834 words
New Delhi
16th July 1979[1] [1]
Dearest comrade,
I was very, really very pleased to get news from you after such a long time and know that you and your daughter are keeping well. But first of all I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for your royal gift. It was at the time it reached me, i.e., a few days ago, a real Godsend. The only income I have now is a small “sécurité sociale” allowance for the nine years only I taught in France — from 1960 to 69. And that is just enough to barely make two ends meet (1000 F, i.e., about $250 every three months) as even here in India things are becoming more and more expensive. (Fresh green peas for instance now a dollar for a kilo — 200 grams are enough for me and that with the “cosses” — what do you call it in English? the outside containing the peas?) And everything else in proportion. And this time, my “sécurité sociale” was over five weeks late which means I had to live on borrowed money till it at last came (it was due 1st June). You can understand how your kind gift was more than welcome. It pulled me out. And I am trying to be cautious with the rest of it, and to keep it for the expenses of doctor and operation when my right eye cataract is ripe (it is now ripening). But, of course, I dread the operation. Had one on the same eye in 1976 for “glaucoma,” with merely local anesthesia, and this time I insist on a general anesthetic. I dread the thought of feeling the doctor operate as I lie there.
But enough about myself save this: I am only now able to write again, even though it pains. Some weeks ago I poked my nose in other’s business — i.e., tried to catch hold of one of my cats to separate him from another with whom he was fighting. The result that the white-and-tabby’s claws, meant to strike the white and yellow, were thrust into the wrist of my right hand that swelled and swelled and was painful — unusable to the very elbow. I had to take antibiotics — much as I dread these — to avoid infection, and they got me down. Now only I am slowly recovering. But I repeat it is not the poor beast’s fault, but my own. I should never have put my hand into the fight.
I had not had news of Françoise Dior for about two years when suddenly (yesterday) a letter came from her. She has apparently left Ducey — perhaps sold her house there for a letter of mine to her came back to me with the mention “no longer at this address.” She is living in Paris, with her now grown-up daughter (who must be now about 22 years old). Her address is [address omitted].
She is in touch with people of our ideas and faith, and seems happy. I am going to write to her, and feel sure she would be delighted to have news of you — or better so, a visit from you at her flat if ever you go to Paris on your way to Austria.
I have begun another book that I shall (probably) call Ironies et paradoxes de l’Histoire et de la legende. I have begun the second chapter about “Lies in History” (beginning with the many mendacious inscriptions of Rameses II in the thirteenth century BC and the famous blatantly mendacious Stele put up by Esharhaddon, King of Assyria (seventh century BC) at Nahr-el-Kalb in Syria (Tarhaka of Egypt is depicted there on all fours, licking the conqueror’s mantle rim, while in reality the two men never as much as met. Tarhaka fled to Napata [Sudan] when Esharaddon was not yet in Upper Egypt!) But the Assyrian King wished to “impress” the Syrians he had conquered with his invincible strength and prowess (War propaganda!)). You have I presume heard of the recent books about more recent “war propaganda” — Arthur Butz’s The Hoax of the Twentieth Century and Thies Christopherson’s The Auschwitz Lie (with a preface by Manfred Roeder). I can send you the latter booklet if you have not already got it from the library of the N.S.W.P.P. (National Socialist White People’s Party, U.S.A.).
Mind you, I once believed the lie. But that did not in the least shake my National Socialist faith. I just could not have cared less. As a fact, as long as men so shamelessly treat living Nature — have slaughterhouses, experiments on live creatures, the fish industry — think of the poor seals in Canada! I refuse to sympathize with human victims of man’s cruelty or violence save when these happen to be my own brothers in faith (other Aryans believing in our values).
My love to your daughter. With the ritual greeting of the faithful.
Yours sincerely
Savitri Dêvi Mukherji
Excuse my bad writing. My hand still pains.
Note
[1] [2] From a transcription by the recipient. The latter half of the original is extant.