- 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 this letter.
- 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
- 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
- For instance:
- 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 here!
- 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
- 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
- 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 new birth!
- 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 cosmic!
- 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