ZGram - 12/18/2003 - "Herr Alfred"

[zgrams at zgrams.zundelsite.org]

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

December 18, 2003

Good Morning from the Zundelsite:

Below is one of Ernst's more recent, pensive little letters, dated 
December 14, chatting with me.  He talks, subdued, about "Herr 
Alfred" - a fixture at the Toronto Zundel-Haus. 

Herr Alfred was a Baltic German, a former Wehrmacht soldier.  I don't 
think he was of very high rank.  I never heard anyone refer to Herr 
Alfred by last name - it was as if he had no last name, no 
personality, no life experiences he really had to share.  He was just 
there, taken for granted, known by all - yet really known by no one. 
At the Zundel-Haus, all of us were on a first-name basis - he was the 
only one who was addressed by everybody as "Herr" Alfred.  He  called 
Ernst "Ernst" - and never called me anything.  I thought he didn't 
know my name.  I always thought that odd.

I met Herr Alfred right after the Zundel-Haus arson, sometime in July 
of 1995.  During the next seven or so years, when I visited the 
Zundel-Haus at intervals, Herr Alfred would either putter about his 
copy machine where he made voluminous copies, or he would sit, a bit 
hunched, in the dining room, in front of him a can of sardines and a 
very dry German piece of bread, and munch away in silence.  He would 
just sit there and say nothing.  He must have been already well into 
his eighties. 

Sometimes, when I joined him for a coffee break, I felt a  silence of 
such intensity that I felt I had to break it by making small talk. 
It was always a one-sided effort.  Herr Alfred would just look at me 
mildly with his old, watery eyes and say nothing.  I believe the only 
item out of his long, long life that he ever volunteered to me was 
maybe a sentence or two.  He had been wounded in the head, he told 
me, sighing.  Some  kind of splinter.  Right up here.  With old, 
gnarled fingers, he pointed to his temple. 

That World War II splinter still lodged somewhere in his brain, Ernst 
told me afterwards. 

Once, while I was still working in San Diego and Ernst up in Toronto, 
he called me to tell me that something momentous had happened - Herr 
Alfred had come into the office, hmming and hawwing, clearing his 
throat several times, practically wringing his hands until finally a 
compliment of sorts materialized:  That monthly Power Letter really 
had some punch!  Had Ingrid done THAT?  My oh my!

So he DID know my name!  I had to laugh.  "I didn't even think that 
he knew who I am, what I do."

  "Oh, he knows you alright," said Ernst.  "I've watched him many 
times, reading your ZGrams.  When he is through, he copies a whole 
stack." 

That's just about the sum and summary of my interaction with Herr 
Alfred for seven long, eventful years.  Here's how Ernst Zundel 
remembers Herr Alfred:

[START]

I am very short of stamps because, once again two weeks ago, I was 
overlooked at Canteen Service time, usually a Sunday, when they come 
to deliver our "mail order" - stamps, envelopes etc.  In this prison, 
[this service] is subcontracted out to a private company, which does 
not seem to be all that efficient.  What else is new, as our society 
deteriorates and eventually will break down?

There was an American writer (anthropologist? Charlton Coon?) who 
wrote on the reasons why societies break down.  His theory was that 
there is a disproportion in the birth of problem solvers to problem 
creators.  There comes a point of no return.  When the problem 
creators vastly outnumber problem solvers, then societies decline and 
ultimately collapse.

In Western civilization that point was reached in the 1960s - and it 
has been downhill ever since, camouflaged for a few decades by 
advances and refinements in technology, especially with the advent of 
computers, printers, photocopiers, fax machines etc.  I observed that 
in my business.  I could see the decline in competence and efficiency 
among new recruits, subcontractors and suppliers.

When European immigrants stopped coming and did not rejuvenate the 
talent pool and the previous wave of immigrants retired and has now 
just about died off, things began to break down - visibly!  I was 
lucky that I had volunteers and helpers, many of the older generation 
- like Herr Alfred, Sepp, Otti etc.  The improvisations these people 
came up with were remarkable.  Herr Alfred was only the son of a 
blacksmith/farmer, yet he trained himself to be a crackerjack tool 
and die maker.  He was so good at his trade that he worked in the 
munitions industry, even though as a former "enemy soldier" he was 
denied security clearance.  He made so many inventions and actually 
made most of my booklet-making simple tools and gadgets which worked 
and worked and worked!

He saved our operation hundreds of thousands of dollars over the 
decades - in keeping the house dry by fixing any potential leaks on 
the roof, which he inspected every fall, even at age 85, on his 
knees, inch by inch, patching a little hole here and there.  That man 
was like [one of our current volunteers], a blessing for the Cause. 

I am thinking back sometimes, lying on my uncomfortable bunk bed, 
about all these people whose lives I touched and who helped me in 
ways large and small.  I think about their odd habits and character 
traits and marvel at the miracle of staving off the circling vultures 
for so long with so few [helpers] and so very little money.  I feel 
like a spectator watching my own life.

[END]

After we moved to Tennessee, I went back three times to Canada to 
pack up and clear out the Zundel-Haus.  Herr Alfred was there, as 
silent as ever.  As the rooms got emptier and emptier, Herr Alfred 
ever more resembled a  ghost that stumbled through the edifice, 
disoriented and sad beyond all words. 

As I threw away an old shoe, Herr Alfred bent down and retrieved it. 
I said to him:  "Herr Alfred, it has holes.  How about this nice new 
pair of boots?  I am sure that Ernst wants you to have them.  Here, 
why not try them on?"  He just snorted with contempt and went to look 
for an old box for both the boots AND the one shoe. When I think of 
that large, empty Zundel-Haus I left for the last time, I always see 
Old Herr Alfred, silent and sad. 

A short time afterwards, while I was doing the data base entries of 
donations to the Zundel Cause, I held in my hand an almost illegible 
letter.  It had no signature, no return address;  just some scribbles 
by an old and shaky hand.    Where to send 1,000.- Canadian dollars? 

I showed that letter to Ernst and asked if he could recognize the 
handwriting.  "Oh, sure.  That's Herr Alfred," said Ernst.  "He is 
probably dying.  He has saved up that money for years to give to me 
one day."

In less than a week, Herr Alfred was dead. As I was telling this 
story to one of our new mountain volunteers, I got all choked up and 
could not continue.  As I am writing this, I still feel shivers 
travel down my spine.

For four long decades at the Zundel-Haus, as Old Herr Alfred puttered 
about, pitching in, doing duty, nobody ever said a nasty word to him 
- or about him. 

Can the same be said about Bronfman?

How much did the Holocaust Lobby extort by besmirching the honor of 
Germany's World War II soldiers? 

You may be sure, in this uneven struggle, that  if there is still 
justice in this world - and we all know there may or may not be - 
Herr Alfred's grand total of $1,000.-, saved up via pennies and 
nickels, thrown into the Struggle with his very last strength, will 
be tidily tipping the scales.

NO SURRENDER!