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Short memories were a commodity much in demand after the war. I can understand a man looking after his own skin. That is to be expected even if it shows a certain lack of courage and honour. Especially these men. They carried an oath with them to the graves. That was always the intention. They seem to have taken up oaths as others would their shopping. They had declared a fellowship that could never end. It ended the day the war finished. Their oath lasted five minutes after the old man shot himself in the bunker. They swallowed their promises and shat it out into the Americans hands. They are worse than Jews. A Jew is doomed to his condition. There's no escaping it. They live with it to the end of their days. These criminals. They had been given a chance to become something they could never have hoped for — they took it — parodied it — then when the time came — they turned on it.
These are the reasons why we collapse as a nation. We're like the others. We have no backbone. We have a nation of little men scared that the Russians will jump over the Wall and eat them. So they hold the Americans hands while they fall on their knees and hope to high heaven that they don't mess up all over their clothes. Not too long ago I read an article in the Springer press by an old intelligence officer who was down in the bunker. I knew the man. Knew him very well. Once a devotee of Kaltenbrunner he became close to Heydrich. It was said of Heydrich that he had records on everyone that breathed. He was a cunning and brutal man. I befriended hilm as a younger man and he matured into a pure piece of machinery. Perfection. Too much of a politician for my liking but he set about his work like a man posessed. He could not be faulted. I was proud of him. He was murdered by partisans. A great loss. Had he lived there is no doubt he would rail against these old soldiers as I do. A little more force perhaps.
I have forgotten what I was going to say. Yes. I read this article in Stern or Spiegel where this old soldier talks about his days in the bunker. He makes a comedy of the situation. He turns events inside out. He builds up himself and makes the rest seem foolish. He describes the days in the bunker as days of Hell. I was there. That's not how I remember it. Certainly not. They were for me days of great promise. Still. We had lost in one arena but there was a world of other arenas to enter. These were days of opportunity. I think I am expressing the ideas of the leadership at the time. Certainly there were waverers but I was not amongst them. I appreciated the grave situation but I was not scared. Quite the opposite in fact. What we had started could be finished in another way. It wasn't impossible.
There were many signs that we had friends in the Allies. They were quite aware and to a degree complicit in what we had done. They were aware of the camps. They did nothing. That was true of the red saviours too. When the Warsaw Ghetto attempted its puny uprising the reds could have helped their beleagured comrades. They didn't. They wanted us to finish the job. Yes. There were many signs. Many. This excuse for a man, Wolff writes in this article that the bunker was a mad house. I suppose he was paid a fortune for his confessions. All lies. All lies. How could a man do this not only to a nation but to himself? Every year there is a story of disgrace. Penned by a new name. An intimate. I was there. Who are they? Who? This man also mentioned my name as a sinister force in the last days. How can they speak this way? To defile honour in this way. I sit here and I want to rid my stomach of its contents. How can they get away with it?
It is Wolff and men like him who cry out long and hard to defend the interests of Israel. This sanctuary in the desert. I know what I would do with this sanctuary. Let the chosen ones feel what I am feeling. Attacked from all fronts and expecting any day to be anhillated. All armies of the Middle East would descend on their sanctuary and tear it apart bit by bit. Take apart their idealism bit by bit. The chosen ones. They have a home now. Even if they don't live there. There's more of their number in New York than their is in Israel. Sending their shekels to save the sanctuary. Our nation also pays the filfth. We pay them. Reparations. Worse than Versailles. We beg ethical alms from the vermin. They shall perish. That was our cry. Now we pay for their sanctuary and let them live amongst us. How long do we have to live through this torment? What have they given me? Not a sanctuary. A cage that pulls towards me tighter and tighter. For years now I have had difficulty in breathing. I seem to be gasping for air. I am a man who should still be in good health. I have tried even under these conditions to keep myself fit. It was a standing joke amongst my colleagues to catch me in my office doing push ups and lifting weights. Heimmann wants to live for the Thousand Year Reich. A man whose body is fit can withstand all sorts of pressures. Every year from 1932 I went mountain climbing going to heights that few men imagine. It was no chore for me. I took to it with a passion.
We had too many amongst us who were degenerates. Men who drank themselves to oblivion at every opportunity. As the war was ending it got harder and harder to get intoxicants. These people hoarded. Drank it from morning to night. That's not the worst of it. Others spent their time in the company of boys and girls old enough to be their grandchildren. They became wastrels waiting for the war to end. They wanted to plunder and take the benefits of our great victories but were unprepared to fight when the times got very tough. If I had had my way. They would have gone by transport and ended up coming out of the chimney as smoke. I would have kept those furnaces going. All day and all night.
Albert Speer writing his memoirs in Spandau. This know nothing. This scoundrel. Profiting by altering his memory. He was always against us. He was an artist he says. He didn't know what course we were taking and if he did he would have tried his best to subvert it. This artist. This man in minature. This loathsome creature who followed the leadership around like a lovesick animal. This small man playing the innocent. Not for the benefit of the movement but for his own sake so that he can go to live in the Alps in comfort to write his best selling memoirs. This architect. These pilferers of our history have turned the world upside down so they can get out through a hole in the corner. These vermin. We should have taken harsher measure. We should have made a clean sweep on our part and eliminated forever these characters who sucked life from us. We should have had streets full of men like Speer hanging from the lightposts. We should have. Certainly. Made the city like a christmas tree with traitors hanging from lightposts. This would have taught those who wavered that to stand straight meant that you could stand in the light. We should have carried them by the truckload into a forest and burnt their bodies so that the flame would send a message. That would have given the shopkeeper and the clerk a bit of backbone. It wasn't enough to design fine suits for our warriors to wear. We had to design the man. Those who went into battle — changed — they developed and carried high our flag. Those who stayed away from the battle lived off our soldiers blood. They lived like there was no tommorrow. These windbags. These degenerates. I wanted and needed to put them to the flame. How much work was there still to be done. My hatred of them is not sufficient expression of what I want to do to them. A man measures another man. That is the nature of social relations.
I would give fifty of these traitors for one Eckstein. I knew that he amongst men would not turn his back on his kind no matter how unfortunate their origins. How unfortunate that he was not amongst us. Why am I so drawn to him. Even then. When I left his hovel in the ghetto I knew I was going to save him. I still don't know why. I knew I would do my best to keep him away from the flame. Unknown to Eckstein I put it around that he was an informer for my people. This would save his skin for a time. The idea came to me as I wandered through the ghetto from his hovel. An incident occurred. We allowed the chosen ones to set up their own government. Impoverished. It served our purposes and I suppose theirs for awhile. They had their own police force. What I saw was one group of Jews being set upon by another group who were in rudimentary uniform. They were breaking up a meeting of some kind. What amazed me was the ferociousneess with which they went at each other. The gendarmes came out the better because they had clubs. As they finished their work they noticed me and one of them looked to me for some kind of approval. I allowed a smile to pass my lips and moved on. I would let it be known that Eckstein was an informant. Passing information. I was known as an exemplary collector of intelligence so I was not implicated and the old Jew Eckstein was none the wiser. To this day it mystifies me why I set about such a trick. I was a man of rare power. When I stood in a meeting everyone noticed. Not a few shut their mouths if they knew I would be there. These men feared me. Justifiably so. I was a man to be feared.
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