ZGram - 12/18/2003 - "Herr Alfred"
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zgrams at zgrams.zundelsite.org
Thu Dec 18 16:29:34 EST 2003
Zgram - Where Truth is Destiny: Now more than ever!
December 18, 2003
Good Morning from the Zundelsite:
Below is one of Ernst's more recent, pensive little letters, dated
December 14, chatting with me. He talks, subdued, about "Herr
Alfred" - a fixture at the Toronto Zundel-Haus.
Herr Alfred was a Baltic German, a former Wehrmacht soldier. I don't
think he was of very high rank. I never heard anyone refer to Herr
Alfred by last name - it was as if he had no last name, no
personality, no life experiences he really had to share. He was just
there, taken for granted, known by all - yet really known by no one.
At the Zundel-Haus, all of us were on a first-name basis - he was the
only one who was addressed by everybody as "Herr" Alfred. He called
Ernst "Ernst" - and never called me anything. I thought he didn't
know my name. I always thought that odd.
I met Herr Alfred right after the Zundel-Haus arson, sometime in July
of 1995. During the next seven or so years, when I visited the
Zundel-Haus at intervals, Herr Alfred would either putter about his
copy machine where he made voluminous copies, or he would sit, a bit
hunched, in the dining room, in front of him a can of sardines and a
very dry German piece of bread, and munch away in silence. He would
just sit there and say nothing. He must have been already well into
his eighties.
Sometimes, when I joined him for a coffee break, I felt a silence of
such intensity that I felt I had to break it by making small talk.
It was always a one-sided effort. Herr Alfred would just look at me
mildly with his old, watery eyes and say nothing. I believe the only
item out of his long, long life that he ever volunteered to me was
maybe a sentence or two. He had been wounded in the head, he told
me, sighing. Some kind of splinter. Right up here. With old,
gnarled fingers, he pointed to his temple.
That World War II splinter still lodged somewhere in his brain, Ernst
told me afterwards.
Once, while I was still working in San Diego and Ernst up in Toronto,
he called me to tell me that something momentous had happened - Herr
Alfred had come into the office, hmming and hawwing, clearing his
throat several times, practically wringing his hands until finally a
compliment of sorts materialized: That monthly Power Letter really
had some punch! Had Ingrid done THAT? My oh my!
So he DID know my name! I had to laugh. "I didn't even think that
he knew who I am, what I do."
"Oh, he knows you alright," said Ernst. "I've watched him many
times, reading your ZGrams. When he is through, he copies a whole
stack."
That's just about the sum and summary of my interaction with Herr
Alfred for seven long, eventful years. Here's how Ernst Zundel
remembers Herr Alfred:
[START]
I am very short of stamps because, once again two weeks ago, I was
overlooked at Canteen Service time, usually a Sunday, when they come
to deliver our "mail order" - stamps, envelopes etc. In this prison,
[this service] is subcontracted out to a private company, which does
not seem to be all that efficient. What else is new, as our society
deteriorates and eventually will break down?
There was an American writer (anthropologist? Charlton Coon?) who
wrote on the reasons why societies break down. His theory was that
there is a disproportion in the birth of problem solvers to problem
creators. There comes a point of no return. When the problem
creators vastly outnumber problem solvers, then societies decline and
ultimately collapse.
In Western civilization that point was reached in the 1960s - and it
has been downhill ever since, camouflaged for a few decades by
advances and refinements in technology, especially with the advent of
computers, printers, photocopiers, fax machines etc. I observed that
in my business. I could see the decline in competence and efficiency
among new recruits, subcontractors and suppliers.
When European immigrants stopped coming and did not rejuvenate the
talent pool and the previous wave of immigrants retired and has now
just about died off, things began to break down - visibly! I was
lucky that I had volunteers and helpers, many of the older generation
- like Herr Alfred, Sepp, Otti etc. The improvisations these people
came up with were remarkable. Herr Alfred was only the son of a
blacksmith/farmer, yet he trained himself to be a crackerjack tool
and die maker. He was so good at his trade that he worked in the
munitions industry, even though as a former "enemy soldier" he was
denied security clearance. He made so many inventions and actually
made most of my booklet-making simple tools and gadgets which worked
and worked and worked!
He saved our operation hundreds of thousands of dollars over the
decades - in keeping the house dry by fixing any potential leaks on
the roof, which he inspected every fall, even at age 85, on his
knees, inch by inch, patching a little hole here and there. That man
was like [one of our current volunteers], a blessing for the Cause.
I am thinking back sometimes, lying on my uncomfortable bunk bed,
about all these people whose lives I touched and who helped me in
ways large and small. I think about their odd habits and character
traits and marvel at the miracle of staving off the circling vultures
for so long with so few [helpers] and so very little money. I feel
like a spectator watching my own life.
[END]
After we moved to Tennessee, I went back three times to Canada to
pack up and clear out the Zundel-Haus. Herr Alfred was there, as
silent as ever. As the rooms got emptier and emptier, Herr Alfred
ever more resembled a ghost that stumbled through the edifice,
disoriented and sad beyond all words.
As I threw away an old shoe, Herr Alfred bent down and retrieved it.
I said to him: "Herr Alfred, it has holes. How about this nice new
pair of boots? I am sure that Ernst wants you to have them. Here,
why not try them on?" He just snorted with contempt and went to look
for an old box for both the boots AND the one shoe. When I think of
that large, empty Zundel-Haus I left for the last time, I always see
Old Herr Alfred, silent and sad.
A short time afterwards, while I was doing the data base entries of
donations to the Zundel Cause, I held in my hand an almost illegible
letter. It had no signature, no return address; just some scribbles
by an old and shaky hand. Where to send 1,000.- Canadian dollars?
I showed that letter to Ernst and asked if he could recognize the
handwriting. "Oh, sure. That's Herr Alfred," said Ernst. "He is
probably dying. He has saved up that money for years to give to me
one day."
In less than a week, Herr Alfred was dead. As I was telling this
story to one of our new mountain volunteers, I got all choked up and
could not continue. As I am writing this, I still feel shivers
travel down my spine.
For four long decades at the Zundel-Haus, as Old Herr Alfred puttered
about, pitching in, doing duty, nobody ever said a nasty word to him
- or about him.
Can the same be said about Bronfman?
How much did the Holocaust Lobby extort by besmirching the honor of
Germany's World War II soldiers?
You may be sure, in this uneven struggle, that if there is still
justice in this world - and we all know there may or may not be -
Herr Alfred's grand total of $1,000.-, saved up via pennies and
nickels, thrown into the Struggle with his very last strength, will
be tidily tipping the scales.
NO SURRENDER!
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