GOODBYE, MY VIENNA
“All art is propaganda” – George Orwell
“What we do today echoes in Eternity”!
The sound boomed from the surround-speakers
in the TV shop on Main Street. From stereo repair to refridgerator delivery, Royal Television Sales seemed to do it all. They even programmed VCR’s and set them up for senior citizens. A very old-fashioned, community-oriented place that seemed out of step with the modern world. Which was probably why it was going out of business. Of course, the government’s free-trade cheap-labor scheme didn’t help. Times were changing. But were they changing for the better? Kurt was about to get a definite answer to that question.
Suddenly, around the corner, came the sound of a chaotic street-protest. Bicycles, marchers, weird-looking short-haired men – wait! – these weren’t men at all! The lead parader held up a placard that said “Love is Love”. Then he noticed the stylized logo on the marcher’s t-shirts. “Dykes on Bykes”! It was a god-damned gay parade! A gay parade on Main Street in Royal Oak. What in the hell was the world coming to? What was happening to Kurt’s community?
Kurt’s memory drifted back to his boyhood. His favorite place had been the Royal Oak Historical Museum on Main Street. When you’d walk into the museum, the first thing you’d see would be a mannequin dressed in a WW II German soldier’s uniform – Wehrmacht! It was a place filled with antiques and militaria for sale. Big blue Mother’s Crosses for Nazi mom’s. Victoria Crosses, pawned by Canadian and British war heroes, fallen on hard times. Kurt heard that the swastika was a good-luck symbol, so he bought a small, round Nazi Party pin. The museum’s owner told him it that it was really from the war. Kurt believed him. After all, everything else in the museum was real. Kurt had his girlfriend wear the pin when she was pregnant with their child. He believed the magical energy of the swastika would protect the child. As Fate would have it, he was right.
Kurt’s thoughts drifted back to the long road that had brought him here. His downward spiral began in an office
at the Teacher’s College. “Mr. Christiansen, it is extremely difficult to be re-admitted to the College of Education” the harsh, short-haired woman intoned with finality. As Kurt glanced at the diplomas on her wall, he noted several from Ivy League schools. He also noticed what appeared to be an award for some sort of charity. It had a strange symbol on it that resembled a hexagram. He knew the hexagram well. It was one of the most powerful symbols of black magic. The letters on the cheap-looking plaque said “ADL”. He had never heard of the ADL. He decided to ask Heinz about it. Heinz was his most trusted friend.
Heinz Knossos with his jet-black hair, sharp features and gray eyes, looked every bit the European import that he was. Born of a German mother and Greek father, his background was all at once tragic and inspiring.
His mother was a refugee from the Second World War. As a child in East Prussia, she had benefited greatly from the social reforms that aimed at eliminating economic and social class division. Then came the chaos of the world-wide economic Depression. A loaf of bread sold for 500 Deutsch Marks, an inflated currency people referred to as “Judenfetzen“, Jewish Confetti.
By the end of the war years, the Jewish Commissars were exhorting the Soviet Communists to rape and pillage the Germans, especially in the East, where fighting had been the fiercest. Heinz had watched his mother being raped repeatedly by the Mongols and Tatars that overran Prussia in the closing days of the war.
Heinz hated Communists.
Heinz’ father Leonidas was a Greek Nationalist who had fought the German Occupation forces in Greece, though in truth, he spent more time fighting the Greek Communists than against the Waffen-SS. When the Allies would drop precious weapons and supplies to the Resistance forces, the Communists would steal half of the supplies, and hide them in secret caches for use against their Nationalist rivals, both during and after the War. A war within a war.
Kurt had first met Heinz when they played in a bar band, back in the days before the harsh drunk-driving dragnets somehow became the law of the land. People used to pack the niteclubs and lounges every night of the week, drinking and dancing to the oldies but goodies. It put enough change in Kurt’s pocket to put him through college.
Dinner at Heinz’ house was always a full-on Greek feast served by Heinz’ sister Andromeda. Shoulder of lamb cooked in it’s own fat with green beans and a sweet tomato sauce. Buttery orzo that they called pilafi. Homemade bread and butter – the food of the Gods. After dinner, sipping Turkish coffee, Kurt remembered the strange plaque that he meant to ask about.
“ADL”, Heinz said? “Only the most powerful Masonic Lodge in the world. B’nai Brith , or rather, it’s intelligence agency.”
“You mean intelligence agency as in spying on people”?
“That’s right. They’re official name is Anti-Defamation League. They’re anti-anti-Semitism.”
“Well, it’s Jews referring to themselves.”
“So, Jews are Semites?”
“Not hardly. Most of them are from Poland and Russia. But they talk a good game. The ADL specializes in political blackmail, while fighting anti-Semitism, of course. The Jew, he cries out in pain as he strikes you”, Heinz said with a sarcastic chuckle. It was then that Heinz had to tell him of the long, bitter history between the Jews and the Greeks.
Heinz told him how his grandparents had been deported from their native lands, the ancient Greek kingdoms of Lycaonia (land of the she-wolves) and Kappadokia, in the wake of the Armenian genocide. Kurt had never been a history buff – his interests lay in cars, guitars and women. He was a red-blooded American boy. But he was fascinated to learn that this entire genocide/expulsion operation had been engineered by a creepy Masonic sect of Messianic Jews, the Donmeh. Such people were referred to in whispered tones as crypto-Jews. They practiced Islam superficially to fool their Turko-Mongol neighbors. Privately, they practiced demonic Kabalism, Jewish black magic. All this talk of Jews and Kabala had Kurt’s head spinning. All Kurt knew about Kabala was that it’s greatest practioner was the so-called “Wickedest Man in the World”, British sorcerer Aleister Crowley. Everyone from Ozzy to President Bush seemed to know his act. Even Paul McCartney put him on the cover of Sargeant Pepper as his main influence. Then Kurt remembered something really wild had once read in a Beatle book. The book showed the making of that Sargeant Pepper cover, with an Adolf Hitler look-alike as John Lennon’s main influence. The Fuehrer isn’t visible on the cover because the much taller Lennon is standing in front of him. Lennon was fascinated with Hitler.
Kurt recalled the scene in “Hard Days Night”, when John was in the bathtub pretending he was a German U-boat commander, sinking a British ship, whistling “Deutschland ueber Alles”, Germany’s national anthem. John’s close German friends were forbidden by law to sing it. There were also film clips of Ringo heiling crowds from a balcony with a stiff-armed salute, the other Beatles laughing their asses off at it.
Finishing his coffee, Kurt bid Heinz adieu and made his way home. He had a lot to think about now.
The telephone rang. It was Heinz. “Bad news, man. We just lost our gig to a karaoke machine”. “Great”. “Sit tight, I’ll see what I can come up with”. The weekly bar gig was becoming something of a routine, but it was a comfortable, satisfying routine, helping to pay the bills at least. With the upcoming closure of the TV repair shop, he’d have to think of something. It seemed that most of his options had disappeared. He had once been on the verge of a teaching career full of promise. Student-teaching consisted of trying to teach uninterested working-class teenagers the basics. The pupils themselves were pretty average – boisterous jocks, pregnant Latinos and a pair of Negroes who fist-fought each other nearly evey lunch-hour, seemingly for the school’s amusement. Kurt thought that he had almost made the grade until it came time for his final evaluation. The instructor the college had sent to evaluate Kurt strutted into the room wearing a mini-skirt and tight, revealing top. The boys started hooting and hollering. Kurt could not control the classroom. He had been set up!
The other teacher’s stood around him in a circle. In a nasal voice one matter-of-factly droned “Well, they gave you enough rope…” “Yeah, it’s a lot easier to loosen the leash if you have it tight to begin with” said another. Now they fucking told him . Seven years of college down the drain.
Kurt’s bitter memories were interrupted by the telephone’s ring. It was Heinz. “Hey man, I got us a gig. A private party on the West Side, it’ll be interesting”.
Intersetng didn’t begin to describe it. Most of the people there had shaved heads, nationalist friends of Heinz’ from various circles. During the fast-paced jams, some of the guys would suddenly assume a squat and shoot out their right arm, saluting “Heil!” Heinz explained that it was actually an ancient Greek salute copied by the Romans, and then the Germans.
After the set, Heinz introduced Kurt to Billy Joe. Big, blond and stocky, tatooed and side-burned, he looked like one tough customer. A full-color Confederate flag on his forearm announced his allegiance to a Klan group. He had also led a Nazi faction during the days of public protests back in the seventies. Passing out the beer, Billy Joe held forth on his favorite topic, the Jews.
“Did you know that an Orthodox Jew begins every day by saying “How glad not to be a filthy goyim!” “What’s a goyim?” “A beast of burden. They see non-Jews as sub-human animals, fit only to serve them”. He even referred to the Holohoax, as he called it. He explained it as a math or science problem. The number of victims times the rendering time of a human body times the number of crematoria mean that they would still be burning the bodies!
Finally, he said that the German prisons were filled with not just Jews, but Greeks, Serbs, Poles, perverts, drunks, common criminals who could not be rehabilitated by German work programs. He then made a sobering statemant: “Consider this -right now America has the largest prison population in history. If we get into a major war- and some feel it’s coming – and food supplies and transportation networks get disrupted, or worse yet, destroyed – the photographs of OUR prison population will make Auschwitz look like chopped liver. Oy vey!”
Wow. These Nazi intellectuals had a twisted sense of humor. Kurt’s mind was blown. He had a lot to think about.
The telephone rang. It was Heinz. “Can you do me a favor. I’d like you to go over to Billy Joe’s, to help him with music”. Kurt drove across town to Billy Joe’s neighborhood, carefully avoiding the Negroes walking down the middle of the street. The area had been a white working-class enclave. When Billy Joe walked down the street the Negroes regarded him with a mixture of fear and wonder. Like wild animals, the only thing they respected was force – and Billy Joe was quite willing and able to apply that force violently,if necessary.
One time a group of local “teens” managed to steal the Kenwood stereo out of Billy Joe’s car. Billy Joe and his group had managed to track the offenders down. They stomped the shit out of them with their steel-toed combat boots, and threw their groaning victims into a garbage dumpster. Even if they were aspiring rappers, future NBA stars, or just beginning to turn their lives around, Billy Joe could care less. As far as he was concerned, he was the community’s garbageman. And sometimes, when you take out the garbage, your hands get dirty.
Walkinq into Billy Joe’s small studio, he noticed the Waffen-SS recruiting posters on the wall. “Join the fight against Communism” they appealed in differing languages. Billy Joe explained that there were more foreign volunteers than Germans in the group, that Germans were actually a minority in the armed SS. The world’s largest multicultural army, dedicated to fighting Communism. In their tailored black coats with silver piping designed by Party member Hugo Boss) they did cut a dashing figure, and Kurt could see the appeal it held for young men – like all young men, eager for action – even if that action was in the hellish bogs and swamps of he Russian front. Recalling that Heinz’ own father had fought the Germans, Kurt realized that the war, like life itself, was a commplex game, full of contradictions.
“What do you think of this?” Billy Joe strummed some chords on the guitar and sang in a soft, Southern melody. “White ghetto bitch with your hair piled high on your head/you keep fucking niggers, I wish y’all were dead”. “I like the chord progression. The vocals? Well, do you have a day job?” A couple seconds of tension, then Billy Joe burst out laughing. “I know, I’ll have to work on that. But you see, I’ve got to get something going for me besides Nationalism”.
Kurt himself was apolitical, asking “What does Nationalism mean to you?” “Well, it’s the idea that the State justifies it’s existence by protecting and propagating the Nation, or Race. In German, the Volk, in Greek, ethnos. For example, in Japan, everyone’s Japanese, in the Congo, a Congoid.” “As opposed to America, where the people could be anything from Albanian to Zimbabwean, as long as they pay the taxes to keep the State machinery running” Kurt surmised. “Very good. Nationalism – People first, State second, money used to facilitate exchange. Capitalism and Communism – State first, People second, money = God. Consider your friend Heinz – his Spartan ancestors discouraged citizens from stockpiling wealth to use as a weapon against society. Bill Gates and Oprah would have been ostracized”, he laughed.
“Getting back to Heinz’ people, the Greeks. They too, reject superficial individualism and see themselves as links in a continuum, strectching from the Gods and Heroes of the past into an infinite future. Their everyday actions writing history, what they do today echoes in Eternity”.
Kurt felt as if he has stepped into a new world.
By the time he had his second car stolen, Kurt’s perspective had changed. With the closure of the TV shop, he had run out of realistic options. After years of bad luck, and worse, bad decisions, he began to drift. He became a drifter. He ended up at the end of the highway that led out of town, a place called Port Huron. Filled with antique houses, it was a grand place in the days of whaling and sailing. Since petroleum oil had replace whale oil, the town, like the TV shop, like Kurt himself, was irrelevant to the modern world. The locals referred to it as a “drinking town with a fishing problem”.
Kurt’s problems weren’t with fishermen, but rather with the denizens of the local housing projects that he had ended up in. Aunt Jemima-types would be given apartments, then they’d move their large broods in to set up operations selling crack-cocaine. They even used little children as police lookouts – two claps meant the police were coming in, one clap meant “all-clear”.
Once, in the middle of the night, Kurt heard a very loud banging. He peeped outside the window to see some Negro the size of Frankenstein kicking down his “neighbor’s” door. A burglary in progress. The Negro noticed Kurt peeping out at him. A few seconds later, a TV set came sailing through Kurt’s window. Months later, he was still picking shards out of his carpet.
Kurt now understood why nice normal people were so prejudiced against minorities. These people barely acted human. Did they hve souls?
With nothing but time on his hands, he began intensely studying the books that Billy Joe had lent him, the foundation works of Nationalism, in an attempt to understand life. “Mythos of the XX Century”, Francis Parker Yockey “Imperium”. Even the Fuehrer’s autobiographical “Struggle” as a down-and-out artist in Vienna rang familiar. Far from being a blueprint for Jewish genocide – that was an insult to German efficiency!
As Kurt understood it, the basic idea was that Man is a part of Nature, but never above it. Animal evolution itself had peaked thousands of years ago, whatever they were meant to be, they had already fulfilled their genetic potential. Man, on the other hand, was just at the beginning of his journey. The German people were the perfect example of this. Roughly 2,000 years ago they were bearskin-clad and loosely organized. The sophisticated Greco-Romans even called them barbarians. Now, they were pioneering space travel, even landing on comets. No other people, not even Heinz’ glorious golden Greeks, has developed so far, at such a rapid pace. It is unprecedentd in history. Their Destiny is in the stars.
Now, Kurt had his own destiny to think about. And the books gave him a new weapon – hope. And just as the Fuehrer had overcome hopelessness and poverty, moving on to meet his destiny in Munich, Kurt was now able to go on to his destiny – saying, finally, goodbye my Vienna.
Kurt had always thought that his destiny had been to follow in the footsteps of John Drain, his American History teacher at the local junior college. Community college was stimulating, but Teacher College was redundant, teaching Communism as just one of many philosophies of education, Marxist deconstructionism they called it. Why did the teachers hate society so much that they wanted to de-construct it?
Finally, the end of his curriculum was in sight. While juggling classes, he was a couple of credits shy of graduation, and had to take classes when he was supposed to have been student-teaching in the suburbs with the rest of the teacher candidates. He tried contacting the Dean, but the Dean was on vacation.
Kurt had already gotten a job lined up doing exactly what he had set out to do, teach civics at a local high school where he had been substituting. An opportunity that had ended in disaster.
Little did he know that his fate hinged on a chance scheduling error.
The entire beauracratic structure of the Teacher’s College depended on such minor details as this. His fate twisted on such details – Fate, or the will of the Gods? The web of Fate had already been spun out for him, as he went on to meet his Destiny.
“Athanatoi”! “Ah-THAH-na-tee!” The black-clad leader chanted, and the crowd replied in unison, the Greek word for Immortals. Dozens of burly Greek men holding torches in the twilight, muscled bulging from their black t-shirts. Shirts and flags bearing their symbol, the Meander or Greek Key, the Nationalists of the Golden Dawn.
At the same time, similar rallies were being held all over Europe. Nationalists were bearing silent, stately tribute, some even daring to display the forbidden symbol, the swastika. To the Greeks the image was the Gammadion, representing the awakening of the soul towards the Universal Purpose, from which he draws strength. An awakening from the River of Forgetfullness, which some souls exist in, between Earthly incarnations. Kurt’s soul had awakened and he accepted the mantle of Heaven. He fell during the European struggle to establish an Orthodox Axis of Russia, Serbia and Greece – three nations fulfilling their destiny, the responsibility of imposing order on a chaotic world.
In the Roman epic poem the Aeneid, Virgil explains how the King of the Gods promised the Romans “an empire without end, no limits, Space or Time”. When Rome fell (476 A.D.) it’s Eastern Greek capital, Constantinople (New Rome) endured for a thousand years. When it fell to the Turks (May 29, 1453) the relics of the Saints were transferred to Moscow – “Third Rome”. Russia is Third Rome.
Zeus, the Father of all the Gods, decreed their Fate – to rule an empire without end, no limits, Space or Time. For even though
the will of the Gods could change Fate, they would not –