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 differently?"
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 bomb" Poor woman! She was
shocked by the rest of my story. "Yes, 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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