Pete Hamill, you are simply a liar, man, for stories about Nazi gas chambers never appeared until way after World War II.
In “American Pravda: Holocaust Denial,” Ron Unz quotes Robert Faurisson, “Three of the best-known works on the Second World War are General Eisenhower’s Crusade in Europe (New York: Doubleday [Country Life Press], 1948), Winston Churchill’s The Second World War (London: Cassell, 6 vols., 1948-1954), and the Mémoires de guerre of General de Gaulle (Paris: Plon, 3 vols., 1954-1959). In these three works not the least mention of Nazi gas chambers is to be found.
“Eisenhower’s Crusade in Europe is a book of 559 pages; the six volumes of Churchill’s Second World War total 4,448 pages; and de Gaulle’s three-volume Mémoires de guerre is 2,054 pages. In this mass of writing, which altogether totals 7,061 pages (not including the introductory parts), published from 1948 to 1959, one will find no mention either of Nazi ‘gas chambers,’ a ‘genocide’ of the Jews, or of ‘six million’ Jewish victims of the war.”
It’s all too appropriate. Since you’re already swimming daily in Jewish bullshit, why shouldn’t you be drowned by it? Going under, you must still fess up and apologize, for all you’ve done to the chosen people.
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After moving to Philadelphia in 1982, I quickly discovered McGlinchey’s, home of the 50-cent draft of Rolling Rock, and Bacchanal, where there were poetry readings on Mondays. When I had a few extra bucks, I also treated myself to a chopped liver sandwich at the original Latimer Deli, or a meatloaf and mashed potato dinner at a now-disappeared diner on 11th and Locust.
When I took a girl to Latimer, she smilingly said, “I’ll try that too,” but after the messy, putative crime was shamelessly produced, the cornered victim simply twisted her pretty face, “What is this?! It looks like chicken shit!” She did eat it.
Later, I’d have many fond memories of diners across America, in Cheyenne, Denver, Saint Paul, Saint Louis, Des Moines, Detroit, Joliet, Bellows Falls, Scranton, Richmond, Raleigh, Savannah, El Paso, San Antonio, Reno and Wolf Point, etc., though I’m still traumatized by the fraudulent chicken fried steak I somehow managed to ingest, waste not, want not, at an otherwise charming diner in McCook, Nebraska.
With its futuristic signs, chrome plated walls, colored neons, cozy booths, democratic counters, no-nonsense waitresses and ample portions of comfort food, the American diner is both wholesome yet sexy, down-to-earth yet cool, especially to foreigners, for most have only seen such eateries in glammed-up Hollywood films like Swingers, Grease, True Romance and Pulp Fiction, etc.
For the educated, the Swiss-born Robert Frank’s diners will always mesmerize, and Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks is as iconic an image of America as any. Stark alienation has never looked so good.
In any foreign city, sooner or later I’d look for an American diner, because, it’s only natural, man, I couldn’t help but crave some breakfast sausage, home fries or a legitimate cheeseburger. Plus, I wanted to see how American culture had been translated, distilled or refracted, an ongoing investigation.
Living for four months in Busan, I’d take a two-hour train ride to Waegwan, just to enjoy Country Restaurant’s all-American menu, as expertly prepared by a Filipina cook. Facing Camp Carrol’s main gate, its clientele was almost exclusively young American soldiers, with most of them black or Hispanic.
Its South Korean owner had just enough English to banter. Overhearing a female soldier say, “I think I’m an alcoholic,” he jumped in, “Alcohol, kill virus!” Later, as she and her friends were leaving, he shouted, “Merry Christmas!” It was mid-May. “Happy New Year!” she hollered back.
Country Restaurant wasn’t quite a diner, however.
In Pyeongtaek, though, I thought I had found the real MacKay. From the outside, I could see a jukebox and a black waitress, and even its name resonated personally.
Barging into Rocky’s, I blubbered, “This looks like a real diner!” I was more than ready to kiss her feet, or at least hug her thick thighs.
“Huh?”
“I said this looks like a real diner!”
She showed no comprehension.
“Uh, are you American?”
“No.”
What’s another disappointment in a life filled with them? Rocky’s Crosley jukebox was merely decorative. Its burger was pretty damn good, though.
Five hundred words into this article, you’re probably wondering, “What the hell does all this have to do with the bait-and-switch title?! Have I been jewed again?” Watch your anti-Semitic language! Be patient. I know you’re running out of time.
Here in Tirana, the closest I’ve found to a diner is Stephen Center. With its pancakes, huevos rancheros, BLT, chef salad, bacon cheeseburger, tuna melt, beef burrito and fried chicken, etc., it’s as down home as you’re going to get in the Balkans, and this is Albania, remember, a country so isolated 30 years ago, it was tagged the North Korea of Europe.
All its cutesy signs are so knowing, they couldn’t have put up by non-Americans, and sure enough, Stephen Center is owned by an American couple. Here as soon as Albania reopened in the early 90’s, they’re missionaries.
Their evangelism is evident through Stephen Center’s Christian messages, placed here and there, and even on the sugar packets, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his one and only Son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life—John 3, 16.”
In Washington DC many moons ago, I used to frequent Scholl’s, a cafeteria with a Christian message at each table. Whatever, man, the food was good enough, and super cheap, though often overcooked, to accommodate its mostly elderly, thus dentally challenged, patrons.
Stephen Center’s Christianity, though, is ultra specific.
Done with a satisfying Santa Fe omelet, I decided to order a pot of tea and read a free magazine or two, from a rack by the door. Through large windows, blessed sunlight warmed us all, down to each smirking microbe. It was a beautiful day.
You won’t believe this, but so many elegant and dignified individuals kept walking by. Seeing a baby stroller being pushed across the street, I felt an unreasonable fear for the infant’s safety. Trusting her guardian completely, she innocently raised both hands, as if in triumph. Another astonishing day awaited her.
Opening Word—from Jerusalem, I was greeted by its editor, Jurgen Buhler, who informed me that, despite Covid-19, “Our staff decided to stay [in Israel] and we ended up packing thousands of Passover boxes, delivering groceries for the elderly and, at the Haifa Home, our Christian staff and volunteers were the only ones allowed to care for the 70 Holocaust survivors living there […] Meantime, we brought over 550 Russian and Ethiopian Jews to Israel and helped cover the extra cost of their two-week quarantine upon arrival, all in cooperation with the Jewish Agency.”
On pages 12 and 13, it’s heartening to learn that three German girls have volunteered to work for a year at a Haifa nursing home, “Kerstin and Marleen spend time cleaning apartments and keeping residents happy […] the commitment of the Christian volunteers has left a deep impression on many of the Holocaust survivors.”
On page 20, I was informed, “In Russia our St. Petersburg office purchased 1,000 face masks and 2,000 pairs of medical gloves for use by volunteers delivering daily meals to thousands of Holocaust survivors and other elderly Jews confined to their homes by the virus threat […] Working from Taiwan, ICEJ Chinese language coordinator Haifa Lu was able to encourage Christians in mainland China to support Israel through the ICEJ as never before, and donations even came from Wuhan where the virus started […] And in Italy, ICEJ national director Tony Rozzini—who lives in the heart of the hardest hit region of Lombardy—had a chance to go on national radio to call for repentance, especially for the country’s mistreatment of Jews during the Fascist period.”
Jew monomaniac, Word—from Jerusalem only advertises Judeophiliac merchandises, such as the $43 Jerusalem Compass, “Instead of pointing north, it points only in the direction of Jerusalem from any point on the globe.”
Replacement theology has you stumbling down the wrong path? Though wily Satan has gotten your stupid goy ass by the balls, you can save yourself, quite economically, with a $21 copy of Enter His Gates, To Your Jewish Roots, “If as a Christian, you have ever wondered about the Jewish roots of your faith, this book will help you explore this in a very concise yet rich presentation of the basics of the Jewish faith, where the Christian faith started.”
In case you’re still being a non-commital pussy or just anti-Semitic, The Hidden Cause of the Holocaust will set you straight, “This book clarifies how Replacement Theology, Anti-Semitism and the Holocaust are horribly and intricately linked to each other. We must realize that the demonic forces which caused the Holocaust are still alive and at work. Are we going to learn and address the hard lessons of the past? Will the church be silent and cowardly again?”
Even when deprived of just about everything, family, friends, community, nation and even livelihood, you must never forget the Jews, for you owe them an eternal debt, with compound interest can never be paid off, and there’s no one to blame but yourself, for you were born guilty.
Jews not only gave you Christ, but his crucifixion, a most compelling symbol and allegory. They gave you Jonah and the whale, meaning you can’t escape God’s command or your destiny. More recently, they’ve also gifted you with Marx, Freud, the atomic bomb, Henry Kissinger, Jerry Springer, Bob Dylan, Mark Zuckerberg, Janet Yellen and George Soros. What would your totally mortgaged and misinformed life be without Jews?
At this point in the article, I’m at Excellent Pool Hall, drinking my third Peroni. Right in front of me, there’s a boy just learning how to shoot. Sometimes, he’d dispend with his stick altogether, and just use his hand to roll the cue ball towards the nearest pocket. Self-conscious enough, he’d glance at me to make sure I wasn’t laughing. It’s all good.
To gas everyone’s face constantly with the “Holocaust,” though, is positively evil, for it prevents people from seeing all the Jewish crimes being committed everywhere, on Wall Street, online, in Hollywood, DC, Europe, across the Arab world and in occupied Palestine.
Jews are the most prolific and wide-reaching criminals ever, and, as Ron Unz points out, also the worst mass murderers of modern time. With the Bolshevik leadership overwhelmingly Jewish, Jews had to be held primarily responsible for all the summary executions, deaths in actual death camps and millions who perished through government-induced famines, so “that in per capita terms Jews were the greatest mass-murderers of the twentieth century, holding that unfortunate distinction by an enormous margin and with no other nationality coming even remotely close. And yet, by the astonishing alchemy of Hollywood, the greatest killers of the last one hundred years have somehow been transmuted into being seen as the greatest victims, a transformation so seemingly implausible that future generations will surely be left gasping in awe.”
We must add to this enormous body count the millions of Arabs Jews have massacred since the founding of their apartheid and genocidal state, Israel.
Only anti-Semites or Fascists will go on about this, however, for they’re not factoring in the greatest crime ever. The Holocaust justifies everything Jews must do, you know, to prevent another Holocaust. Shadowed by this darkest stain on humanity, all Jewish crimes, if you can even call them that, are negligible.
A while back, I was reading Pete Hamill’s The Drinking Life, an interesting enough book about the lures and perils of getting buzzed, but, out of nowhere, the “Holocaust” hissed its toxic gas, “One rainy Sunday afternoon I went to the RKO Prospect to catch a double bill and saw for the first time the newsreels from Buchenwald. Grizzled American soldiers were at the edge of the camp, some of them weeping. And just past them, beyond the barbed wire, were men and women and children in striped pajamas, unable to move, full of fear, staring with eyes that couldn’t be seen. Some were lying on tiers of bunks, too close to death to ask for help, their long skeletal hands limply hanging to the floor. Their arms were tattooed with numbers. Their heads were shaven. They looked like zombies I’d seen in a movie at the Minerva.”
This was supposed to be in 1945, OK, when Hamill was just ten-years-old. The Drinking Life was published in 1994, 49 years after WWII ended.
Hamill remembers, “For weeks, I read the newspaper stories about the camps and stared at the photographs in Life that I found on the racks in Sanew’s candy store, and there were no answers. I dreamed of the camps, of slush-eyed men in black SS uniforms herding us from boxcars into barracks and finally to showers where gas hissed from the nozzles on the ceiling. In one repeated dream, I was fighting, struggling, pushing at the skeletal men, trying to get out of the packed showers, trying to reach the door, to get to Brooklyn, to safety, to my mother and father, and at least once I woke up screaming.”
More, “On those bitter nights when there wasn’t enough food, I devised a mental trick: I conjured up pictures from the concentration camps, said the words ‘Buchenwald’ and ‘Auschwitz,’ reciting the rosary of horror. I made emaciated men in striped pajamas walk through the top floor right at 378 Seventh Avenue, all of them barefoot, their eyes mere dots in black holes, their cheekbones sharp and bare, their arms like dowels, their mouths slack; and I’d say to myself, You have it good, you have a bed, you have food to heat up at night, you have pancakes, you have a kerosene stove, you are not from Buchenwald, you are not being buried by a tractor, fatherless motherless, brotherless, sisterless, you are not a Jew. Almost always, that cured my hunger and my cold and beat down my self-pity. And Iwould lie in the dark, thinking that no matter what Iwould be when I grew up, I would do nothing that sent men into camps to die.
“And then I would fall into the gray nightmare, fighting my way through the skeletons of the gas chamber.”
Pete Hamill, you are simply a liar, man, for stories about Nazi gas chambers never appeared until way after World War II.
In “American Pravda: Holocaust Denial,” Ron Unz quotes Robert Faurisson, “Three of the best-known works on the Second World War are General Eisenhower’s Crusade in Europe (New York: Doubleday [Country Life Press], 1948), Winston Churchill’s The Second World War (London: Cassell, 6 vols., 1948-1954), and the Mémoires de guerre of General de Gaulle (Paris: Plon, 3 vols., 1954-1959). In these three works not the least mention of Nazi gas chambers is to be found.
“Eisenhower’s Crusade in Europe is a book of 559 pages; the six volumes of Churchill’s Second World War total 4,448 pages; and de Gaulle’s three-volume Mémoires de guerre is 2,054 pages. In this mass of writing, which altogether totals 7,061 pages (not including the introductory parts), published from 1948 to 1959, one will find no mention either of Nazi ‘gas chambers,’ a ‘genocide’ of the Jews, or of ‘six million’ Jewish victims of the war.”
It’s all too appropriate. Since you’re already swimming daily in Jewish bullshit, why shouldn’t you be drowned by it? Going under, you must still fess up and apologize, for all you’ve done to the chosen people.
The world’s most obnoxious monument is the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin. Consisting of 2,711 identical tomb-like columns, it’s an ugly maze for you to get lost in, not unlike the Holocaust itself. If the German nation and minds were still free, there’s no way this monstrosity would have been allowed to disfigure the heart of their capital.
At Auschwitz, there’s an even uglier monument, The Fountain of Tears. It’s seven crucifixions being fronted by seven Holocaust survivors. They are either lamenting to Christ or questioning him, since Christ’s death caused six million Jews to be mass crucified, get it?
Jews, then, are your new Christs. Though unchosen and hopelessly guilty of everything, you will be saved by the smartest and most blameless people in history.
Masochism is your deliverance, so cancel yourself and rejoice! You’re almost there.
Linh Dinh’s latest book is Postcards from the End of America. He maintains a regularly updated photo blog.