Since my brother has given the green light for us to air our family's laundry, dirty and otherwise, in public, I find myself in a nostalgic mood and thinking of this little gem of paternal wisdom from so long ago.
My father had problems--many, many problems--not the least of which was that he was a practicing psychopath. However, he did lay out a consistent set of goals for himself and he went after them, dragging us all along with him. One of these goals was to be accepted into the left-wing, liberal high society, such as it was, of the then small university town of Chapel Hill, N.C., now part of the Research Triangle megalopolis but then a separate environment with a village-like atmosphere, one of the first of what are now referred to as "latte towns."
For some reason which I cannot recall after almost 40 years, at one point he felt this goal would be facilitated by sucking up to a eertain Jewish doctor who lived in Chapel Hill, one of the university-related elite, and he inveigled an invitation to some little drinky-do this hebe was having at his luxury home in the artsy-fartsy part of town. Again, after four decades I can't remember why the rest of us were dragged along, but we were. My father and I were still on what passed for speaking terms, so I guess I was 16 at the time.
I was surprised to see that one feature of the Jewish quack's house was a den featuring all kinds of Nazi regalia on the wall, including a Swastika flag, a German helmet, an SS dagger, various documents and posters, etc. As part of the tour the doctor regaled us in a modest tone about his mighty exploits as a kind of kosher Sergeant Nick Fury during World War Two.
He had the spiel down very well, smooth and practiced, and he gave us to understand, without really saying so outright, that he, the little Jewish boy from Brooklyn who was now the big fat sloppy kike from Chapel Hill, had single-handedly defeated the wicked Third Reich and sung Hava Nagila on Hitler's grave, yadda yadda yadda, I'm sure you all get the idea. Oh, and of course he shed an emotional tear for the 67 or so relations who was moiduh'd by Hitlah in the ovens at Auschvitz, gevalt!
I was not a National Socialist then, I was merely an adolescent skeptic, based on my observation from an early age that most American adults seemed to be liars and hypocrites, and based on the clear thread of dishonesty and deceit which I had already observed ran (and still runs) through all aspects of American life. In the car on the way back, the conversation (i.e. my father's monologue) turned to Dr. Schmuck-el's collection of Nazi memorabilia, and I said flat out, "I don't believe it." Nor did I. I don't know why I didn't believe it, I just somehow knew the man was a liar.
This was inviting a tirade and a blow from my father, but today he decided to be professorial and try and teach me something. "I didn't believe it either," he told us. "You're right, he's full of horse hockey." (My father was a genuine World War Two veteran and he would know.)
Then he looked at me, and said, as best I can recall, "But son, whenever a Jew tells you something like that, don't you ever let on that you don't believe him. These are powerful people and they are everywhere, in places you can't imagine, and if you ever get on the wrong side of them they can do you harm in a hundred different ways. So whenever a Jew is speaking you just smile and say yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, and you never call him out on it when he's lying, no matter how outrageous the lie, because these people control things that you will need to have in life. It's one of those things where you have to go along to get along." (One of my father's favorite expressions.)
Now, just to keep this record straight: I had come away with the idea that the Jew doctor had lied about his war record and had in fact spent four fun-filled years at the quartermaster unit in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. By coincidence, later on during my openly National Socialist period, I accidentally came across his real war record from an article in the local paper.
He lied about his alleged combat experience, of course, but he was indeed in Germany, after the war--as "military intelligence," for which read interrogator, torturer, and possibly illegal executioner.
Every German I ever met who survived the war had stories like this, about how little Hymie Putzstein the tailor or pawnbroker disappeared from the village or the neighborhood around 1934, and in 1945 there he was again, swaggering down the street wearing the uniform of an American army captain or major, with a jeep-load of armed MP thugs trailing after him to do his bidding.
This character wasn't a German-born Jew coming back for revenge, he was the common or garden-variety Br0oklyn hose-nose, but judging from his arrogance and the gleam in his piggy little eyes I remember, I think I can imagine what it must have been like for any German who fell into his hands, especially any German girl.
The story of how these Jews took their blood vengeance on this nation of insolent goyim who had dared to defy them is one that has never been fully told, but I was wrong on that night. I thought I had seen merely a pompous fool, when I had in fact been in the presence of true evil. I didn't recognize it then. I do now.