901 words
Montbrison
11 September 1968
Dearest Beryl,
It was a lovely surprise to get a letter from you just today — on the 20th anniversary of my crossing the border between France and occupied Germany, at Saarhölzbach, in 1948 . . . with my suitcases full of leaflets: “German people! You are the pure Gold, cast in the furnace to be tried. Stick to our lofty National Socialist faith! There is nothing on earth which can destroy you. Hope and wait. Heil Hitler!”
The leaflets “passed” without being detected at the customs, and I sat in a railway compartment alone, my face against the wind, looking over the lovely Saar Valley and singing the Horst Wessel Song (covered by the noise of the train). How dreary life feels, now, after those days. And yet, we are now nearer the Day of revenge than we were then.
Sweet it is to open a morning newspaper and read in it about the plight of the Czechs under the Russians, remembering all our German brothers in faith suffered in and after 1945 from the Czechs — and not only our German brothers but (which is worse, if worse can be) the animals whose only crime was to belong to Germans, and on whom dirty anti-Nazi two-legged mammals perpetrated all manner of atrocities.
I honestly wish the Czechs such a “good time” under the Russian tanks and especially the Russian police services, as to make them regret the Gestapo. They acclaimed the Russians in 1945. Let them enjoy them now to their hearts’ content — until they admit, half-squashed under the wheels of the Russian tanks that “Hitler was right” after all, and that they were wrong to fight them. It is sweet to see — be it from far; it must be lovely from near! — people suffering, who twenty-three years before have inflicted torture and death upon “His” finest men; who have burnt SS men alive, tied to lamp posts; and cut up one alive, bit by bit, with knife and scissors, tied to a table in a cinema hall with a crowd of devils vociferating abuse all round him, and pouring acid into every new wound. Let them keep the Russian Communists . . . till they get us again, never mind how and when! I have no sympathy at all for them, and for the last three weeks. I have a new set of “victors of 1945” to gloat over besides the Americans in Viet Nam. And gloating is (to me) a delightful occupation: the loveliest, after rejoicing over our own triumphs (which I have not been able to do ever since 1962) and caressing felines’ fur.
I am so glad you liked my friend Hertha. Surely I shall try to see her again if ever I can go to Frankfurt. But when? I do not ever know whether I shall be able to go to München at the end of the month. I am paid on the 25th or 26th or 27th (roundabout that time) and I do not know whether I shall have on the 20th or 21st enough money left to pay my mere railway fare there and back. (I should like to go as far as Kufstein to see somebody while I am about it.) The odd fifteen cats I feed here every day cost me the earth (as I can cook nothing in my room, and am forced to buy raw meat for them — liver or lung or heart. I gave eight to someone in Lyon who has already thirty and for the last two months I could not pay the £15 or so I used to send her every month for their keep. I owe two years hire for a typewriter I had to give back. (A comrade gave me one, but it was damaged in the transport and does not work.) I owe my taxes for 1967! I owe in different shops (where I buy food for the cats). I do not know how I shall ever pull myself out of this mess, even in living as frugally as I do.
I wrote to the Tannebaum Hotel where J. J. [Joe Jones] and J. T. [John Tyndall] will stay to ask the price of the cheapest room — quiet; I do not mean free from street noise. I don’t mind that. It is radios and T.V. sets that I simply hate: they get on my nerves and positively make me ill — save when there are really news to hear. But simply songs! I’d rather get a thrashing than be forced to hear “ye ye” stuff, or even most of the silly songs that are not even “ye ye.” If I cannot manage my fare I shall just not come. (What else can I do?) But it will be a great disappointment for me. I should so longed to see J. T. and J. J. and yourself again. Oh, had I not been swindled in that abominable fashion by those two “gentlemen”: Gittens and Purdy, and had I got back from Long-Whiskers at least something of the £385 I gave the two men . . . for nothing — not even for my own 300 copies (but only 233!).
The fare from Lyons to Munich was, last year about 120 francs (single) say 250 francs (new, “heavy” francs) with return. I wonder what it will be now — bus fares and local railway fare went up terribly since May.
Anyhow, I’ll do what I can, not what I like.
Best love anyhow.
And Heil Hitler!
Yours,
Savitri