We wish to thank Matt Koehl of the NEW ORDER for preserving these letters, photocopying them for the Archive, and giving us permission to publish them.
—R. G. Fowler
I was so glad to read, last week, in the issue of White Power you so kindly sent me (and which reached me opened and restuck up—some people in Europe are inquisitive as you can see) about the “NS demonstration on 20 April 1982” in Moscow of all places!—the young people who took part in it being “children of high-ranked officials of the Marxist party,” according to reliable information. Children do not necessarily share their parents’ faith, especially in times of transition between two types of civilization such as those in which we live: Many “saints’” fathers, known among the faithful of the Christian churches through their sons or daughters, were anything but Christians. And nearer our days, Dr. J. Goebbels’ father was anything but a National Socialist. (In the earliest pages of the Goebbels’ Diaries, the words “blow-up with father”—“Krach mit Vater”—appear over and over again.)
I also read with great pleasure the fact that the NS National Headquarters in Arlington have been saved from confiscation, the tax money claimed by the federal government having been handed over on the day it was due (under threat of expulsion). Thank the Aryan Gods, and thank our numerous comrades who were lucky enough to be able to contribute to the raising of that enormous amount. I was unfortunately not among those privileged ones: My tiny pension, from the French National Security, for having worked as a Gymnasium (secondary school) teacher in France for nine years (1960-1969)—in India, for my teaching at the Alliance Française till 1979, I had no pension, as I was “local staff,” i.e., recruited in India not sent from France—my pension, I say—2,350 Francs every three months—i.e., about 783 Francs a month—was no longer mine: the wretched “old women’s home” into which I was pitched against my will on the ground I had “no family in France” took nearly the whole of it. I had only one tenth, i.e., 235 Francs, about 45 dollars every three months.
Now I have a few hundred Marks from friends. So I shall be able to pay my own journey to the USA. What does it cost? (The cheapest way naturally.)
I am so glad Beryl Cheetham wrote to you. After a long time of our work, as a growing number of people here in Germany, she has found a new secretarial job in a Munich firm, but lives in Erding, some half an hour away from the city by bus. She works on a computer.
She certainly would love to accompany me to the USA. But she has only just begun working in her new job and will not have a holiday worth its while till late summer or autumn 1983. I do hope I shall be dead before then, but I want to fight for the holy Aryan Cause—by speech at least, now that I can no longer hold a pen between my paralyzed fingers—till my very last breath. And I pray to all the Gods: never again an “old women’s home” nor a hospital nor any kind of medical aid for me. The latter I flatly refused all my life—even after the French police—picking me up from the staircase where I had been waiting in vain for an absent friend, on 14 January 1982, dragged me to hospital in spite of my vehement protestations.
Always remember, and tell all who know me: I have the old Spartan scale of values: health and struggle for Truth and Beauty or death!, fathomless contempt for the humanitarian tommyrot. I by far prefer the beautiful innocent kings of the jungle—lions, tigers, leopards, and the rest, including wild (or tame) cats, and cobras!—I had two in the house I occupied in Jallundhar (Punjab) in 1936 and gave them milk, which they love!—to decadent specimens of the two-legged mammal. Twice (1935, 1959) I caressed an adult tiger.
With the greeting of the faithful,
Savitri Dêvi Mukherji
[P.S.] Excuse me for the scribble—my eyes and hand are no better.