ZGram - 11/13/2003 - Prisoner of Conscience Letter # 37

zgrams at zgrams.zundelsite.org zgrams at zgrams.zundelsite.org
Thu Nov 13 11:38:43 EST 2003




Zgram - Where Truth is Destiny:  Now more than ever!

November 13, 2003

Good Morning from the Zundelsite:

The last two Zgrams have given you a glimpse of how deeply Ernst 
thinks of what we are facing as the White race, and what we should 
do, how we might start throwing off our shackles.  In this Zgram I 
want to show you what society thinks, and how it treats, a man like 
my husband, Ernst Zündel. 

I actually only saw this write-up yesterday.  I didn't know about 
this drama beyond a quiet comment by Ernst, way back, that I should 
not be alarmed, but he had made out a will, just in case!

A few days ago he said to me that he had held some write-ups back so 
as not to upset me, but now he had been ordered to get rid of some of 
his papers he keeps in his cell - and he would send them to me.  The 
one below came with a comment: 

"I wonder if this is of any interest?  Maybe to my 
great-grandchildren after I am long gone and history?  I find all 
this stuff boring and tedious.  Maybe you, the novelist and 
wordsmith, can see this differentlyŠ?"

Are you kidding?!

[START]

(Written sometime in early March 2003)

Fifth of March was my first "month anniversary" of [having been 
thrown into] an American jail.  The rest was spent in Thorold, 
Ontario - a very old, seedy-at-the-seams facility, maybe 50-60 years 
old by the looks of things.  There is rust everywhere, broken tiles, 
chipped paint - rust and stains.  Everything looks like it looked in 
Russia during my visit there ten years ago. 

Because of my high profile and notoriety, the security chief told me 
that the Immigration wanted me separate from minorities, of which 
they had many.  He explained the howling-like-animals by inmates that 
Ontario had closed many mental wings of hospitals, and mentally ill 
people were picked up by police for crazy stunts they pulled, and 
since mental hospitals would not take them back, they were parked in 
facilities like Thorold.

My blood pressure had rocketed since my arrest, going through the 
roof in Thorold with readings of 211 over 105, 210 over 120, 208 over 
109.  I could not get this blood pressure under control - it was 
positively scary!  The nurses kept warning me, finally bringing the 
prison doctor to my cell, who told me in no uncertain terms that I 
was taking chances with a blood clot or a stroke if I did not go on 
some blood thinner.  He mentioned beta blockers. 

I [had gone] to a Detention Continuation Hearing on February 28 and 
there found a publication, Prevention Magazine, which had an article 
about the dangers of high blood pressure, burst blood vessels and 
hemorrhaging in the brain or a blood clot cutting off the flow to 
vital organs like kidneys, causing paralysis, loss of vision, speech, 
coordination, focus - a whole range of serious problems.  I decided 
to write to Ingrid to tell her what the problems were, and the 
dangers the nurses and doctors had outlined. 

I made a handwritten will, told her in case I was going to die what 
to do with my body, where I wanted to be buried, what kind of a 
gravestone and description I wanted on it, and how to dispose of the 
estate.  I sent the letter off unsealed so the censor could do his 
official snooping, and sure enough - a guard told me to pack all my 
belongings into a pillow case and leave it on my cell bed. I wondered 
if I was being transferred or shipped off to the Fatherland. 

By early noon I was taken to the nurse in the medical area.  She sat 
me down, took my blood pressure, and calmly told me that since I had 
written a last will and testament, the institution had decided that I 
must be "suicidal"!

I protested.  She said that the decision had been made and ordered 
the guard to take me away. 

I was taken to the reception area and put into a wire cage.  From 
that thick metal wire enclosure I could see the staff horsing around, 
looking at [racy] websites on the Internet, laughing and joking, and 
then [someone] said to some junior officer:  "Go get Baby Doll for 
Zündel!" 

Back he came with what looked like bullet-proof vest material.  I 
was told to strip stark naked and to slide this grotesque, padded 
outfit on.  Then I was marched down the hall past gawking staff and 
inmates and taken to a dark, dingy corridor, told to pick up several 
padded, sheet-like mats - no pillow - and shoved into a cell, my new 
home for the next 24 hours. 

No towel.  No soap.  No toothbrush.  No comb.  Nothing to read.  No 
legal papers I could study in preparation for my lawyer, whom I was 
going to meet for the first time that evening. 

While I lay idle, condemned by some strange fate to utter 
helplessness and inactivity, I stared at the tiled ceiling and 
twiddled my thumbs, knowing that the lawyer was charging me $175.- an 
hour.  My son, who had driven 20 hours from New Brunswick to find me 
that lawyer, had driven him three hours through a snowstorm to 
Thorold.  I fretted and fretted.  My blood pressure was rising 
sky-high out of utter frustration.  Finally the guard came in, told 
me to take my ludicrous garb off and change into my regular clothing 
- the orange-colored jump suit reserved for serial killers and axe 
murderers. 

I was taken to the lawyers' meeting/conference room to meet one more 
lawyer - just when Ingrid and I had thought we would [never have to 
deal] with another lawyer again! Here we were, in the most serious 
crisis of our lives - Ingrid had one lawyer on retainer in Cleveland, 
one in Nashville, one in Sevierville, one in Memphis, and one in 
California - all needing to be paid.  In Germany, two lawyers stood 
by, waiting to receive me if I was extradited or deported.  In Canada 
one excellent, famous lawyer had first accepted my case because he 
was an expert in National Security Law/Intelligence Services and had 
apparently studied Immigration and Criminal Law.  I was to meet him 
that night.

[Ingrid's comment here:  If you wonder why so many attorneys - most 
would not even pick up the phone and speak to me without a deposit of 
a hefty retainer, and several did not speak to me at all, such was 
the fear the Zündel name unleashed!  In their defense, though, I must 
say that, with the exception of one, all returned the retainer - 
after sitting on it for months!]

I was, of course, more than upset by the possibility of being unable 
to help prepare my own case.  If the institution was looking for a 
100% sure-fire way to sabotage my case, and possibly kill me off in 
the process, they had just found the perfect formula.  Yet I had to 
keep my self-control - I could not let anybody know how I felt 
inside.  By superhuman effort, I had to force myself to be calm, 
otherwise the prison shrink might put me on permanent suicide watch. 
That would have been the next worse thing to being declared crazy!

Those were the conditions under which I walked into that sparsely 
furnished room [to meet my son and new attorney] - and touched 
another human hand for the first time in four weeks. 

=====

The night seemed never-ending.  Every 15 minutes I was monitored with 
lights being shined into my cell and face to check if I was still 
breathing.  The food I was given was all finger-food.  Not even a 
plastic spoon was allowed.  Morning finally came.  Breakfast was 
served.  The hours crept by.  The nurse came to bring my blood 
pressure pills.

In my mind I projected myself into the seat next to my son.  We were 
driving that long trip to New Brunswick in the lousy winter weather. 
That calmed me down.  The guards changed shift.  New faces, new 
people.  Finally a lieutenant came by - one of the highest-ranking 
officers around.  He looked at me kindly and said almost fatherly, 
although he was easily 15 years younger than I:  "Don't worry, Mr. 
Zündel, everything will be okay.  The psychiatrist is already here. 
She will see you shortly.  We know you are not suicidal.  This will 
be over soon."

Sure enough - 15 minutes later, Ms/Dr. Cote, a petite 
French-Canadian, came by.  I knelt on my knees in my ridiculous 
nightgown of padded material and spoke to her through the foot slot 
of my cell door while she sat on a chair and took my "confession" 
down on a pad, asking me all these odd questions. 

"Did you ever hear voices?  Do you think people might be after you?"

So I said:  "Let's see, now.  I was bombed in 1984.  I was the victim 
of an arson that destroyed my house - $400,000 damage.  A week later, 
unknown people sent me a powerful pipe bombŠ" Poor woman!  She was 
shocked by the rest of my story.  "ŠYes, Madame Cote, the Toronto 
Police and I did conclude that somebody was after me!"

She put down her pen and said:  "No!  You are not suicidal.  I am 
taking you off suicide watch as of this minute!"

I thanked her for her time, and the guards, by now all smiles, handed 
me back my colorful axe murderer jump suit, and in five minutes all 
things were back to normal.  I got to eat with a plastic spoon again. 
I was allowed access to a personal phone, handed to me through my 
food slot on a long cord.  I was able to call the lawyer, my wife, 
helpers and friends.  Ingrid said that weeks ago already, there had 
been 175 articles about me in Canada's media alone - God only knows 
how many there were now! Friends were rallying everywhere. The 
drawings I had made in jail in Tennessee were being bought by 
supporters as souvenirs and as a token of support for staying the 
course.  The enemy was shrieking.  Legal teams were coalescing in 
Canada, America, and Germany.

Thus, the emergency was over.

[END]









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