Sept 2, 2005
Many of my readers have complained
that I am largely invisible these days. There is nothing
sinister behind my absence - on the contrary. I have so immersed
myself in my newest adventure, the Zundel Documentary now
nearing conclusion, that I have ruthlessly stripped from myself all
other obligations. I've been glued to my Final Cut Pro!
That, and a few other Zundel initiatives still in the germinating
stages, have been the reason I did not spend as much time on the
Internet as I usually do. This will not change until the middle
of November, at the earliest.
I also want to put my friends' anxieties at rest. The arrest
warrant for me because of postings on the Zundelsite is dated.
It stems from 1996 and the cyber war around the Zundelsite. It
could be that it has been recently renewed, but as long as I don't
travel to Europe, I consider myself fairly safe.
This morning I received a letter from Ernst I feel privileged to share
with you. When Ernst feels hassled or frazzled, or when
something unexpected disturbs his equilibrium, his letters don't lend
themselves to publication, but when he is in a reflective mood, I love
to be part of his world, even with an ocean between us.
In this letter Ernst makes mention of a strange and deeply soothing
dream he had - of all times and places, in the plane to Canada right
after his political kidnapping. He told me that he saw a "heile
Welt" - a "healed world" and a serene, enchanted life
of beauty and fulfillment. He makes reference to that dream in
My dear Ingrid -
It's a nice day outside in Mannheim and inside - and your husband is
sniffling away for over a week with the worst case of hay fever since
the 1970s before I discovered that miracle compound MSM. It is
during times like these that one feels the helplessness more keenly
than on any other time because one knows that there is help and relief
available at the reach of a hand into the vitamin cabinet - yet one
may fantasize all one wants, even dream about it, one still knows in
one's feverish delirium that no help will be possible under the
circumstances of this imprisonment. You should have received
some photos in the Mannheimer Morgen of how interesting this
old prison looks.
I am not complaining, Ingrid. This is just for the historical
record of how things are felt in the new Gulag, while I try to keep a
promise I made to myself from the first day of my arrest - which is to
keep a mental bridge going to you, to not let these people separate or
break us with their cynical, underhanded ways.
I will try to give you a few snippets of things from here. I met
an older German prisoner - I am the oldest most of the time; he
is still five years younger than I am. When I saw him in the
prison Alcatraz-like Stockwerk, I thought he looked like
seventy. It shook me up because he looked exactly like my
long-dead friend, Fred N. Amazing, the likeness! Finally I
got the chance to talk to him in the prison yard and was not surprised
to find a highly articulate German who speaks fluent English, has been
all over the world - and has the horizon to see the bigger picture
that is lacking in so many other, mostly younger Germans. He,
like many Germans, is unhealthy. My most shocking discovery,
Ingrid - it absolutely horrifies me, because obviously they eat the
same diets Americans eat, except for the still more nutritious
all-grain German bread one can buy at the prison store. But,
Ingrid, unbelievable to me - all the rest is just about the same
Fabriknahrung [factory food] as we get at Walmart's or Kroger's.
One can also buy deutsche Markenbutter and some of the fresh
vegetables like tomatoes, which seem to be sun-grown, dark and firm.
They even smell like tomatoes. That prison store arrangement has
been the absolute saving grace for me. I can now eat something
green at every meal.
My breakfast at 6 a.m. is a nice cup of tea - different kinds, I have
peppermint, Hagebutten, fruit, even Ceylon black tea, all
supplied by the prison. I take one-fourth or one-half of a fresh
lemon, which mostly lasts the 12-14 days between shopping - only once
in a while does one go mildewy. I squeeze the lemon into my cup
- Porcelain! Nice, eh? - add the hot, freshly brewed tea from my
stainless steel pot, around which I have wrapped some old parts of a
pillow case I found in my cell. Then I give myself a bit of a
squeeze of honey into that mixture. It is heavenly - and I think
of you as I begin to make notes and write some letters. Then I
shave, brush my teeth, put on my Tennessee Mountain boots bought at
Walmart on sale for $14.75 before my arrest - my daily footwear in
prison and on the way to court for the last 2 1/2years. Now that
was one good quality boot! I reconnect with you, see you walk to
my clothes closet, look at all the other lovely boots, especially the
one that is all leather which I bought for $29.95 on a Supersale at
Sam's in Knoxville. Boy, do I wish sometimes I had those boots
Then, after the boots are laced up, I wash some apples, a bunch of
carrots, green onions or peppers, and munch these Bugs Bunny-style on
my way to the prison yard. By the time lunch is served at
11-11:30 a.m., I will have had only vegetables and fruits. No
coffee! I am weaning myself off that. Lorraine [a friend,
Dr. Lorraine Day] would be proud of me!
I usually only eat half of the portion at lunch, depending on what we
get - salt potatoes, noodles, rarely rice - and keep the rest in a
plastic container because we only get one main warm meal a day.
This suits me fine, because after I take a little nap about 1-2 p.m.,
I get back up, research files, make notes, write to the lawyers or
letters to friends. I take a break about 4:30 and make myself my
evening salad - just like at home.
A murderer nearby, who has no one in the world, it seems, and who has
no funds for even an immersion heater - a German, 20 years younger
than I - needs some hot water or a cup of coffee, and when we are let
out for about 5 minutes at about 5:30-6:00 p.m., I usually have hot
water ready for him. By then, the guards come by with some
bread, about five slices, some cheese, two slices of sausage - and
sometimes, I could not believe it, they have Bratheringe like
my mother used to buy out of a big barrel in the village. The
Turkish prisoners don't seem to like fish, which I find odd.
They then trade their fish for a boiled egg, some jam, etc.
I dash out of my cell during the five-minute break and empty my trash
can because vegetarian garbage, which is still alive, smells worse
than junk food garbage. Then I withdraw to my burrow like some
prairie dog. The other prisoners go and make what is called
"Umschluß" where one is allowed to take one's chair to the
cell of a compatible prisoner and play chess or talk. 99% of
them smoke their guts out. I visit no one because I have
absolutely nothing in common with those people - ZERO! Talk
about a cultural desert or downbreeding. This is the place to
see the result of "Americanization." It is devastating
to observe it, to watch and listen to these people!
Some of the guards, when they take me to the visiting barracks, ask me
very respectfully: "Herr Zündel, wie können Sie das
aushalten?" ["Mr. Zündel, how can you bear
it?"] I tell them about American and Canadian prisons and
the life and low-lifes there, the brutality, the lousy food, and then
I tell them that I am relieved to see how humane they, the German
guards, have remained. Ingrid, it's in moments like those that
one gets a fleeting, almost ephemeral whisp, a mere glimpse, of what
is meant by Volksgemeinschaft [belonging one's folk] - a sense
of togetherness, of shared, unarticulated Gemeinsamkeiten
[things we have in common] - things that we Germans feel amongst
ourselves when we celebrate German Christmas - like you described so
movingly with your grandmother and that burning twig. Every once
in a while a soul-string is tugged and resonates ever so briefly, and
a guard wants to know: "What is it that you know that is so
feared by the system?" Ingrid, those are very precious
moments because they show to me that the embers are still glimmering
away, and then I let loose with Pure Zundelism and watch my artillery
barrage land right on target in the depths of their souls - and I
KNOW, Ingrid, by their reaction that I have not lost the magic touch.
It's an uplifting feeling, for I know that the time will come when
that "KNOWING" will be treated like a national resource.
I know it as certain as I am writing these lines and my name is Ernst
Zündel in this INCARNATION!
I also know that something is being worked out in the scheme of
things. Something is germinating as though a new Thing is
gestating - as in a pregnancy. One dares not artificially induce
premature labor and thereby cause an abortion or a damaged, imperfect
Sweetheart, I don't know yet what it is! But I know that it is,
and if we, you and I, are careful and listen into ourselves very
attentively, listen to our inner selves, it will manifest itself to us
exactly what it is that wants to be born. We must not allow
earthly pain, loneliness, misunderstandings, past hurts and jealousies
thwart this process. Maybe to most people this sounds like
pretty esoteric stuff, like a pipe dream of a man in prison. Of
course I have dreams. I have visions of the country meadows with
the apple trees in blossom and the golden-haired children frolicking
amongst the wildflowers while chasing after butterflies. I
recall that pungent smell of flowing sap in those magnificent Southern
pines on the Dream House Mountain Bench. But, Ingrid, this
THING, this instinctively felt ambience is something different, almost
as if out of a different dimension in space and time, something
Thanks to the isolation and the now much better food, the glorious
music, the quiet, I am becoming the Ernst Zundel I was obviously meant
to be. In all humility I say to you, my wife, lover, and friend
- it is awesome!
To hell with the rest of the world! This is the new world
===== ===== =====
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