly than that of 1918; not for a few brief years but for all times to come!

“May this be true — oh, may it not be just wishful thinking,” prayed I within my heart, as I left the hall and slowly walked downstairs. And at the same time I remembered that unseen Forces dominate and govern all things visible and tangible, and that the power of intense, one-pointed thought is one among those Forces.

* * *

An hour later, I stood in front of Bürgerbräukeller, the famous beer hall in which Adolf Hitler’s followers used to gather in the early days; the place in which the unsuccessful Putsch of November 1923 was planned. I had walked in the direction of the tramway line until I had reached it, admiring on my way the beautiful foamy river Isar and the gardens near the bridge which I had crossed.

I recognised the well-known entrance that I had so many times seen in pictures. But the Swastika flags that had once proudly fluttered on either side of it were, naturally, no longer there. And above the door bitter, ironical words struck my sight — white against a dark background —: U.S.A. Service Club. The Amis had taken over the place for themselves.

The door was open. A passage stretched before me — a


passage at the end of which there was another door. But I did not at once go in. I walked into a fairly broad courtyard planted with trees, into which an iron gate, wide open, gave access. It must have been about half past one or two o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was bright — and hot. The shade, pleasant. I walked up and down under the trees in spite of the notice “Loitering forbidden” that was stuck up at the gate. The building rose on my left: first, behind the main entrance on the street, a mere ground floor, which one accessed, from this side, through two doors; and then, above a flight of steps, a series of doors and windows, at a little distance behind which emerged a higher, yellow wall. One of the two first doors on the ground floor was shut. Over the other, that was half-open, one could read, in black letters on a background of light yellow paint, the words: Snack Bar; Service Club. Ultramodern motorcars bearing the words: U.S. Forces in Germany, were to be seen in a row nearby. Now and then an American would come out of the “Snack Bar,” get into a car and drive away. Another American would drive in from the street and, having added his car to the row, walk into the “Snack Bar.” None paid any attention to me. They probably thought I was waiting for one of them. But who cares what they thought? I continued loitering under the trees, in spite of the notice; looking at, what, on my left, seemed to be offices, or perhaps storerooms, and at the high — and obviously older — wall, behind these; at a tall chimney in the distance; and at the Americans in uniform, who came and went.

There is, in unfortunate post-war Germany, nothing which I detest as much as Occupation troops and Occupation officials of any description, unless it be . . . those Germans who have willingly contributed to the downfall of the National Socialist Order, and thereby to the inroad of such creatures into the country. But to see the creatures planted there, upon the very premises of Bürgerbräukeller as though they owned the place, is more than flesh and blood can stand. And yet, one is forced to see them, if one at all wishes to visit the historic spot. And even if one did not actually see them, one would still know that they are there — that they are everywhere. Until when . . . ?

The putsch of the 9th of November 1923 had been prepared somewhere here — somewhere behind those walls . . . My thoughts


rushed back to the Feldherrenhalle; to the wall facing the side street, that the young man had shown me in the morning telling me: “It was there that the Sixteen fell.” Had the Sixteen and, after them, our thousands, our millions of martyrs died for nothing? — for that? Had our beloved Führer lived and fought and suffered . . . for that? And was that — the presence of Americans and other varieties of “crusaders” for “humanity” (including Master Roosevelt’s and Master Churchill’s ex-“glorious Allies” the Russians) on Germany’s soil, and the strengthening of confounded Democracy (the strengthening of the Jew’s grip upon the world) — to remain the sole outcome of our whole grim and heroic struggle of these last thirty years? Oh, for how long — for how long more?

Just as I was thus thinking, a uniform-wearing specimen of that well-fed, brainless and cultureless humanity that the U.S.A. exports, passed quite close to me, looked at me with eyes in which there was nothing to read but abysmal boredom, and went its way, while its half-open mouth did not stop munching — chewing the cud . . . or its civilised equivalent: “chewing gum.” I suddenly recalled the funny definition that an English friend of mine had once given me of an American: “a mammal that cannot shut its mouth.” And I should have felt inclined to laugh had I been anywhere but in Germany, and nay within the couryard of the historic beer hall in which the Putsch of November 1923 has been planned. But here, all my contempt for the individual uniform wearer as such was overshadowed by my consciousness of the riches and might of the Jew-ridden U.S.A. The ludicrous, blank-faced, chewing creature was nothing. A sheep in a flock. A gramophone in its box, repeating automatically, in private conversations, that which his whole silly education had conditioned him to think and to say. But behind him were those sinister forces which had worked out the programme and spirit of his education and dictated him the values which he was to hold as the right ones. Were we — the few, sincere, conscious, selfless National Socialists — in a position to crush those forces?

The fellow had long disappeared into the Snack Bar. I stood by a tree and thought of the formidable money-power of the U.S.A., of the mysterious and frightening kingship of the Dollar Exchange — the power to make any far-away country live


or starve — centralised neither in President Eisenhower, nor in the inhabitants of the U.S.A., nor in the American Army, composed of all races, but in the impersonal fraternity of the big banks. That power, what weapons have we to strike it to death? wondered I. And I answered my own question: detachment; absolute freedom from the usual ties of this world and from all seductions that money can offer; the freedom of such people as nothing and nobody can either buy or frighten; and, along with that, discipline; devotion to our Leader, visible or invisible, alive in the flesh or alive in spirit only; and the one-pointed, iron will of the believers who, periodically — every two or three thousand years — build new civilisations upon the rock of great new faiths: these are our weapons.

I gazed at the blue sky and imagined the map of Europe and the Atlantic Ocean, and the map of America beyond the Ocean. And — although I have never seen them — I tried to picture myself those great offices in which the fate of Europe in general and of Germany in particular is decided from a business standpoint, with businesslike mercilessness and exactitude.

Alone absolute detachment — sustained ascetic action, free from the lure of money and of all that money is able to procure — can match and beat that heartless and intelligent machinery, that far-sighted detachment (worthy of a better cause) which our enemies’ unseen General Staff displays in order to acquire more and more power for the Jews “at the top.”

I thought of the one-pointed will and dedicated day to day lives of the humblest among my comrades, and I decided that, in the scales of the Invisible, we still are the strongest; the ones who are, sooner or later, (provided our spirit never gives way) bound to win. The Jews and slaves of Jewry who, from their luxury offices far away, have now the power to reduce us to starvation, do not suspect the new Force, steadily rising against them, which we represent. But who ever suspects the direction that intangible factors are imposing upon history in one’s own times? Save a few exceptional seers — and a few ardent believers, who happen to be right — all are blind to the vision even of an immediate future.

I thought of pre-Columbian America — a sheer “association of ideas,” maybe, (one part of the vast double Continent reminding


me of another) or, perhaps, the intuition of some deeper historical parallelism; who can tell? I pictured to myself life in Tenochtitlan in February 1519: the people carrying on their traditional pursuits; the priests busy with their grim rites; the king and nobles absorbed in their usual preoccupations — their tribal wars with Tlascala — while the conquering Spaniards were already sailing across the Atlantic . . . Omens had spoken of the coming twilight of that civilisation of blood and gold which was that of the Aztecs and of their neighbours. But still . . . Who suspected it was to come so suddenly?

“We might not possess, now, over the present rulers of the West, that staggering technical superiority which the Spaniards had over the Aztecs in 1519,” reflected I; “but, as selfless fighters for the noblest goal, conscious of our mission, are we not still much higher above them, in the natural order of beings, than Cortes’ adventurers ever were above Montezuma’s people? The defenders of Tenochtitlan were at least warriors, if not soldiers (disciplined warriors). But these suckers of chewing-gum are neither. As for their masters, the big businessmen, . . . their money is their only weapon — useless against us.”

From a passage facing me — a passage between the houses that limited the courtyard — a motor-lorry was coming. It halted before one of the doors on my left. Three or four men, — German workmen, not Americans, — came out of it. Someone appeared at the door, that was flung wide open. And the men started unloading — dragging cumbrous cardboard boxes out of the lorry and shifting them into the room. I walked up to them and, picking out the one who seemed to me the most likely to be one of us, — the one whose face bore the most definite stamp of health and character — I asked him whether he could tell me which was “the great hall,” and whether I could visit it.

The man looked at me inquiringly so as to make sure that I was “in order,” and then (trusting, no doubt, his intuition, which told him that I was) replied: “You mean the hall in which we used to gather in the great days?”

“Yes,” said I.

“It is that hall, there,” answered he, pointing to the bulk of the building, above the row of new rooms along the flight of steps, near which the lorry had halted. “Unfortunately, you


cannot see it, now . . . And you would not recognise it if you could,” — added he, taking for granted that I had visited the place before the war, —: “the Amis, who rebuilt it after their bombs had smashed it, have turned it into a ping-pong room or something. But anyhow, they won’t let you in.”

I gazed at that wall painted in yellow, which I had noticed behind the new part of the building, and above its level, — a wall that looked like any wall in the world. But I now knew that, behind it, was that hall. And once more a shadow passed over me, and my heart sunk at the idea of all I had missed, of all I had lost by not coming to Germany in time. And the feeling of utter failure oppressed me. I thought of the solemn gatherings that used to take place in that hall, year after year, in the night of the 8th of November, and of the subsequent processions to the Feldherrenhalle, on the morning of the 9th: at the time at which those of 1923 had started on the fateful Day. The Führer himself used to lead those processions; and the old Party members who had stood by him in danger on that day, — the actual comrades of the Sixteen, — marched in honour at his side. I had never seen those processions, but I knew all about them. And I suddenly decided that I too would, today, walk back from here to the Feldherrenhalle in remembrance of the First Martyrs of the National Socialist cause, . . . and in the awareness of the second Struggle and of the second Seizure of power, never mind when.

I thanked the man, and after giving a last glance to the walls of the famous beer hall, left the courtyard.

As I came back to the main entrance of the desecrated building — the street entrance — I noticed an American standing there. The desire to see all I possibly could of the place, — even now, after its ruin — was stronger than my disgust at the sight of the occupant. I had never yet, in Germany, addressed a word to a man in Allied uniform, and had sincerely believed I never would. Yet I asked this one — myself astonished at what I was doing —: “May I go in?”

“Why not?” answered he.

I stepped in, without paying further attention to the usurper. A young woman was sitting at a desk, in a tiny room at the end of the passage, where another American was standing. On the left, a door led into a well-furnished hall. I addressed


the young woman in German. “Is it really not possible to see the great hall, — the historic one?” asked I.

She repeated to me what the workman in the courtyard had told me: the historic hall had become a place where the Americans played ping-pong; nobody could see it. “But you can see from these pictures what the hall and the whole building once looked like, and you can if you like read the notice concerning their history,” said she. And she pointed to three picture postcards and to a newspaper photograph, along with a typed notice, that were to be seen within a frame, under a glass covering, against the wall, in a corner. One of the postcards showed the entrance of Bürgerbräukeller as one could see it in the great days, — with a Swastika flag each side of it. Another, — also a coloured one —, showed the inside of the famous hall: the platform from which the Führer used to speak; the Flag hanging before it; the many tables at which the faithful used to sit; the balconies between the arches, with wooden railings, from which hung more flags. The third one — a black one — showed an unrecognisable heap of rubble, over which lay broken wooden beams and lumps of plaster: a picture of the hall after an Allied bomb had hit it in 1943 — a picture of Germany after the passage of the “Crusaders to Europe,” slaves and avengers of the Jews. “And yet,” thought I, “this was better — less humiliating — than becoming a ping-pong hall for the Amis!” This meant destruction. The ping-pong parties in the rebuilt hall meant conquest — worse than destruction, if it lasts long enough to defile a country’s blood and soul.

The typed writing stated that Bürgerbräu Keller was known to have been a beer house ever since the fourteenth century. It mentioned the meetings of the early National Socialists, the Putsch of 1923, the missed attempt against the Führer’s life in 1939, the destruction of the hall through a direct hit in 1943. Its comments on the putsch and on the criminal attempt were what one can expect in a place now in Allied hands. The photograph of a sly face, with neither courage nor conviction, had been stuck below the picture of the ruins. “And who is that?” asked I, turning to the girl at the desk, while the American stared at me, doubtless wondering why I was at all so profoundly interested in those pictures of what, to him, was nothing, particularly exciting.


“The man who attempted Hitler’s life, here, in 1939,” said the girl, answering my question.

I further considered the photograph, and then turned once more to her and to the American, and gave my opinion of the picture in a loud voice: “No wonder he looks like a criminal!” The two people gave me a strange glance, but made no comments. And after gazing, for a minute or two more, at the pictures of Bürgerbräu Keller in its splendour and in its ruin, I left the place.

* * *

I followed, in the opposite direction, the road along which I had come. It was this road, — reflected I — that they doubtless used to take, on the yearly commemorative marches to the Feldherrenhalle. I was also going back to the Feldherrenhalle, — like they, but alone, and in the midst of a dull, sheepish, bourgeois world that looked (on the surface at least) as though it had forgotten them.

The picture of the old hall in all its glory — of the old hall out of which Adolf Hitler had made (in the words of the short notice I had just read) “a shrine of the Nazi Party” — filled my consciousness as I walked on. And I left my mind wander back to those hard and splendid days, when men of great faith and of iron will, most of whom are now dead, sat there, round him of whom I have no means of knowing whether he is dead or alive; to the days when he — our Führer — was at the beginning of his astounding career. Comrades who have lived the whole history of National Socialism had more than once told me that those early days of the Struggle, those days in which, in the Führer’s own words, “one had all to lose and nothing to gain by joining our Movement,”1 were indeed the grandest of all. After the Seizure of power — and already before: as soon as one could be practically sure that Adolf Hitler would soon be the absolute ruler of Germany — all sorts of people, National Socialists and others, came and joined the N.S.D.A.P. In the very early days, when the N.S.D.A.P. did not yet count as a political force, those alone who were prepared to give their all for the triumph of its ideals, walked under its banner.

Other words of our Führer came back to my memory: “I

1 Tisch Gespräche, published after the war.


love those who supported us at the time we were weak.” It was in 1941, — at the height of his power, — that he had uttered those words. “. . . Those who supported us at the time we were weak,” thought I; “those who used to gather in this beer hall — a mere handful — immediately after the First World War, determined to rid Germany of the shameful Versailles Treaty and to give her back, under Adolf Hitler’s leadership, the place she deserves in the world; those who cared neither for money, nor “position,” nor “honours,” but solely for the higher interest of their people, which happens to be, also, the higher interest of Aryan mankind, i.e. the higher interest of Creation . . .”

How far away seemed, now, those ardent, inspired days! How far away! All was so quiet, so “normal” all round me, as though the Democratic order, re-installed by the victors of 1945, were to last forever; as though the glorious National Socialist revolution had been but an episode in the long history of Germany, a meaningless eccentricity in the history of the Aryan West; as though that Aryan West were definitively, irredeemably, won over to the Christian values and the silly Democratic way of life!

I recalled the judgement passed on Adolf Hitler’s Land at the time of the great Nuremberg Party Rally of 1933, by one of the very few French friends of National Socialism: Robert Brasillach: “This country is strange; more foreign to us than furthermost India or China . . .”1 Even he — the sympathiser, destined one day to die at the hands of his own people on account of his connection with National Socialism — even he, thought I, did not feel himself completely at ease under our régime, as I doubtless would have, — I who have hated the Christian values all my life. It was precisely because National Socialism is the glaring negation of those “values,” precisely because the new society built upon it contrasted so violently with that traditional Western civilisation soaked in Judaism — with that man-centred civilisation, which I had always detested — that I had loved it so passionately from the beginning. Because of that; not in spite of that, as was the case with so many foreign (and perhaps even German) followers of Adolf Hitler.

Now, all looked as though the “traditional values of the West” — the Judeo-Christian moral standards; the Judeo-Christian

1 Robert Brasillach, Les Sept Coleurs, p. 114 and following.


way of life — had prevailed. It looked as though, according to the wish repeatedly expressed on the London wireless by pious parsons and Christ-loving commentators of the Nuremberg Trial, during those horrible months that had followed my return from India, Germany had now “come back to the community of Christian Europe,” from which a “monstrous régime of tyranny” had severed her for a few brief years. It all seemed as though our sacred cause were “a lost cause.” It seemed so . . . at least on the surface.

Yes; on the surface. But . . . , what seems to be the most firmly established is not necessarily so; and what looks lost is sometimes the very thing destined to triumph and to last. I had myself said in Obersalzberg, upon the ruins of the Berghof: Christianity looked like “a lost cause” in year 20 A.D. No doubt we look lost. And yet . . . How many people in Germany are simply longing for the return of a National Socialist régime without daring to say so openly? And — in spite of all the efforts of the churches no less than of the foreign-sponsored Federal Government — how many are daily losing faith in those false “values” which we came to destroy, and thus, indirectly, preparing themselves to receive our message? Communism itself — along with the Christian Churches, our greatest enemy — is helping us (indirectly) by undermining, in the minds and hearts of millions of young people, the belief in number of other-worldly superstitions that stand in our way . . . And who knows of the silent, unsuspected activities of responsible National Socialists now busy taking, in Germany and elsewhere, the fullest advantage of the ever-widening split in the enemy camp, for the greatest benefit of the apparently “lost” cause?

I remembered with love the people I had met in Linz and in Obersalzberg; the intelligent German workmen who had spoken to me in the train on my way to Braunau; the young man who had shown me, but a few hours before, the spot where the Sixteen had died. I remembered the comrades that I was soon to meet again in Koblenz, and further up, in Hanover, in Celle, and other places of that faithful Niedersachsen, which struck me as the German province in which I would like to live, if I could. Where these not all, now, what the fighters of the first phase of the struggle were, then, after the First World War? And even more so! For the fighters of the early Struggle


had had Adolf Hitler’s material presence to sustain them, while these had nothing but their unshakable faith in him and in eternal Germany. Would not our Führer, if he were one day to return in glory, say of them: “I love those who stood by me when I was believed dead; those who supported the National Socialist cause when it seemed lost”?

And if we are never to see him, never to hear his voice again, — if he really be dead, as some say — then still . . . there is eternal Germany, even greater than he; there is the Swastika — cosmic Truth, integral Beauty; his Truth, more eternal even than Germany, — to be faithful to, and to strive for, without hope, without fear or desire, without any sort of weakness. “Seek not the fruits of action,”1 thought I, recalling the Words of Aryan wisdom that had given me strength at the most tragic hour of defeat, and during the years of despair; “Without attachment, perform that action which is duty.”2 One of our latest blood-witnesses, the hero Otto Ohlendorf, is said to have declared to a foreign journalist, a few weeks before the Americans hanged him for having done his duty to the end: “Individual happiness and individual life do not count. All that matters is duty done.”3 I remembered these words along with those of the Bhagavad-Gita, and marvelled at their similarity. And I felt that a cause served in such a spirit can never be lost.

* * *

After about half an hour’s walk, I reached the Feldherrenhalle, and stood there once more, silent, full of the thought of the Sixteen.

The fallen soldiers of the victorious war of 1871, and those of the lost war of 1918, whose memory had been allowed to remain honoured even under present-day Democracy, appeared more vividly than ever, to me, as the forerunners of their brothers slain upon the battlefields of this war, in defence of the new Reich, or killed after the war, as so-called “war criminals” by the enemies of all that the new Reich stood for. All that

1 Bhagavad-Gita, II, verse 47.

2 Bhagavad-Gita, III, Verse 19.

3 Reported in the French newspaper Figaro. Also, in Samedi Soir of the 3rd March 1951.


has, in course of history, contributed to exalt the feeling of the greatness of the German Reich and of its mission, has prepared the way for National Socialism. (The despair of a starving nation would not have carried Adolf Hitler to power, had it not been coupled with the consciousness of natural greatness, of God-ordained superiority.) And National Socialism has made the German Reich the leader of regenerate Aryandom in the West, for all times to come. And that is why I stood here, at the foot of these pillars, on the spot where the Sixteen had died, — I, the Aryan woman from far away.

I was not alone. Two young men had halted before the place where the commemorative tablet, bearing the names of the Sixteen, had once been. And I heard one say to the other “It was here. Can you see? There are still bits of iron in the wall . . . There was the tablet in honour of them . . . And it is here, in this side street, that they fell.”

“Yes,” said I, stepping into their conversation without even making excuses for being indiscreet. (I knew I could not be indiscreet in this connection.) “And this was the stone against which the tablet rested. I was here this morning. But I have come again to see it. I have come straight from Bürgerbräukeller — as the veterans of the Day used to, on every 9th of November. And I am not a German. I am the forerunner of the thousands of men and women of Aryan blood who, in centuries to come, will, like I, visit this spot as a sacred spot, and look upon this Land as holy Land.”

Both young men gazed at me in bewilderment, and then shook hands with me. Then, pointing to me, one of them said to the other: “I told you the National Socialist spirit is more alive than we dare to think. Now, was I not right?”

* * *

I walked to the Brown House (or rather, to the, place, where it once stood) admiring whatever I could of Munich on my way.

This is a beautiful city; certainly one of the loveliest I have seen. “A German town,” no doubt, as Adolf Hitler has written. But — thanks to that great artist, Duke Ludwig of Bavaria, of all German princes the one, perhaps, who understood and admired Hellenism the most genuinely, — the most Hellenic of all German towns, if one may use such a paradoxical


expression; the one that illustrates the most glaringly, through its own architecture, the fundamental identity of the Germanic and Hellenic conceptions of beauty.

I have seen many, — in fact, far too many, — modern buildings of “Greek style” in Europe and elsewhere. They are nearly all nothing but “imitations” and, for that very reason, bad imitations: buildings with Ionic or Corinthian columns, maybe, but surely buildings without any personality (let alone that one, which an ancient Greek artist would have given them). Here, in Munich, the colonnaded buildings around the magnificent great square — Königsplatz; formerly Adolf Hitler Platz — the Glyptothek, the Pinakothek, the monumental Gate on Luisenstrasse, are not mere “imitations.” They are not nameless and soulless international buildings trying to look Greek, but modern German buildings, essentially German — massive; well-inserted into their earthly surroundings; full of the healthy, primaeval strength of a nation that has never lost contact with the earth — who happen to have columns in the Greek style simply because the inspiration from which they proceed is deeply akin to that which once evolved Greek architecture.

And it is not only the buildings; it is the general planning of this whole part of the town in which they stand (and which, by a favour of the Gods, has not been quite so thoroughly ruined as some other localities); it is, nay, the atmosphere of the whole beautiful city, smiling in spite of its terrible wounds. Nowhere can one, as strongly as one does here in Munich, feel convinced that modern Germany harmoniously continues the cultural tradition of those Nordic men who, some four thousand years ago, migrated southwards, and produced in course of time, on the warm shores of the Mediterranean, that wonder of Western Antiquity: Hellenic civilisation. It is not the cerebral Hellenism of certain circles of French artists and scholars who love Greece; it is something deeper; it is the spontaneous and not necessarily so conscious, but more real, affinity of blood brothers separated by two and a half millenniums and more. And no one knew thatfelt that — (with the exception of Friedrich Nietzsche) better than Adolf Hitler himself.

The Sun, although still well above the horizon, was not so hot when I finally reached Karolinenplatz.

I had been told that the Brown House was near the corner


of the street leading from Königsplatz into that square. I easily discovered the site of it. It was not possible to miss it: like the Site of the Berghof in Obersalzberg, it bears the stamp of the relentless hatred that urged our persecutors to raze the building to the ground. It is not a “ruined site”; it is a blank site, upon which there is practically nothing left, save, perhaps, in one or two places, (and along the footpath that separates the site from the actual street) traces of foundation walls and, in one corner, the hardly recognisable remnants of a room below the ground level: a cellar or something.

A few steps further, practically looking over the wilfully devastated site, stands a former administrative building now requisitioned by the Americans. From every window of it, the “crusaders to Europe” — more and more bored after eight years of office life in this enslaved land — can see the work of destruction begun by their bombers and perfected by their docile satellites, the German Democrats. The words: U.S. Information Centre, that one can read vertically at the corner of the building, and, above the entrance, the stripes and stars of the American flag, remind every passerby that Germany has lost this war. “Oh, for how long?” thought I, with bitterness, as I saw the detested colours fluttering right before my eyes: “for how long more will all this last?”

I pictured to myself the Brown House as it had once stood on that very spot, now so utterly desolate, and, hanging from its windows, the folds of the German flag of the great Days, — of that flag that I had expected to salute, along with the advancing German Army, in the distant East, in 1942, as the emblem of victorious Aryandom: blood red, with the white Disk and the holy Sign of the Sun, black in the midst of it like an almighty Shadow (the Shadow of eternal Reality, projected upon our purified earth: the mystical meaning of our National Socialist World Order). And tears filled my eyes as I turned from that lost vision of power to the sight of the present-day desolation dominated by the flag of capitalistic Democracy.

Years before, I had once stood upon the terrace at the top of the Golden Rock of Trichinopoli, in South India, and admired, beyond the Cauvery River, the twenty-eight monumental Doorways — the Gopurams — of Srirangam, emerging from the tropical vegetation, in the four directions of space. Then, as I had


turned my head the other way, I had caught site of the enormous, ugly Jesuit College of Trichinopoli, seat of the Missions that are out to destroy the old Wisdom of the Aryans and the immemorial cults that express it, in all the temples of Brahminical India. And I had thought with rage — and also with the precise determination to do all I possibly could to continue my life-long struggle against the Christian Churches and their man-centred values — “They have come, the agents of Jewish power, to try to replace that, by this! I shall stand in their way, and fight them with tooth and claw to my last breath!”

I now experienced a feeling much akin to that one. And the same relentless aggressiveness with which I had beheld the Christian Missionaries’ Headquarters at the foot of Lord Shiva’s Abode and within sight of Srirangam, now made my eyes blaze as I looked at the American flag, here, in Germany; here in Munich; here, over the foundation ground of the Brown House! Oh, — thought I — to be able to tear it down and trample it in the mud, to the cheers of a stormy crowd, howling with joy at the sight! Oh, to be able to sit and see the U.S.A. ablaze, — be it as an item of the “news reel” in a cinema show, if I cannot expect; to be granted a seat in one of the bombers that will one day avenge Hamburg and Dresden a thousandfold, and to watch the actual flames and smoke!

“. . . The old starry banner, the banner of the free . . .” With bitter irony, I recalled the words of the American song as I kept my cursing glance pinned upon the Flag of Democracy. “Freedom indeed!” thought I. “In the name of ‘freedom,’ you conducted your crusade against us, National Socialists; isn’t it so? In the name of ‘freedom,’ you reviled all that we hold sacred, destroyed or disfigured all that we love. You sit and tell us, in the name of ‘freedom,’ in the name of ‘the rights of human conscience,’ that ‘any man’ is entitled to be what he is, and to give his allegiance to whomever he pleases but — in the same breath! — that we are not to be Nazis (not openly, at least), you most repulsive of all hypocrites; you bastards! Why on earth should we fight the next war on your side? For you to build — or urge your German friends; to build — a ‘Rothschild Foundation Research Laboratory’ or something of the kind, upon the site of the Brown House, and some ‘Home for the incurable’ upon the spot where Adolf Hitler’s Berghof once stood? For young Germans


to learn, at your orders, or under your influence, to hold the Nazi régime for a ‘monstrous tyranny,’ our Führer for ‘a criminal’ or ‘a megalomaniac,’ and our immortal S.S. for an ‘association of murderers’? No fear! What is there to choose between you and your ex-‘glorious Allies’ — those who sat at your side in Yalta, in Potsdam, in Nuremberg? Let them crush you, if nobody else now can! We shall at least enjoy the pleasure of seeing you being crushed! For we hate you! Even the Jesuits are not so bad as you. They have at least an ideal, a faith, however detestable a one it may be to us. You have nothing; nothing but money put to the service of the silliest of pastimes. Hateful as it is, the presence of the Jesuit College at the foot of the Golden Rock is not such a profanation as that of your Occupation forces and your dirty flag on this spot in particular, and in Germany as a whole!”

I kept on pacing the track that runs from one corner of the ground where the Brown House has stood, to the opposite one — the path traced by the footsteps of all those people who cannot be bothered to walk around the site, along the regular asphalt footpath. A man, who seemed about forty, was coming towards me. According to my little experience, practically all Germans between thirty and fifty are National Socialists at heart, unless they have, for some reason or other, got into trouble during the great days. And as people who got into trouble with the authorities are, after all, a very small minority, compared with the bulk of the German population, I decided that this man was probably on the right side. And I spoke to him, because I was longing to exteriorise my feelings, be it in a sentence.

“Excuse me,” said I, halting as soon as he had come sufficiently near to hear me; “this is the site on which the Brown House once stood, isn’t it?” (I knew perfectly well that it was, but I had to say something.)

“Yes, it is,” replied the man. And I caught in his limpid blue eyes a shadow of immeasurable sadness — a feeling he did not wish to show me nor anyone, and which he constantly kept under control.

“And ‘they’ have reduced it to this! — ‘they,’ the slaves of the Jews, the swine . . . — just as ‘they’ have destroyed even


the ruins of the Berghof, in Obersalzberg, which I saw on the day before yesterday,” commented I.

“Yes; ‘they,’ the traitors . . . ,” answered he. And he considered me with curiosity, convinced, no doubt, that I spoke sincerely, but wondering who I could be, to have the courage to do so.

“Every man or woman of Aryan blood who, for whatever good or bad reason, took position against National Socialism in action, speech or thought, is a traitor — a traitor to our common race — even if he or she be not a German,” declared I, repeating one of the statements which I have made a hundred thousand times. “But, of course, I admit that the German traitors are the worst, for they cannot even pretend to have had the excuse of ignorance.”

The man looked at me with increased interest. “Are you a German?” he asked me.

“No,” said I; “I am just one of the rare — very rare — faithful Aryans from the broad outer world, who acknowledge the leadership of Adolf Hitler’s people, and who are waiting with you for the Day of revenge — and resurrection.”

The man held out his, hand to me, gazed at me with an inexpressible smile, and said, in a hardly audible voice: “In the name of all those of us who suffered, I thank you! And I am glad to meet you.” He did not ask me my nationality: it had no importance.

I lifted my hand a little — one could not possibly lift it higher, in such an open place — and whispered, with all the devotion of my heart: “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” repeated he, also in a whisper, with tears in his eyes. And he went his way speedily.

Alone in the middle of the desert-like site, I looked up once more, with defiance, at the hostile colours fluttering in the wind, and at the many windows, behind every one of which I pictured to myself men in khaki uniform, active instruments of all we hate when not also convinced enemies of all we love. “All the money and all the might of the U.S.A. and of the organised Anti-Nazi world, cannot prevent two National Socialists from asserting their faith in the Führer and in his mission and in his people, here, upon this holy spot, under our persecutors’


noses!” thought I. “Sooner or later, we shall win. Nothing can prevail against us.”

And an immense elation — the awareness of irresistible power: the loveliest of all feelings — filled me. And as I slowly walked away, I imagined the Brown House rebuilt and Swastika flags hanging like draperies from its windows, and . . . myself, describing in one of its rooms, to a few of my beloved comrades (then, again in power), how happy I was “at the news of the unconditional surrender of the Democracies.”

And I renewed in my heart my daily prayer of these last eight years to the Lord of the unseen Forces — the daily expression of an untiring yearning for justice, that is in itself an unseen force — “Treat the victors of the Second World War as they have treated National Socialist Germany, and, if possible, a hundred thousand times worse! Avenge my comrades and superiors; and give us back the conquering joy and pride of the great Days!”

* * *

I then sought the remnants of the twin shrines which once contained the bronze sarcophagi of the Sixteen and of a few other heroes of the early National Socialist Movement. I had seen pictures of them: two colonnaded monuments, one each side of the road on the corner of the immense paved square, — Adolf Hitler Platz, now Königsplatz. And I remembered very distinctly the sarcophagi in a row under the open sky, (the shrines had no roof) and the Guard of honour that kept watch over them day and night, like on the spot by the Feldherrenhalle.

I walked back to Königsplatz, where I had already been wandering without noticing anything, then back in the direction of the Brown House, and back again. On either side of the street, at the corner of the square — between the street and the “U.S. Information Centre,” and, on the opposite side, between the street and other administrative buildings — now, was a space cut off from its surroundings by a high wooden fence. It took me some time to realise that the ruins of the two memorials were behind those fences that they could not possibly be anywhere else. Still, I thought it safer to ask a passerby whether


I was not mistaken. “No,” answered he; “you have guessed right: there once stood the twin shrines, open to the bright blue sky. Nothing is left of them save the massive foundation stones that you can see here and there, wherever a piece of wood is missing in the fences. The rest has been blown up.”

“Blown up by the Americans?” asked I.

“No; by order of the German Social Democrats, now in power in Bavaria. They also wanted to blow up the neighbouring buildings, because these had belonged to the Party; were remainders of . . . other times. But the Amis requisitioned them, thus saving them.”

“Why did they not save the twin shrines, while they were about it?”

“Because these were of no practical use to them, while the other buildings were,” replied the man.

“Do you believe these monuments will one day be rebuilt?” asked I. I was used to be bold.

And to my astonishment, the man replied, taking my boldness as a matter of course — apparently, feeling sure that he was speaking to a National Socialist like himself — “Yes; when we are once more in power. And we shall be, one day!”

“Oh, may you be right!” exclaimed I with conviction. The man went his way.

I walked all round the fences, peering between the planks, trying to see the, foundation stones of the shrines. In one place, a plank was actually missing, so that I did not merely see the great, regular stone blocks inside, but stretched out my hand and touched them. I touched them as Christian pilgrims, or Mohammedan pilgrims, or Hindu pilgrims, touch the stones of the tombs of their respective saints. The Sixteen, and all those who, since the now far-gone 9th of November 1923, gave up their lives for the Cause of the Swastika, are our saints, whose blood has endowed our earthly faith with the same grandeur of sacrifice as any of the otherworldly ones.

Near the corner of the ruined shrine on the other side of the street, — by the U.S. Information Centre — lay a fairly big, lonely block of stone. I climbed upon it, and tried to look over the fence, but could see nothing. A layer of cement had been laid over the foundations that had withstood the power of dynamite. I could barely see the square opening of the inner


court under the pillars of which the sarcophagi once lay. The steps that led to the building from outside were still to be seen; but the underground entrance was blocked. And I was now aware that tons of earth had been poured into the inner court of the other shrine: from my stone, I could well see the shrubs that were beginning to grow in it. The same quality of desolation as upon the ruins of the Berghof in Obersalzberg; the same effort of our persecutors to efface every trace of our passage, every sign of our greatness; to make Germany and the world forget us.

But I remembered the words addressed to me only half an hour before by the unknown National Socialist who had had enough confidence in me to speak freely: . . . “when we are once more in power; . . . and we shall be, one day!” and I thought: “Germany will never forget.”

With the same devotion as I had those of the other twin shrine, I touched the stones beyond the fence, as far as I could reach them.

I then slowly walked back to the station wrapped up in my thoughts.

* * *

Willingly would I have remained another day or two in Munich, seen the Feldherrenhalle and Hofbräuhaus again; wandered along the splendid avenue and in the public gardens by the Isar; watched the foaming and boisterous river rush past at torrent speed under its broad, stately stone bridges; visited a few more places of interest — museums and churches, admittedly unconnected with the history of the National Socialist Movement, yet highly significant as features of that lovely town, in which the Movement has, one can say, taken birth in its final form.

But I thought of the long way I yet had to travel before I would reach a place where I would not be compelled to spend the night either in a hotel or at the “Station Mission” — or in the waiting room of the railway station. Decidedly, I had to be very careful; for even while living on bread and coffee, I could barely manage to make my money last as long as it had to. And I also had presents to buy for my comrades: I could not possibly be stingy in that connection! So I made up my


mind to remain the whole night in the waiting room and take the earliest morning train to Landsberg am Lech.

The earliest train to Landsberg was at 4:40 a.m. I booked my ticket, and went and sat at one of the tables in the “Third class waiting room,” which is at the same time a refreshment room. It was not hot enough to spend the night outdoors. Also, being indoors, I would avoid the sight of the Americans walking across the huge glass hall to and from their special waiting room, at the other end of the station. I was sick of seeing Americans, and wished I could never meet another one in my life . . . although I knew that I probably would meet many more, at Landsberg, on the very next day — alas!

I ordered the usual bun and coffee, and hoped that my bad luck would not, for the second time, inflict upon me the company of an ex-internee from Dachau (before 1945). But bad luck, — say those who seem to know — is unavoidable. It depends upon the positions of one’s stars at a certain time. And my stars were, apparently, on the evening of that day, 23 April 1953, as on the morning of the same, bent upon pushing me into contact with the most objectionable types.

I had hardly been sitting alone for an hour, when two fellows came and took place at my table — two skinny, dark-haired fellows, whose looks I did not like at all. One sat opposite me, the other on my left, between his companion and me. This latter one appeared to me even more non-Aryan than the former (if one can at all speak of degrees in such matters).

They talked for a long time, in a low voice, mysteriously. I pretended to be sipping coffee from the bottom of my cup (where there was, in fact, not a drop left) while in reality I listened with all my attention to what the men were saying. I listened in vain. I could not follow the conversation. I barely caught bits of it: Christian names, (meaningless to me) of people whom the two men knew, and of whom the one sitting near me was asking news; puzzling sentences such as “. . . he was there with us; do you remember?” or “that one who did not come back” or “the bad times are not over — anything but! You’ll see for yourself . . . But I am going to Vienna tomorrow . . . ; from there . . . !” But I could not catch a word of what they said after that. It sounded like some different language, with a German word here and there. “Yiddish?”


wondered I; “perhaps.” But I was not sure. At last, the man who was not going to Vienna got up and said to the other “Good luck to you! We shall meet again, anyhow . . .” To which the other one answered: “Surely!” The former one then went away. And a trying game soon began for me.

I felt that the man who remained — the one who was about to go to Vienna, — would talk to me. And so he did. But I felt at the same time that, whoever he may have been, he was not the harmless sort of fool that I had come across in the morning. Surely not harmless, and perhaps not a fool. And decidedly not a German. He would try to find out who I was before boasting of having been interned in a concentration camp, during our days of power — although I was practically convinced that he had been in one: he looked Jewish enough to deserve a priority place in such an institution! And the one thing that astonished me was that he had managed to come out of it.

He asked me the usual question: “Where are you going, if it he not too indiscreet to enquire?”

“To Landsberg.”

He did not seem to like the sound of the place. “Landsberg,” repeated he; “the place where the war criminals are?” I immediately understood that my only hope of safety in presence of this fellow lay in my capacity of impersonating the perfect imbecile. “Criminals?” said I. “I don’t know. I suppose there are criminals everywhere, just as there are honest people everywhere.”

The man showed signs of impatience. “I said war criminals,” emphasised he.

“War criminals??”

“Yes; don’t you understand what I say? Don’t you speak German?”

“I do, a little. I understand when you speak slowly and distinctly; but even then, there are many words I don’t know. I am a foreigner.”

“What nationality?”


“Oh that’s good!” replied the man. “The Greeks fought well, during the war.”


“No,” said I, pretending not to understand. “During the war I was not in Greece.”

“I did not say you were. I said that the Greeks — your people — fought well; fought on our side, I mean. Do you understand me, now?”

“I cannot make out what you mean by ‘on our side’ . . . On what side were you?”

“I mean on the side of the Allies, against the Nazi monsters. I am a Pole . . .”

“A dirty Polish Yid,” thought I to myself. But the fellow did not give me time to think. “And what are you going to do in Landsberg?” asked he, carrying on his cross-examination.

“Going to see a cousin of mine who is married there,” answered I, lying blatantly.

“Married to a German!”

“Yes, yes; to a very good man. She met him in Greece during the war.”

“Hum, hum!”

The idea was obviously not the one I should have picked upon, had I wished to please the dubious “Pole.” But it would keep the conversation off politics. Or, at least, I imagined it would. But I was mistaken. At last the man put me a direct question: “You have heard about concentration camps, haven’t you?”

“No,” replied I, looking as innocent as I possibly could, while doing all that was in my power to keep my face straight.

The man was amazed — if not positively indignant.

“Don’t tell me you never heard of such places as Buchenwald, for instance!” exclaimed he. “I was in Buchenwald, during the war; I, and that comrade of mine whom you just saw talking to me. He, and his brother and I, and many of our relatives, some of which are famous, were among the toughest enemies of the Hitler tyranny. My friend’s brother died in Buchenwald, do you understand? If you have at all any humanity in you, you should remember our names, Olshewski and Scholl, heroes of the resistance against the Third Reich. Do you understand me?”

“Scholl,” reflected I; “Heinrich and Sophie Scholl, brother and sister, executed on the 22nd of February, 1943, for treachery


and sabotage of the German war effort. I have heard of these, of course: who hasn’t? Anti-Nazi propaganda made enough fuss about them, at the time. I wonder what this fellow (whose friend is probably related to the pair) would say, if I were to tell him that the only reason why I remember the date of the execution with such accuracy is that it happens to be just a day before the thirteenth anniversary of Horst Wessel’s death . . . ?” But I kept those thoughts within any mind, and continued playing the part of a very ignorant person.

“I understand that I should remember your names because you are important people, heroes of something, — but I could not exactly grasp of what. And I shall remember them, rest assured. As for Buchenwald, I have never been there. What kind of place is it? Far from here? Anything worth seeing in the way of scenery? And I would also like to ask you what is that thing against which you fought: ‘the Third Reich’? I have never heard of it. Excuse me, if I am ill informed: but I was in India during the war . . .”

I was (in order to justify my abysmal ignorance) just about to say that I had lived in a harem. But I had no time to. The fellow abruptly got up, thoroughly disgusted with me. “How did you manage to travel such a lot, if you really are such a fool as you seem to be?” said he, after a short pause, controlling his anger.

“I travelled in the hope of becoming a little wiser,” answered I with a smile. “But apparently, it was useless.”

The Polish Jew gave me a vicious look, and walked away — at last!

I spent the rest of the night at that table. Several other people came and sat there one after the other, last of all a friendly couple who talked to me for a long time — good people, and good Germans, in fact; but too thoroughly poisoned by Christian influences to be, without reservations, on our side. It was about three o’clock when they went away. During my last hour in Munich, I was alone.

I shut my eyes, and tried to picture myself the atmosphere of this railway station in the glorious days; and the ever-recurring remorse again tormented me for not having come years before. And I longed and longed for the return of our régime


never mind how; by means of what intrigues, of what temporary alliances, of what apparent concessions to hostile forces, which might be used, before they are finally crushed! I also longed to play a part, however small it be, in the working out of the coming revenge and of the coming resurrection — again, never mind how and where; “wherever I am to be, the most useful, and in that way, in which I am to be the most useful, thought I. I felt my destiny was but a detail within that tremendous Destiny which is preparing the irresistible triumph of Truth — the recognition of our beloved Führer by all Aryans; the establishment of the Greater Reich as He conceived it.

And a little before half past four, I went and sat in the practically empty train that was to take me to Landsberg am Lech.