Many of my readers have complained that I am largely invisible these days.  There is nothing sinister behind my absence - on the contrary.  I have so immersed myself in my newest adventure, the Zundel Documentary now  nearing conclusion, that I have ruthlessly stripped from myself all other obligations.  I've been glued to my Final Cut Pro! 

That, and a few other Zundel initiatives still in the germinating stages, have been the reason I did not spend as much time on the Internet as I usually do.  This will not change until the middle of November, at the earliest.

I also want to put my friends' anxieties at rest.  The arrest warrant for me because of postings on the Zundelsite is dated.  It stems from 1996 and the cyber war around the Zundelsite.  It could be that it has been recently renewed, but as long as I don't travel to Europe, I consider myself fairly safe. 

This morning I received a letter from Ernst I feel privileged to share with you.  When Ernst feels hassled or frazzled, or when something unexpected disturbs his equilibrium, his letters don't lend themselves to publication, but when he is in a reflective mood, I love to be part of his world, even with an ocean between us. 

In this letter Ernst makes mention of a strange and deeply soothing dream he had - of all times and places, in the plane to Canada right after his political kidnapping.  He told me that he saw a "heile Welt" - a "healed world" and a serene, enchanted life of beauty and fulfillment.  He makes reference to that dream in this letter. 

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My dear Ingrid -

It's a nice day outside in Mannheim and inside - and your husband is sniffling away for over a week with the worst case of hay fever since the 1970s before I discovered that miracle compound MSM.  It is during times like these that one feels the helplessness more keenly than on any other time because one knows that there is help and relief available at the reach of a hand into the vitamin cabinet - yet one may fantasize all one wants, even dream about it, one still knows in one's feverish delirium that no help will be possible under the circumstances of this imprisonment.  You should have received some photos in the Mannheimer Morgen of how interesting this old prison looks.

I am not complaining, Ingrid.  This is just for the historical record of how things are felt in the new Gulag, while I try to keep a promise I made to myself from the first day of my arrest - which is to keep a mental bridge going to you, to not let these people separate or break us with their cynical, underhanded ways. 

I will try to give you a few snippets of things from here.  I met an older German prisoner - I am the oldest most of the time;  he is still five years younger than I am.  When I saw him in the prison Alcatraz-like Stockwerk, I thought he looked like seventy.  It shook me up because he looked exactly like my long-dead friend, Fred N.  Amazing, the likeness!  Finally I got the chance to talk to him in the prison yard and was not surprised to find a highly articulate German who speaks fluent English, has been all over the world - and has the horizon to see the bigger picture that is lacking in so many other, mostly younger Germans.  He, like many Germans, is unhealthy.  My most shocking discovery, Ingrid - it absolutely horrifies me, because obviously they eat the same diets Americans eat, except for the still more nutritious all-grain German bread one can buy at the prison store.  But, Ingrid, unbelievable to me - all the rest is just about the same Fabriknahrung [factory food] as we get at Walmart's or Kroger's. 

One can also buy deutsche Markenbutter and some of the fresh vegetables like tomatoes, which seem to be sun-grown, dark and firm.  They even smell like tomatoes.  That prison store arrangement has been the absolute saving grace for me.  I can now eat something green at every meal. 

For instance:

My breakfast at 6 a.m. is a nice cup of tea - different kinds, I have peppermint, Hagebutten, fruit, even Ceylon black tea, all supplied by the prison. I take one-fourth or one-half of a fresh lemon, which mostly lasts the 12-14 days between shopping - only once in a while does one go mildewy.  I squeeze the lemon into my cup - Porcelain!  Nice, eh? - add the hot, freshly brewed tea from my stainless steel pot, around which I have wrapped some old parts of a pillow case I found in my cell.  Then I give myself a bit of a squeeze of honey into that mixture.  It is heavenly - and I think of you as I begin to make notes and write some letters.  Then I shave, brush my teeth, put on my Tennessee Mountain boots bought at Walmart on sale for $14.75 before my arrest - my daily footwear in prison and on the way to court for the last 2 1/2years.  Now that was one good quality boot!  I reconnect with you, see you walk to my clothes closet, look at all the other lovely boots, especially the one that is all leather which I bought for $29.95 on a Supersale at Sam's in Knoxville.  Boy, do I wish sometimes I had those boots here! 

Then, after the boots are laced up, I wash some apples, a bunch of carrots, green onions or peppers, and munch these Bugs Bunny-style on my way to the prison yard.  By the time lunch is served at 11-11:30 a.m., I will have had only vegetables and fruits.  No coffee!  I am weaning myself off that.  Lorraine [a friend, Dr. Lorraine Day] would be proud of me!

I usually only eat half of the portion at lunch, depending on what we get - salt potatoes, noodles, rarely rice - and keep the rest in a plastic container because we only get one main warm meal a day.  This suits me fine, because after I take a little nap about 1-2 p.m., I get back up, research files, make notes, write to the lawyers or letters to friends.  I take a break about 4:30 and make myself my evening salad - just like at home.

A murderer nearby, who has no one in the world, it seems, and who has no funds for even an immersion heater - a German, 20 years younger than I - needs some hot water or a cup of coffee, and when we are let out for about 5 minutes at about 5:30-6:00 p.m., I usually have hot water ready for him.  By then, the guards come by with some bread, about five slices, some cheese, two slices of sausage - and sometimes, I could not believe it, they have Bratheringe like my mother used to buy out of a big barrel in the village.  The Turkish prisoners don't seem to like fish, which I find odd.  They then trade their fish for a boiled egg, some jam, etc.

I dash out of my cell during the five-minute break and empty my trash can because vegetarian garbage, which is still alive, smells worse than junk food garbage.  Then I withdraw to my burrow like some prairie dog.  The other prisoners go and make what is called "Umschluß" where one is allowed to take one's chair to the cell of a compatible prisoner and play chess or talk.  99% of them smoke their guts out.  I visit no one because I have absolutely nothing in common with those people - ZERO!  Talk about a cultural desert or downbreeding.  This is the place to see the result of "Americanization."  It is devastating to observe it, to watch and listen to these people!

Some of the guards, when they take me to the visiting barracks, ask me very respectfully:  "Herr Zündel, wie können Sie das aushalten?"  ["Mr. Zündel, how can you bear it?"]  I tell them about American and Canadian prisons and the life and low-lifes there, the brutality, the lousy food, and then I tell them that I am relieved to see how humane they, the German guards, have remained.  Ingrid, it's in moments like those that one gets a fleeting, almost ephemeral whisp, a mere glimpse, of what is meant by Volksgemeinschaft [belonging one's folk] - a sense of togetherness, of shared, unarticulated Gemeinsamkeiten    [things we have in common] - things that we Germans feel amongst ourselves when we celebrate German Christmas - like you described so movingly with your grandmother and that burning twig.  Every once in a while a soul-string is tugged and resonates ever so briefly, and a guard wants to know:  "What is it that you know that is so feared by the system?"  Ingrid, those are very precious moments because they show to me that the embers are still glimmering away, and then I let loose with Pure Zundelism and watch my artillery barrage land right on target in the depths of their souls - and I KNOW, Ingrid, by their reaction that I have not lost the magic touch.  It's an uplifting feeling, for I know that the time will come when that "KNOWING" will be treated like a national resource.  I know it as certain as I am writing these lines and my name is Ernst Zündel in this INCARNATION!

I also know that something is being worked out in the scheme of things.  Something is germinating as though a new Thing is gestating - as in a pregnancy.  One dares not artificially induce premature labor and thereby cause an abortion or a damaged, imperfect new birth! 

Sweetheart, I don't know yet what it is!  But I know that it is, and if we, you and I, are careful and listen into ourselves very attentively, listen to our inner selves, it will manifest itself to us exactly what it is that wants to be born.  We must not allow earthly pain, loneliness, misunderstandings, past hurts and jealousies thwart this process.  Maybe to most people this sounds like pretty esoteric stuff, like a pipe dream of a man in prison.  Of course I have dreams.  I have visions of the country meadows with the apple trees in blossom and the golden-haired children frolicking amongst the wildflowers while chasing after butterflies.  I recall that pungent smell of flowing sap in those magnificent Southern pines on the Dream House Mountain Bench.  But, Ingrid, this THING, this instinctively felt ambience is something different, almost as if out of a different dimension in space and time, something cosmic!

Thanks to the isolation and the now much better food, the glorious music, the quiet, I am becoming the Ernst Zundel I was obviously meant to be.  In all humility I say to you, my wife, lover, and friend - it is awesome! 

To hell with the rest of the world!  This is the new world coming!

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