Yesterday I found my way to the Bad Homburg Polizeidirektion (police headquarters) for what I believed would be a frank exchange of views with a certain Herr Müller, who had been charged by the Central Council of Jews to read me the riot act and seek a prosecution (I refer readers to the attached PDF below or included inline). I was a week late in answering the summons because my post-box in Friedrichsdorf is something I check irregularly.
In Germany (and five other member states of the European Soviet Socialist Union), denial of the official “holocaust” ideology is punishable by up to five years in prison. I have been accused by the Jews of such a crime, and now they are moving to put me behind bars, empty my bank account and seize my assets.
At eight o’clock in the morning, I did indeed meet police officer Herr Müller, and we sat together and joked in the foyer prior to his telling me that the case officer assigned to my file was Frau Müller (no relation), not expected to arrive until later in the morning. He advised me to go home and phone to arrange an appointment. I’m just not up to that kind of thing, I told him, I’m here now. I shall either wait or find a local café and buy myself some French fries and coffee. Herr Müller pointed the way and apologised for not being able to take me there himself.
I got lost. The outskirts of Bad Homburg are a maze to those who don’t live there, and I ended up miles from the police station, only to find that it took me almost 90 minutes to return on foot. Frau Müller was diligent in finding me quickly and she officiously escorted me to the third floor, reminding me that I was a week late. Herr Müller spied me from behind the coffee machine, grinned and asked me if I had found the right café without getting lost. I laughed.
So here I was. Frau Müller, an efficient and very attentive lady asked me to make myself comfortable while she sought my file. She resembled a social worker rather than an officer of the law. I had the feeling that I was dealing with a computer programmer with a very strong feminist bent. Although she was pleasant in her demeanour, Frau Müller never smiled once during the course of what transpired to be a very gruelling three-hour long interview. I tried. I’ve always been able to make women laugh. It’s not a sexual thing. It happens naturally, because I instinctively love women and I enjoy plying them with teasing jokes. Frau Müller is one of the few women I have met in my life who decidedly placed a hardened shell between my good-natured humour and her own unsmiling professionalism.
Frau Müller is an excellent police officer. She knows her stuff. She’s not in the business of connecting with her fellow human beings. Her job is to secure prosecutions, fines and terms of imprisonment. It took me less than a minute to grasp the fact. (I longed for Herr Müller to make an appearance, coffee in hand. I had only spoken to him for a few minutes, and yet I knew he was a regular guy with whom I could shoot the breeze.)
She checked my passport and freelance journalist press card. She wanted to know everything about me: my upbringing, formative years, experiences as a schoolboy, university education, qualifications, former employers, average monthly income, preference for books, favourite websites, current health status, my fight against the German, British and Kenyan governments in the 1990s, my family, political views, philosophical leanings, and my relationship to my former wife. There she is, typing, recording, multitasking. Superwoman. She covered everything apart from religion and spiritual beliefs. That did not interest her.
Then came the political questions thick and fast.
“Are you a denier of the holocaust.”
“Define ‘holocaust’,” I asked her.
“What do you mean? You know I’m referring to the Jewish holocaust. You even mentioned it as an ‘allegation’ in this letter you sent to the Central Council of Jews.”
“In the Hebrew language, if you ever take the time to study the Old Testament, you will learn that the word ‘holocaust’ is shorthand for ‘a burnt sacrificial offering to Hashem (the god of the Jews) in return for certain favours.’ It’s neatly defined as such in the Jewish Encyclopaedia.”
“A holocaust is a mass burning?”
“No, it served a ritual purpose, often only involving the death of a teething ram or a sheep. Modern Jewry no longer practises the ritual of sacrificial ‘holocaust’ offerings, at least not officially.”
Frau Müller was stunned. She had never heard this before. The disbelief in her eyes was obvious, and yet she was dealing with a man who left school with an A-plus in Religion, History and English. New territory.
“How do you define ‘holocaust’ in the context of the Third Reich and the Second World War?” she asked. It was a trick question.
“The meaning of the word ‘holocaust’ does not change according to the Hebrew scriptures and the Jewish Encyclopaedia. I have already defined it for you.”
I sensed her discomfort and moved to reassure her.
“Fundamentalist Christians also believe that Isaac was destined to be the first human sacrificial lamb. Regardless, the Old Testament, despite its flaws, clearly points to Our Lord Jesus Christ as the one who sacrificed his life for the love of all men and women. The story concerning Isaac, whether true or not, served as a narrative foreshadowing God’s ultimate love of mankind and the suffering he was willing to endure to say, ‘Hey, guys, I’m your dad! And I love you.’”
This was well beyond Frau Müller’s understanding. She had stopped typing. My statement was not included in her final report. Christians are insane, she seemed to be thinking. There’s a man in my office who’s talking about Jesus. Time to phone the shrinks, perhaps, and have this lunatic pumped full of Paxil.
“I’m sorry,” I declared. “I know that Jesus is hated in the European Union. I probably offended you.”
Frau Müller gave me a dark look. This she did not want to hear. I had mentioned the name of God Almighty, who lived amongst us as a man only to suffer a cruel and torturous death at the hands of those who called themselves Jews. Frau Müller shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“So you don’t deny the holocaust?”
“I deny the validity of all books written by men. I deny all officially recorded history. I deny everything that I did not see with my own eyes as representing for me a certain formative ‘truth’. The history books are written by those who win wars and have the money to finance publishing houses. This was told to me by my history teacher at King Edward VII Grammar School. Mr Hutchins, who was an extremely competent scholar of history, told me that the so-called Jewish ‘holocaust’ was an ‘open question’. God told me to respect my parents and my teachers, and I am bound to obey the laws of God, which, at that time, applied all to English schoolchildren.”
“You cannot deny history! That’s impossible! You have read books! You have seen films!”
“Frau Müller, I was born in 1959. I have no personal experience of anything that happened prior to the development of my intellectual faculties. You are a police officer. Following a crime, you need witnesses. You cannot rely upon unborn children to be a witness to a crime that allegedly took place decades before they were born. The judge would laugh you out of court and end your career overnight. It is forbidden by God to bear false witness. If I testify to things of which I have no personal experience, then I am bearing false witness, and for that my soul, and yours, will be damned forever and eternity!”
This statement blew Frau Müller into another dimension. I tried to help her.
“Frau Müller, you approach me in the street and ask me what it’s like to be the mother of twins. Would that not be a rather strange question to ask a man?”
“You must use your Vorstellungskraft (imagination). You must be able to imagine what it’s like to be a mother. Plenty of books are available to help men understand this!”
“But Frau Müller, you are implicitly suggesting that we use our ‘imagination’ in regard to the scientific discipline of history, and for me, and most of those involved in the science of data management pertinent to the historical record, that is absolutely unacceptable. History should be about facts and hard evidence, not what we ‘imagine’ to be the truth. Could it not be that a certain group of people have ‘imagined’ history to be something other than the truth?”
Frau Müller did not answer. She almost smiled wanly. I had floored her with logic and I felt an immediate sense of regret. I didn’t want to leave her feeling out-smarted, because that is not my style. I hate those who practise arrogant one-upmanship: the Satanic elites are dominated by them. However, the best I could do was wish her farewell. I shook her hand and asked her to take care.
Frau Müller is an extremely intelligent woman who has, I suspect, spent years dealing with “thought criminals”. There was something about her that I found irresistibly attractive. Despite her hard-headed approach and failure to laugh at any of my jokes, I found myself feeling quite fond of her. I offered to take her out for lunch. She refused point blank. She found me long-winded and too intellectually absorbed and introspective. I told her I wasn’t interested in anything other than a chat over a coffee, completely divorced from the things we were discussing. No chance.
She at least gave me the opportunity to review my own statement and make any changes I thought necessary. I was so tired and incredibly unfocused, I skimmed through it. She had misunderstood much of what I had said. She reported: “Michael James holds to the view that the two most important men to exist were the philosophers Plato and Socrates, both of whom died to save humanity.” I had to correct this by pointing out that Socrates, not Plato, chose to die in the truth by drinking hemlock rather than live a life defined by the evil of lies. I also wrote a new and concluding paragraph:
“Yet none of these men can be compared to the One who died, not only for the Truth, but for all humanity: all men and all women everywhere. He is with us to this very day, and his name is Jesus Christ. He is God.”
Frau Müller was not happy. Although I had referred to Jesus at least twenty times during the course of our interview, she had not included his name in the report once. This final paragraph was something she did not expect. She was deeply unnerved. I know I shall hear from her again, and I expect the worst.
It was on my way back to the centre of Bad Homburg, walking along the Saalburgstrasse in the intense heat of the day, that something awful began to well up inside of me.
I felt, quite suddenly, as if I had just been hit in the pit of my stomach by a sledgehammer. My mouth began to fill with saliva, which I desperately tried to swallow. I spied a telephone box behind which, thankfully, was an empty trashcan. Nobody was in sight. I simply unloaded most of the contents of my stomach into the trashcan and felt as if I were about to die. Even during my drinking days, I had never surrendered so much of my stomach in one single heave. I have never felt so sick in my life and I doubt I shall ever be affected by such an overwhelming urge to vomit again.
I made my way along the Urselerstrassse toward the main train station, but continued to experience the feeling that I may gag at any moment. Then, completely out of the blue, I was absolutely overwhelmed by an incredible sense of sadness. I did cry, but nobody saw me. The street was practically deserted and I was wearing sunglasses. I did not cry for myself or anyone else in particular. These tears came to me as an expression of something I felt deep down inside of myself that I still cannot fully explain; but I saw the world anew, and felt like a prisoner trapped in the matrix of an incredibly evil, indefinable captivity.
A taxi passed by and I picked up, for a very brief spell, a track from Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America”. It was one of my favourite albums growing up as a youngster in England. In fact, I lost my innocence in the quadraphonic pitch of “Dreamer”. Her name was Sarah, and she gave me glandular fever. She was an excellent pianist, demonstrating her skills just seconds after I had felt the earth move off the Richter scale and my very being transform itself from boyhood to pseudo manhood. She looked across at me and laughed. This was nothing new for her, but there I lay in Seventh Heaven. Supertramp, Sarah, pianos, strawberry wine and the faint aroma of a late English summer evening.
For the first time in the 16 years I have lived in Germany, I suddenly felt awfully homesick. I know that those times have passed and will never return. But a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, Mike Oldfield, Gallagher and Lyle, Genesis, Uriah Heep. We were the generation sandwiched between the hippies (whom we detested) and the punks (whom we distrusted). Those were the days I went motorbike racing on an uninsured BSA 250 without a crash helmet. I used to burn up the country lane between Lytham St. Annes and Wrea Green, playing cat and mouse with the police who would tag me on their much more powerful Hondas. I was caught only once and the police officer, having given me a very stern lecture about riding without adequate protection, let me ride pillion on his bike all the way to the nearest tavern, whereupon he declared himself “off duty” and allowed me to buy him a beer.
That was England in the 1970s. We were free. I truly mean this. Regardless of the loathsome class system, Englishmen enjoyed a quality of physical, spiritual and intellectual freedom that may never be repeated in our time. We were free to ask troublesome questions. If you disagreed with what was written in the history books, no policeman would arrive on your doorstep and take you in for questioning.
Despite stagnation, a disastrous Labour government, water shortages, panic buying, pubs that closed early because they had run out of ale, parents who (in our eyes) transformed themselves from potato-gardening dullards into fascinating figures of fun following our intake of three of four crafty smokes of Mary Jane, the addictive fascination of the Twilight Zone enjoyed with friends in an attic strewn with banana skins and Rizla papers, we were all self-elected rebels without any cause to complain.
I argued respectfully and coherently with my teachers. I laughed at jokes directed at the Jews, the Scots, the Irish and the French, yet I was never arrested for a “hate crime”. We ate high cholesterol fatty foods and remained as skinny as rakes. We got drunk on home-brewed wine and beer, rolled our own cigarettes and worked with strategic military precision to date the girls with whom we fell in love. It took weeks of incessant charm, the dispatch of flowers and endless evenings of sweet nothings running up massive telephone bills (thanks, dad) to get the girl. It was not about sex, but romantic love: French-kissing in the long grass, staring into each other’s eyes until the sun disappeared into the Irish Sea. It was, for me, a time of magic and endless possibilities.
The England I loved no longer exists. The Germany I embraced in 1992 is now nothing more than a parody of a petty, backbiting police state: a Zionist banana republic of Christ-hating hypocrisy, fear, repression and growing poverty and hunger.
We Europeans have lost the plot. The show is almost over.
Today, I cried because I remembered what it is like to be free. I want my freedom back. I want my freedom so badly, it is hurting me deep inside and I cannot stem the tears.
Michael James, an Englishman, is a former freelance journalist resident in Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland.