Letter from Savitri Devi to Beryl Cheetham – 8 February 1968

1,003 words

[Montbrison]
8 February 1968

Dearest Beryl,

What a very pleasant surprise to get a word from you after all these years! And the lovely photos . . . that remind me of the days I was allowed to go to England. (I suppose F. J. [Françoise Jordan] has told you I am no longer allowed to — was “turned back” twice, on 11th of August 1963 and on 27th of December 1966, since I took part in the unforgettable 1962 camp life.)

How silly (excuse me!) of you to imagine I could forget you! How can a true National Socialist forget you, having met you? Poor Mlle. Perrin is in an old women’s home. And the things I had there are in the landowner’s garret, as I have no house and home of my own. (Miss Perrin is 93.)

I teach no more — after having had trouble with the authorities for alleged “preaching of racialism” in class. (I had the topmost forms, and “racialism” is a subject in their programme. I merely exposed fairly and without comments both points of view — linking each one with the philosophy centered around “man” as a “special” creature, in the case of the “one-worlders” and anti-racialists; centered around LIFE as the one divine thing, and Nature of which “man” is but a part, in our case). But a pupil — whose father (a Jewish doctor) was then the president of the St. Etienne section of the “International League Against Anti-Semitism” — the LICA — distorted my statements to her friends and co-religionists and within a week the whole press published articles against me and “the scandal” at the girl’s college: professor of philosophy: a Nazi — which was perfectly true of course — teaching racialism in class (which was not exactly true).

They sent me for the two following years to Firminy College — another 3/4 hours further away from here. I remained here for the sake of the stray cats I feed, and did the journey to and fro — 4 hours a day!

Since October 1966 I am just given copies to correct. No class. I hate it — for it is a terrible strain on my poor eyes (I can only read with a magnifying glass as you know). Were it not for the stray cats, I should have gone away — back to India, or elsewhere — left this drudgery anyhow. But I need eight or nine pounds of meat (liver or lung or both) a day for the cats I feed at evening at street corner. I gave away about ten or eleven out of my twenty or twenty-five odd cats I used to feed. But I have to pay £15 to 20 a month to the kind but poor woman in Lyons who took them (and has about thirty or forty). Anyhow they are in two rooms, but fed and caressed — and cared for.

I am sending you a copy of that book Long-Whiskers I tried to have published by Gittens. I gave Gittens £285 for it in advance, in 1963. But Gittens quarreled with B. Purdy, his “printing manager.” Purdy walked off with the type and refused to print unless I broke my contract with Gittens and signed one with him. I owed Gittens another £150. He told me to give this to Purdy. I gave Purdy £100 in 1965. I was to have 300 copies for myself. B. Purdy — [address omitted] — only sent me 233 — Gittens was to have the remaining 1200 copies (1500 – 300 = 1200) to sell — and I was to have 7 shillings for each one sold. But B. Purdy refuses to release the books unless I pay him the £285. I already paid Gittens (and for which I have a receipt). And as I cannot pay twice — it is materially impossible — my books are, I presume, lost forever. I gave in all £285 + £100 = £385 for . . . 233 copies only. A shame! You can imagine what I think of these men who have played that dirty trick on me. In Purdy’s “contracts” there was no question of paying extra. No mention of money, in fact. Mrs. Mary Milne Coggins [address omitted] tried her best. Apparently could do nothing. And I — having to borrow all that money — am giving it back little by little to the person who lent it to me: a Swiss friend, Fräulein Singer of Zürich, 101 Regenbergstrasse. I am not yet out of debt!!

In 1963 my book in German [Hart wie Kruppstahl] was finished. I am waiting to have it printed. (Shall have to go to India for that. First must find people to take the cats.)

I have no time — with these detestable copies to correct — to write more of the 1/3 or 1/2 written book of mine in French, Tyrtée l’Athenien — a romanized life of Tyrtaios, the poet who sang for Sparta (being himself an Athenian) in the 7th century B.C., a book “in our line” naturally, exalting Spartan racialism and eugenics. I boil when I have the correcting work to do and must do it, at the cost of my own creative work. I curse this post war world, and the authors of the disaster of 1945 — the “Crusaders to Europe” as well as their former gallant allies the Commies (to whom they gave loads of money, arms, and ammunitions for them to crush the German Reich). I wish the Yanks are crushed in Viet Nam — not that I like the Commies. But at least those Commies — the Viet Cong ones — were not sitting as “judges” at the most iniquitous of trials, in the Nürnberg hall I saw.

Am enclosing a letter for Hertha Ehlert — the very Hertha I speak of in Defiance and in Pilgrimage — “H. E.”

She used to live in Bad Homburg, Luisenstraße 39 (the back staircase at the last floor). But she was to change her address. Ask the “Einwohnersamt” — or the local police if there is no “Einwohnersamt”; they keep a record of all the inhabitants and changes of address. And give Hertha the enclosed letter. Am sure she’ll be glad to see you. But she does not speak English. I hope that makes no difference. Your German must be as good as mine, I imagine.

With love
And Heil Hitler!
Your Savitri