Names of places and individuals were changed for security and privacy reasons

A World Collapses

October 29 is my birthday. Due to the permanent threat of further persecution and extradition from Britain to Germany, my wife left me in January 1999 with our two kids and returned to Germany, where I couldn’t follow her. She couldn’t cope with this lifestyle anymore. She had permanent nightmares and was very nervous. Later in 1999, she even started divorce procedures, which was totally unexpected, because we originally had agreed to try to get together again in a few years when it had turned out that Britain wouldn’t do anything against me. So, my 35^th birthday, the first for 7 years without my beloved wife and without the most gorgeous kids in the world, would at the same time be the most depressing one I ever had in my life. But, hey, there was light at the end of tunnel: my still-wife promised that she and the kids would visit me on this occasion. And my two siblings announced just the other day that they would drop in the weekend after my birthday. So things weren’t too bad, after all.

It is October 15^th, 1999, and I follow my usual business. I had several orders collected over the last week, which needed to be sent off, so I decided to drive to Andy Broker’s printing company in Ashford, which does a nice mailing service for me, and get rid of the packages. While preparing my departure, I get a phone call from Mrs. Sally Broker, Andy’s wife, urging me to call the guys in Ashford. For security reasons, they neither know where I live nor have my phone number. They always have to contact a third person way out of any political or police focus, or Sally, who is the only one of these people who is not and has never been into politics, but who is interested in me on a mere personal level, and therefore I consider her to be reliable. Safe is safe.

So I call the guys. I get Howard on the line, my best friend who helps me whenever he can. He collects my mail form the PO box, and I can use his residential address for my services: bank, insurance, tax, to keep up the system’s illusion that I am really there. Howard forgets to greet me. That isn’t his style:

"Someone from the media is after you. The guy left a message at my place. He must have found out where you are officially registered." He tells me. I am shocked.

"What? What did he say?"

"First, he left a message on the answering machine, asking you to call him. But then he must have decided to pop in. He left a handwritten note under my door saying that he wanted to contact you."

"Damn. Do you have his name?"

"Yeap. A certain Hastings".

"Hastings? In Hastings? Or is that his name?"

"That’s his name"

"That’s strange. He claims that this is his name. And for which station or paper is he researching?"

"The Sunday Telegraph, he claims, I got his number. You better get up here, so that we can discuss this."

"Yes, alright, I am already on my way. Wanted to come anyway. See you."

"See you."

Damn. Now they tracked me down. Must be a repercussion from this Cincinnati Real History Conference from end of September. That was my first public appearance since 1994, or so, and Irving was so reckless as to mention that I currently reside in England when he introduced me to the audience. And that was probably enough for the media to get going. Anyway. Pack your stuff together and get to Ashford as quickly as you can.

So I collect my bits and pieces, jump into my car and drive up the bridle way leading from the settlement where I live up to the main road, over the cattle grids and the speed bumps at 30 miles per hour. The shock absorbers at the front are already gone, so don’t worry now, this is urgent. Let’s hope that the cows and sheep to the left don’t jump on my car, and that none are hiding behind a shrub, getting scared to death when I rush by.

No casualties this time. And down it goes from Langley down to Ulcombe. This road drives like a runaway train. My kids always liked the feeling in the stomach when the car almost jumped over the road waves. My wife hated it. Through the chestnut alley I drive, rushing through Ulcombe and further through Grafty Green right into Boughton, a road so narrow and curvy that any truck or bus on the other side is a guaranteed death certificate with that speed (40-50 mph). Why am I doing that? Alright, I know and love this road as no second, but I had a couple of "almost" cases before, so why risk it! Slow down, man! You are still a father, and your kids will miss you! So I calm down a bit.

As soon as I am out on A20 towards Ashford, I lose patience again. Did I ever have any? They forgot to build that into my genes, I guess. Anyway, I break a couple more English traffic rules, but I am not caught, as usual. They are very lax in speed control here. I really like it.

Half an hour later at the printers in Ashford, Howard gives me the phone number of that Hastings and repeats what that guy told him.

"He called again this morning, and I talked to him", Howard explains.

"How long did you talk to him? And what did you tell him?"

"Well, we had a nice chat for some 20 minutes. I told him that you don’t live here and that I am just collecting…"

"What did you?"

"I told him that you don’t…"

"How dare you? I mean, I don’t want you to lie, but why the hell did you tell him anything in the first place?"

"Well I thought that is no big deal…"

"Listen, these guys aren’t stupid. They can think that if I am not there, I must be somewhere else, and then they start sniffing around again!"

"Hey, I am doing all this because I like you. I don’t have to do it and I don’t need that sort of tone."

"Sorry. I am just excited and scared."

"That’s alright. Well, I told him that you live in Tunbrigde Wells"

"In Tunbridge Wells?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It just came to my mind."

"I have my finest lunches in Tunbridge once a month with my friend Robert. Now, that is botched, too. Anyway. And he swallowed it?"

"Apparently."

"Uhh. At least something. And the other 18 minutes of your conversation?"

"That’s about it."

"Jesus Christ. Please, Howard, the next time, please don’t say anything to anybody. Just take messages for me, would you?"

"Alright. How did he find out about my address and your being registered there in the first place?"

"Well, I guess it is on the Internet. I entered the street address as the registrant’s address of my website with InterNic. Pretty stupid. I guess I’ll change that now."

"That would be nice indeed. I am not eager to get more of these guys, either."

Andy joins us in the office and warns me:

"Hi Germar. The Sunday Telegraph is just the weekend edition of the Daily Telegraph. I think you know that, don’t you?"

"Hi. No, but now I do. So that is the famous German-hating newspaper renowned for their atrocity propaganda during both wars, yes?"

"Exactly. Don’t expect fairness. You better not get involved with them."

"Well, what am I supposed to do? He is on my track, right."

"Yes"

"He is going to publish something, right?

"Yes, but don’t think you can influence what he actually writes!"

"Well, one thing’s for sure: If I don’t try, I won’t. Let me talk to him and see what he is up to. Can I use your phone? I didn’t want to use mine."

"Yes, go ahead"

I quickly get through to this Chris Hastings. He wants to meet me as soon as possible, since he is going to publish something on Sunday anyway. I hate this rush. I tell him that I would call him back in ten minutes, and hang up.

"And now what?" I ask Andy.

"Well, if you go, make sure he doesn’t get you in trouble."

"How long does it take to get to Victoria from here by train?"

"It depends on when the train leaves."

"Can we figure that out?"

"Sure, call Connex South Central, their number is here in the yellow pages."

So I do, and it turns out that I will need roughly 80 minutes.

"I shall give him, let’s say, three hours from now, that is 3 o’clock in the afternoon, claiming that I will need that long to get there: That’ll make him think into the wrong direction. And I’ll give him a wrong platform where we will meet. And no photos!"

So it is arranged. I tell him that I will see him at platform ten, where I claim to arrive. In fact, the train I come in with arrives more than an hour earlier at platform twenty something. I nervously kill more than an hour by restlessly walking from one end of Victoria to the other, during which time I notice that I am unshaven and wear my working pants. Fine setup for a star photo session, I think. I hope that he respects my wish to not be photographed, though I don’t trust him. Finally, at 3 o’clock, I go to the exit of platform 10, and to my amazement I realize that trains from Tunbridge Wells arrive there. What a great shot! Someone else is waiting there, too. I approach him, but he is alienated by my approach. That wasn’t the one. Some five minutes later, he stands in front of me. A short guy, a bit stocky, perhaps my age. Well, admittedly, I take myself as a norm, and I shouldn’t do it. So, he is normal, and I am tall and slender.

We agree to sit down in this uncomfortable cafeteria in Victoria, and we get ourselves something to drink. He turns out to be a year younger than I am. He says he just got the job at the Telegraph, and that this is his first big story. Oh dear, I think to myself, and I am going to be the fair game for it. He needs success. He needs to impress his employer. That promises to become funny.

We spend three and a half hours talking about god and the world. I tell him my entire story. He lets my words flow, only here and there asking a few simple questions. I tell him the story of my persecution, and about the deterioration of human rights in Germany in general. He allows me to go into details. I am somehow happy to have somebody from the media who listens. What can happen, really? By experiencing me the way I am and the way I argue, he must notice that I am not the evil neo-Nazi, as I am used to being slandered by the mainstream media. I hope he does. He does not even try to make any notes, strange enough. However, he appears to be a nice guy. But that is perhaps what all journalists need to be to have success. Nobody talks openly to assholes. I get some questions answered, too. He found out via the Internet that I was a registered citizen for a year in Pevensey Bay. The voters’ data are publicly accessible, he explains. The current owner of the house where I used to live gave him the name of the estate agent who sold it to him, and this agent gave him the name of my former landlady. But none of them knew were I moved. I tell him repeatedly that I wouldn’t tell him anything about where I live now. He understands and gives up.

No traces lead to my new residence. Well done, Germar! At least that works!

At the end, he calls his girl friend to pick him up. We say good by, and I pretend to go back to platform 10. But I make sure that he rally leaves, before going back to my train to Ashford.

On Sunday evening, I get another phone call from Sally. The Telegraph article was out. She urges me to come to her place. So I jump into my car and drive the 40 miles westward to Hove. I am welcomed at the Broker’s residence, and Sally gives me the Newspaper article.

"Andy tried to hide that from me," she says.

"No, I didn’t" he interfered.

"Yes, you did! You took the newspaper away and hid it!"

"Would you do me the favor and let me read it first, before we start an argument?" I throw in.

The article’s main purpose is to slander me as a neo-nazi, and to collect public voices to press for my extradition.

"At least he swallowed Howard’s story about my living in Tunbridge," I noticed. "And this picture of mine is so bad that nobody can identify me. That is good, too. Somebody must have taken it from a distant place at the very moment when Hastings and I shook hands."

Sally is in a real bad mood. She is suspicious that her husband is trying to hide that trouble is ahead. He had done that frequently in the past, as she had told me before.

"What sort of links did you forge with right-wing extremists?" she asks me.

"Well, I guess I was too honest to Hastings," I respond. "He asked me if I had been in contact with any persons on the political right."

"And, what did you tell him?"

"The truth. I mean, that I met David Irving, this was not part of it, since I don’t consider David to be part of any political movement. Irving was simply a part of my coming to the UK, and I told Hastings how and why I came here, and how David was involved in it."

In late May 1996, roughly two months after I had fled Germany, I learned that the Spaniards were about to introduce an anti-revisionist law as well. Hence, I told my wife that I would prefer to settle with the entire family in England instead of Spain, where no such laws seem to be planned. She was glad to here that, as neither of us spoke Spanish, and Spain was culturally a bit too distant for her. So I started seeking a way out of Spain into England. David Irving, the world-renowned British historian, was the only person in the UK I knew at least remotely. I had met him in Germany in 1991 during a convention where he spoke, and at this occasion I had given him an early version of my report, so he knew my name. I called him from Estepona, and he agreed to see me. He gave me a description of how to get to his place from Heathrow. He didn’t have any time for me, though, so all I did was actually baby-sit his daughter while he left that evening to see somebody. I had to stay at a cheap hotel behind Victoria during the three days I stayed in London, trying to figure out if I could finish my PhD in England, which I still intended then. Later, in fall 1996, while residing in Pevensey Bay, I accompanied David as a co-driver in a lorry on one of his book-distribution tours through Southeast England. We had a big fight about my map-reading capabilities, since I led him in the wrong direction at one point, but when he took over control, he screwed it up totally, so I had to help him to get back on track. When we made it right on time to the shipping company he had an appointment with, he apologized for his bad behavior. During this tour Irving also asked me if I would agree to appear as a witness during his pending trial against Deborah Lipstadt, to which I agreed. But I never heard back from him about this matter.

"And what is this about the National Front and the British National Party?" Sally doesn’t like all these right-wing stuff. She despises it.

"I told Hastings that in 1998 I learned about a British censorship case against a guy named Nick Griffin. You know the Griffin case, don’t you?"

"No, I don’t know anything about these guys, and I am not even sure if I want to." Sally rushs to declare.

"Well, Griffin had published an article in his ‘Rune’ magazine in which he somehow denied the Holocaust, and furthermore he was accused of inciting racial hatred against blacks. Since I was very interested in British legislation and jurisdiction about Holocaust revisionism, and what sort of ‘incitement racial hatred’ is considered to be a crime, I wanted to learn more about it. My own fate could depend on it. And last but not least, my historical journal is devoted to fighting censorship. Since I wanted to write about that case, I needed to get more information. I got in touch with Griffin via email. I didn’t know anything about his involvement in politics. All I knew was that he was associated with the BNP. He said he had heard about my case, and he invited me to his place in Wales. That was in February 1999. My family had just left me the month before, and in this period I had terrible nightmares about losing my kids and wife. I was a bit desperate to get in touch with other human beings and to get distracted from my misery, so I took that opportunity to get out of my loneliness. I actually had a nice stay at Griffin’s house. We spoke a lot about his family and personal fate, the ethnic and language situation in Wales, and of course about Holocaust revisionism and censorship in England. It was there that I learned about his leading role in the BNP and that he was about to challenge the leader of the party. That is what I told Hastings."

"And the National Front?" Sally insists.

"Well, I cannot remember anything about that. As a matter of fact, I do not even know if I ever have been in touch with somebody of the NF. Hastings must have just added it. Or I dropped the name Martin Webster in some context."

I first met big, fat, nice, and gay Martin Webster (pardon me, Martin) incidentally at Andy’s printing company while he was doing some printing business there, and later again as a visitor at Andy’s place. I don’t know anything about his background. All I have is a faint memory that he might be or have been involved in something right-wing stuff, as many people are or were that turn up at Andy’s place. I had a nice bicycle tour with Martin down to Oxford one Saturday, during which we talked about anything but politics and his inverted sexual orientation, which is no secret to anybody.

"I can't believe that you were that naïve! You shouldn’t have told him anything about that. What does a bicycle tour have to do with politics?" Sally asks. She somehow likes Martin Webster.

"I am just telling the truth! And I am not going to start lying just because of assholes like Hastings."

"It is not about lying," Andy says, "it is about being careful and staying silent where it is better to do so."

"Anyway, this is over now. I cannot undo it. I talked to Hastings for three and a half hours about human rights, censorship, persecution, and the only thing he has to say about it is ‘NAZI’, and how I forged links to right-wingers."

Sally, Andy, and I agree to simply wait and see what would happen. In the meanwhile, my email box has an overflow with messages coming in from friends all over the world who received this article by email. David Irving goes ballistic. He threatens that something serious would happen if the authorities touch me. I don’t know what he means by that. He doesn’t have any means to threaten anybody. But at least it is a nice sign of solidarity, and I appreciate that. He was not always that supportive. Apparently he fears that if they go after me, he is going to be next.

David Botsford from the Libertarian Alliance says I should take care of myself. He offers me his house as a refuge, should things get dangerous. I never met him, but we had a nice time working together to update and translate one of his works about historiography and censorship. We noticed during this year of co-operation that we think quite similarly. Nice to see all these guys offering their help.

In the meantime the media in Germany jump on the wagon and publish the Telegraph story: "Neonazi", "Racist", "Fascist", "anti-Semite". I start hating myself for being a devil incarnate as they describe me. How can humans be so mean to denigrate others totally without even knowing them?

My wife gets worried if it would be possible for them to come and stay at all. She fears that I have to dive away again. I tell her:

"Don’t worry. It is business as usual here. Nothing happens. This is just the blown up story of a young journalist with profile neurosis. He needed a story to impress his employer, and it is always easy success to drive a ‘Nazi-sow’ through the town. So, this time I am the sow, but I think things will calm down quickly."

Though it is the end of October, the weather is still pretty nice. This summer was extremely warm and dry, and it seems as if it doesn’t want to end. Sunshine still dominates. I have my daily 15 miles bicycle tour through juicy pastures full of cows and sheep, enjoying the most beautiful views. Each time I try to improve my personal record, and I am proud to have reduced the time I need from an initial 65 minutes down to 45 minutes. Each time I did this tour, I felt great. Unfortunately, on Thursday before my family arrives, I get a flat tire, and so I cannot drive until this is repaired. Since I don’t want to lose time while my family is there, I postpone it until afterwards. I didn’t know then that this was the last time I would have this absolutely fantastic bicycle tour, and that I would miss this experience of nature, landscape, and my own body strength most of all.

Anyway, on Friday, I pick up my family from Heathrow airport. We have a wonderful time together. On Saturday, my birthday, we visit Hastings Castle and the Smugglers’ Cave. The kids are in heaven, and so is daddy. We all spend the night together in my gigantic imperial bed, and no night can be more relaxing than those where I can hold my daughter’s and son’s hand while they fall asleep. Or is it the other way around? Who cares…

On Sunday morning I get another distress call from Sally:

"They have another story about you in the Telegraph. You need to see this. It gets serious now. Get here as quickly as you can. Rush, rush!" she urges me. She scares me.

I tell my wife, and her jaw drops down. Now it is about reacting quickly. She says that I can drop her and the kids off at Schumacher’s, a German family and friends of ours living a few miles away in Staplehurst. I wouldn’t need to be with them. I agree. So we pack our stuff, I drop them off at Schumacher’s and I drive down to Brokers place. The atmosphere in Brokers house is icy. No nice welcome, no smiles, no hugs as usual. They show me the article, and I start to read.

"Germany pursues Rudolf extradition"

I cannot swallow anymore.

"A FUGITIVE from justice and traced to Britain by The Telegraph is now facing the threat of extradition.

Senior officials at the German Embassy in London have confirmed that moves are underway to have Germar Rudolf returned to Germany…"

And so it goes on. I knew since 1997 that things were critical, since I was sentenced for something that – strictly formally speaking – does exists as an offense in Britain, too. A lawyer told me as early as 1997 that things didn’t look too good for me. I simply hoped that Britain, with it’s tradition of free speech and anti-German politics, wouldn’t bend to German orders. I was wrong.

"So what?" I ask Andy.

"We should plan ahead." He says.

"I figure that they are searching for me, if not now, than tomorrow or in a week or so."

"It doesn’t look good. First of all you need to get out of your place immediately. You need an apartment at a place where nobody knows you”, Andy suggests.

"I don’t think that they react that quickly. I live there under a different identity. It will take them months to figure that out, if they succeed at all. After all, I haven't committed a single crime in this country. They have more important things to do than hunting ghosts."

"And what if the estate agent remembers you, or if they start showing pictures of you in the media and asking the population to help searching you? Or if they tap phone lines and you Internet server? If they really want to find you, they will find you." Andy objects.

"Germar, we can help you out of this. But, Germar, look into my eyes" Sally says. There she goes again, I think.

"You know that I like you as a person", she continues. "If I am going to offer you my help, but I need to be sure that you don’t lie to me. Look into my eyes!

Alright. I asked you that before, and I ask you again: Have you ever been involved in any neo-Nazi stuff?"

"I told you that before. No, I haven’t", I reply.

"Can you swear that you didn’t?" she insists.

"Yes I can," I confirm, "and I do it herewith again. You know the story. You know why I am in trouble. It is about the comments that Wolfgang added to my report about which he didn’t inform me. And even these comments weren’t Nazi. They were just emotional, uncontrolled and stupid. All the stuff that I published was strictly scientific."

"I can’t read German, so I have to trust you", Sally responds. "I hate this Nazi pig Wolfgang.[1] He destroyed your life, and he got us in trouble before."

"It isn’t that easy", I object.

"Yes it is. Everybody makes mistakes, but in contrast to you he never apologized. He just blames it on others and gets mad if you confront him with his misbehaviors, bad manners, and mistakes."

"What does this have to do with our problem," Andy interferes.

"Alot, because Wolfgang is our problem here. Listen, Germar! Should I ever find out that you lied to me, that you were indeed involved in any Nazi stuff, I shall not hesitate to give all the information I have about you to the police. Now, if you are right, and I hope and believe you are, than you deserve our help. You know that I like you. You are not one of these Nazi bastards with whom Andy associates. So I’ll help you. I’ll risk all I have to get you out of this mess. I’ll lie for you the dirtiest lies you ever heard. Look into my eyes! If you lied to me, you are going to be in trouble, I promise you!"

That is Sally live. It took me two years to figure out that this sort of behavior is her way of expressing positive sentiments for other people. Andy is a very indulgent guy. Even though his wife is frequently swearing at him, he just stands there and smiles. I wonder what he thinks during such moments.

"You can sleep here tonight." Sally offers.

"Alright. Thank you. But I need to get back to my place, spend the rest of the day with my kids, make an arrangement with my wife for tomorrow to bring her and the kids to the airport, and get some important documents and my computer. So I’ll be back in the evening, or so. Is that alright?"

"Ok. We’ll be here waiting for you."

"Alright. Thanks. Bye."

"Bye"

I get into my car and sit there silently for a moment, trying to recover from Sally’s preaches. Then I drive back home in order to get my toilet bag, pyjamas, sleeping bag, my computer and several other important things. When approaching the parking lot at the top of the hill on my way down home, however, I see a blue BMW parked there senselessly with two middle-aged gentlemen sitting in it, looking around. As soon as I pass, they start their car and follow. I panic and drive down the paved way riddled with speed-pumps at 40 miles per hour. My poor Renault Clio. They don’t follow that quickly. I quickly get to my place, collect the most important stuff, and drive back. I cannot see their car anywhere. Perhaps I am only paranoid.

I pick up my family at Schumacher’s, and we spend the rest of the afternoon at a fun park for children. I tell my wife about the BMW, and she asks if it wouldn’t be better if she and the kids drive back in a taxi, but I insist in being their chauffeur. I try to forget the circumstances of my current existence. At the fun park, we meet former neighbors from our time together in Cranbrook, including a former girlfriend of my daughter Patricia. The kids have fun together. Patricia drops back into her now broken English. Just one year ago she was perfectly bilingual. Merely ten months in Germany and most of it is gone. Stefan, my son, has forgotten almost everything. He was not even three years old when his mother brought him to Germany. He doesn't understand a word. But Patricia remembers quickly, including the nice East Sussex accent. "Noi" they say for no, exactly the same as the Swabian say, the south-western German region where my kids grow up now. How quickly they learn, forget, and remember languages! And the parents pretend that nothing had happened…

Around dinner time, I drive the family back to Headcorn, telling the kids that I cannot stay with them tonight. This time my wife has to get them their dinner and bring them to bed. She is used to it from Germany, but nevertheless she is a bit disappointed, but sorrow about me predominates. I hope the kids don’t ask where daddy is this night. Didn’t they come all these hundreds of miles to listen to his bedtime stories and to fall asleep with him? It hurts to even think about disappointing the kids – and me, admittedly.

As soon as the kids have close the car door, I drive back to Ashford. I realize only after my arrival that I forgot my wallet. Damn, the most important thing. So back I go. The weather has adjusted to the situation. A strong wind blows from the west. Even though it is dark, I don’t dare to drive down the normal way to my place. Who knows who is waiting there for me. So I drive down a different road, park my car at the end of a bridle way, and walk over pastures, approaching my place from the rear. Everything is peaceful. I knock on the patio door, and after a while my wife opens. I ask her about the kids, and she says that everything is fine. They weren’t too happy that I wasn’t there, but they didn’t seem to be upset about it. I tell her about the wallet. She laughs.

"If your head wasn't attached to your neck, you would forget that one, too, wouldn’t you?"

I smile and give her a kiss an her cheek. We agree upon a time when I would pick her and the kids up the next morning, as her flight leaves around lunch time. I tell her that she should have everything ready to be dumped into the trunk so that we can make a blitz start. My instructions, through which a lot of nervosity and anxiety shines through, makes her feel uneasy, too.

"Shouldn't I rather take a taxi bringing us to a meeting point where no one exepcts us?"

"I don’t think that there is any real danger," I try to explain. "I just want to do everything to minimize risks. That’s all. So don’t worry. It’ll work out"

We give each other a long-lasting hug.

"Take good care of yourself".

My wife's voice is filled with sorrow.

I leave again through the patio and while climbing over the fence, get stuck with my black jeans on a rusty nail. Rrrrutssshhhh. That was it! No blood at least, just fabrics. Now that I have to keep all my pennies together, I start wrecking my clothes. Great!

Back I walk over the pastures to my car, and swiftly I drive to Ashford. Somehow, I am not too happy to sleep at Andy’s place. Wouldn’t the police find out that his printing company plays a major role in my business affairs? And wouldn’t they look at his place first to find information about my whereabouts? I cannot but think that I am coming from rain to drain.

I park my car around seven corners. I am sure they know my car’s number plate and will look for it. It shouldn’t be close to Andy’s house. So I have to walk quite a bit to get to Andy’s place, carrying my important papers, the overnight bag, and my pyjamas, but I leave my computer in the car (which makes me nervous). Sally welcomes me and leads me into the attic where they have a sofa that can be transformed into a kind of bed. I hate these pieces of furniture. In most cases I have some back pain the next morning after having slept on such deices. And the blanket and pillows I get look crappy, too. But I am not in the position to complain about such unimportant things. The first thing I do is find out where I could possibly hide or escape unnoticed, should Police come: Out of the roof window, leading to the back yard, one can easily climb onto the roof and from there down into the yard. I really am paranoid.

The night passes by without any particular events, except that I don’t sleep very well. I get up very early, still before dawn. Andy is just about to leave for work. He says he is going to listen around if somebody can hide me for a while until I can leave. He opines that from now on I have to live in apartments rented out to me by reliable friends, not by some unknown third party. These friends could then help me to build up a new identity. This alone would guarantee that no one else would really know who I am and where I come from. Well, isn't this a comforting perspective, I think to myself. So I will dig myself in even deeper into English soil...

I have my breakfast an hour later with Sally. We sit in what is perhaps the dirtiest kitchen in the world. I still haven’t lost my German attitude towards cleanliness and tidiness…

Half an hour later I am on my way back to Headcorn to pick up my family. When approaching the cattle grids that I have to pass to get to this remote settlement, I wonder what had become of that strange BMW. Just as I turn into the cul-de-sac leading to my place, I see it parked in a neighbor’s parking lot. Uhhh, they are just visitors who didn’t know the way! So they followed me yesterday not because they wanted to handcuff me, but because I lead the way into a lost world. A big sign on the fence at the cattle grid reminds people that no cars are allowed beyond this point, and who wants to drive into a cow field anyway? So most people can not even imagine that there are houses hiding in the valley behind a dense wall of trees. This place is indeed great for all people who want to be totally cut off from the world. There is no mobile phone signal in this valley, and only very few radio and TV stations can be received in poor quality. When I got an ISDN line installed at my place, British Telecom did not even know where it is. They had a hard time to find their own equipment...

I get out of the car and meet my neighbor Andrew who is working on his car.

"Hello Peter, how are you doing" he asks me.

"Thank you, fine. And you."

"Fine, thanks."

So he hasn’t read the Telegraph article, or at least he wasn’t able to identify me with their help. My pseudonym is still safe.

I tell my wife about the BMW, and she sighs in relief. We take all the time we need to get the stuff into the car. Then we drive to the local train station and take the train to London. The kids are all excited. Riding a train is something special for them, even more so then flying. Times change! In London we make our way through the underground system and by bus to the zoo. The zoo, however, turns out to be rather disappointing, which may also be a result of the advanced season. Many animals are no longer outside. But also in other regards this zo seems to be inappropriately tiny for a city of ten million people. My wife claims that the Wilhelma zoo in Stuttgart is much nicer. But the kids like it here anyway. Around 3 pm we have leave toward the airport. We wait in vain for half an hour at the bus stop. In order to prevent that we arrive late at the airport, I decide to get a taxi to the next underground station. I take Stefan onto my shoulders, a rucksack onto my back, and a two luggage bags into my hands und rush ahead. My wife and Patricia have problems following my pace. I swiftly find my way through the confusion London underground system from one line to another, stairs up, stairs down, left tunnel, right tube, line one to line 14, stairs up, left turn, stairs down, then changing to line 4. Everything has to go fast, and I drag my totally confused family behind me who has lost their orientation.

“How do you know we are right? Where are we in the first place? I would have been completely lost here if I wouldn't have you” my wife mentions.

“Well, I simply have understood how the system works. Just trust me. We don't have time for long explanations.”

Only after we sit in the underground train going out to Heathrow, we can settle down, and find some time to explain her how the London underground system is organized and why I know my ways around it. It is simply experience. On this 45 minutes train ride out to Heathrow I explain to my wife that for security reasons I am not going to go with her to the check-in counter. I shall stay in the background, observing what is going on, while she checks in.

"I understand", she replies.

"I don’t think there is any real danger", I continue, "but there is a theoretical possibility that they know you are here and when you leave. They could know, if they have access to the airline data. I don’t have to remind you that in 1995 they handcuffed Günter Deckert right at the gateway when he returned to Germany from his two weeks vacation on the Canarians. So they definitely can do such things."

Günter Deckert was prosecuted in Germany because in 1991 he had translated a "Holocaust-denying" speech held by the US citizen Fred Leuchter, an execution technology expert who, in 1989, prepared an expert report about the alleged gas chambers of Auschwitz and Majdanek. Leuchter had concluded in his report, and summarized in his speech, that there were no such gas chambers. Deckert was eventually sentenced to two years for his translation. Having left the country during his ongoing legal procedures was interpreted by the German court as an attempt by Deckert to flee the country – stupidly enough. If he really intended so, he would not have returned.

I have a talent for scaring my own wife to death. I always tell her about the odds of what I am doing and the probability that something might go wrong, as well as about the implications. It is simply in my genes. I hardly ever lie. I am bad at it. My wife quickly figured that out only a few months after we first met. She can see it at the tip of my nose when I try to hide something. Everybody can do that after a short while. I am perhaps the worst liar in the world. In most cases, I do not even try to hide things, but instead demonstratively expose them. That has always brought me big, big trouble, even as an infant when dealing with my sometimes quite violent father, as my mother used to tell me.

In Heathrow Airport, I indeed stay in the background while my wife checks in. I see the irritation in the faces of my kids who have lost sight of me and are now looking around for me. I try to avoid them spotting me, as this might have not so nice consequences when they call my name and run over to me. It hurts in my heart to see the kids this way.

And indeed, there is trouble ahead. The lady at the counter takes my wife’s tickets and leaves for more than 5, 10 minutes. I get nervous. But it turns out that it was just a reservation problem. They get it sorted out, and as soon as my wife, who has lost sight of me, has checked in her luggage, she take her carry-on luggage and the kids by her hands and walks toward to gates. When my wife is back in the crowd of people, I join her and help her carrying her baggage. We spend some 30 minutes together in a restaurant, before going to the departure door.

"Would you do me the favor and try not to cry when we say good bye?" my wife begs. "Otherwise we are all going to cry in the departure hall, and the kids will be in a terrible mood during the flight."

"I'll try my best." I really will. But then, when we give each other hugs, my eyes get wet. I manage to suppress more tears.

"Bye daddy." I fail to suppress, but regain control. And I lose it right now while I am typing this.

"Hurry on, I lose control", I urge my wife. She understands and passes the X-ray check without looking back. I turn around, not looking back either, going straight back to my car.

Preparing the Flight

On my way back to Ashford I try to concentrate on the tasks ahead. As early as June 1999, during a journey across the United States, I researched possibilities to emigrate to the U.S. By that time I had learned that revisionism can have success only if presented in the world language English. I therefore decided that I would try to make this success happen by working from within the U.S. Since my family had left me for good, there is nothing left that forced me to stay in England. Every corner, every road, even every store and supermarket there evokes painful memories of my family. Apart from that, the United States has this divine invention called Freedom of Speech, that is: the First Amendment. Is it therefore not logical to try to make my way to the country of infinite possibilities? During my second visit to the U.S. end of September 1999, I succeeded to get an offer by a small publishing company called Theses & Dissertations Press, owned by Dr. Robert Countess, to work as their editor. Already then I had decided to emigrate to the U.S. It all depended only on immigration formalities, which could last for many months or even years, to be sure. But now, after the witch hunt against me has started in England, things look different. I can no longer wait until I receive a working visa or a green card. Andy and I decided instead that I would simply travel to the U.S. with a visitor visa waiver. Everything else would evolve later.

Back at Andy’s place, Sally informs me that Andy wants me to come to Ashford to discuss things further. So I don’t hesitate a second, turn around on my heels and drive up to Ashford. I won’t drive to the Andy's printing company directly. Perhaps they are watching out for me. So I leave the car at the Tesco parking lot and walk down the main street instead of the side road leading to Andy's factory. I try to get into the factory lot from the back. I never went that way, did not even know that one can get access from the back side, But I am lucky: all doors and gates in fences are open. Safe is safe…

"Hi, Germar. How were things in Heathrow?" Andy greets me.

"Not too bad. We made it quickly and painlessly, almost."

"William offered his help. You can stay with him in his house for a couple of weeks if you like."

"Oh, is he in?", I ask Andy.

"Yes, doing his work. It’s too noisy right now in there, but I’ll tell him to finish that job and come here to discuss things with you."

"Thanks. Is Howard in, too?"

"No, he’ll be around tomorrow."

William O’Neil is Andy’s only professional printer, the jewel of his staff, and the only one not involved in any politics. So I wonder what makes him offer his help. We make it short. He gives me his address and phone number, and a description on how to get to his place. He says he’ll be in at about six in the evening, so I shouldn’t be there any earlier, since he lives alone. I can stay in one of the empty rooms of his sons who are at university, he suggests. I tell him that I would need to bring my complete computer equipment to his place in order to keep my business going for the next couple of days.

"Is that alright with you?" I ask him

"How much stuff is it?", he asks in return.

"You never saw a PC, huh?" I tease him. "It all fits on a medium size desk. So it’s not a big deal. I just need to have a telephone socket close to it or an extension leading to the next socket."

He agrees on that, though I see a worry in his face that I might screw up his household.

"Don’t worry", I try to comfort him. "I work silently in an orderly manner all day, and you will not even notice that I am there. And thank you very much for you help!"

I promise to be at his place early that night. I leave shortly afterwards, drive down to my rental apartment in order to pack all the stuff together that I would need for the next couple of days: clothes, food, paperwork needed to continue my work, and of course the computer equipment. It takes longer than I thought. At dusk I leave for William's resides. After getting lost once in the dark, I make it to his place at around 7 pm. He already expects me and helps me to unload my car and carry the stuff into his son’s bedroom.

After having sorted my stuff, I join William in his living room. He is very polite and even switches off his TV when I enter. That is not normally the case when you visit English households!

"May I ask you why you offered your help? I mean, you don’t know me, do you?"

"Well, I have seen you frequently in Andy's factory, and you don’t seem to be a bad guy deserving that sort of trouble", William explains.

"Are you somehow politically involved in anything?", I am curious to find out.

"No, I have no political agenda whatsoever."

"How than did you get involved in Andy's printing business?"

William then tells me his story of how he was searching for a new job after he left a position where he as a professional printer and was absolutely unhappy. So he applied for several jobs, and one of them happened to be Andy's company.

"But that is a third world printer with totally outdated machinery, swamped in dirt and rubbish, and entangled in total organizational chaos. How can you volunteer to work there?"

"That’s true," replies William, "but I am the only professional there, I can realize my own ideas, I am almost in a position of being my own boss. And I can get my favorite fish prints printed and marketed. Fish and fishing is my real hobby, you know, so it came in quite handy."

No I feel that it is up to me to tell him my story.

"Do you know at all why I am in this mess?" I ask William.

"Not really. I heard bits and pieces. Andy explained to me once that Wolfgang has added something to your report without informing you."

"That’s right. Now that you offered your help, are you curious to hear more about it? You should at least know the reason why even you might get in trouble now," I tell him with a smile on my face.

He is curious, and so I spend the next couple of hours in telling my story.

"But why didn’t you tell the Court the entire truth about who actually did all of this, if not you?" William asks me toward the end.

"You mean I should have betraying the real 'culprit'? It was certainly stupid what he did. But if you look at it objectively, it is nothing that anybody would deserve to be put in prison for."

"But you were sentenced for it."

"Yes, but I was so naïve to think that a German Court wouldn’t sentence somebody for something he obviously didn’t do. I assume that the court sentencing me had a strong inkling of who the real 'culprit' was. But they had no evidence against him. What they found during the first house raid against me in September 1993 was a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing to the real 'culprit', who at that time was the central figure in German revisionist publishing activities acting from behind the scenes. It was also obvious that this person was a good friend of mine.

They launched a huge house search action against this person in August 1994, on the very day the Israeli President Herzog visited Germany. No coincidence obviously. They wanted to present Herzog this person's head. They searched eight places all over Germany where they thought he was hiding stuff. But for some strange reason, we were warned by somebody inside the German FBI. So you see, we can count on having supporters hiding somewhere inside the system. Consequently, this gigantic house search action was a total failure.

I figured that the trial against me was their last attempt to get this secret central person by forcing me to betray him, or by forcing him to confess in order to avoid that I, as an innocent father of two infants, was sent to jail. That failed, too. That central person would have gotten the maximum sentence, for sure, that is: five years in prison, because distributing my expert report was only one point on the long list of thought crimes he would have been indicted for. If anyone was obliged to tell the truth, then it was the 'perpetrator' himself. But be so doing he would have incriminated himself massively, so you really cannot expect him to make such a sacrifice. Be that as it way. At the end of it all, none of us went to jail, and everybody else involved in these matters got away as well. We all keep publishing for revisionism. So what’s the point?

Even though I certainly do not agree with everything my friend wrote and published -- and I really was upset at him for his additions to my report -- I would never betray anyone in free speech matters that would lead to his imprisonment. It is that simple. I don’t want anyone to denounce me for what I said or wrote, so I am not entitled to it either."

William is much more comfortable with my being in his house after I told him my story. People get excited and intrigued by such stories that almost sound like a spy or conspiracy novel. Being a small, not too endangered part in these adventures is something they really appreciate, provided they don’t get into hot water…

During the next two weeks I organize all the things that need to be done: Doing my correspondence, filling orders, getting the book "Giant with Feet of Clay" and the issue 4/1999 of my magazine to the printer, and last but not least shutting down my second identity at the settlement I call my home. Howard was a big help there. He rents a van, and we drive all my property up to Ashford and store them temporarily in a shipping container on lot of Andy's factory, waiting to be shipped to wherever I might go. Howard agrees to be my officially employed packing and mailing clerk and to get co-signatory status for my British bank accounts in order to do all the business that needs to be done. This way, I can keep up the illusion to everyone – authorities as well as customers – that I am still in Britain. The only problem would be that correspondence had to be forwarded in a time consuming way.

When filing the co-signatory form, the clerk at my bank's branch is friendly as usual:

"Hi, Mr. Scheerer! How can we help you today?"

It makes me feel at home when people know me by name and don’t call me a Nazi. I will miss that. My small storage room I rented for my books and journals needs to be cleaned out, too. I hope the guy there hasn’t heard about the Sunday Telegraph affair either.

"How are you doing today, Germar?" I am greeted. That is like pouring balm on my wounds. At least I don’t appear as a monster to him – or he simply didn’t hear about the Telegraph smear campaign. So I introduce Howard to the owner of the storage company as the guy who will deal with him from now on.

In the meanwhile, my siblings cancel their visit for the following weekend, which they had planned on the occasion of my 35th birthday. They had been informed by my wife about the mess I am in. I am sorry about that. I would have needed some distraction, but they are probably  absolutely right about it. So my siblings won't need the bed & breakfast place I had reserved for them with my dear old friend John in Langley. John is a nice fellow of more than 70 years of age who had become a close friend of ours, especially to my wife. I do not want to upset him with my own problems, so I wonder how I explain that to him. It was already hard on him to see that my wife left me and went back to Germany with my kids.

William tells me the next day that his mother will visit him at the very same weekend and that I therefore could not stay at his place during these days, because he would not want her mother to ask any questions. So I drive over to John's place and tell him that my siblings will spend the upcoming weekend's nights at my place, since they prefer a double bed (what John might think about that one?), and that I will use his room for that weekend instead. This way I get out of William's house for the weekend, and John won't be worried about my collapsing world…

That reminds me that I had another appointment on that weekend that I totally forgot. Marc Dufour, a French revisionist writer, wanted to visit me to discuss his upcoming book Die Lüge spricht zwanzig Sprachen that he had offered me for publication. He already bought the Channel Tunnel ticket. He is going to be pissed. I call him from a public phone and tell him that I cannot see him. He is upset, indeed. I cannot explain to him exactly why I cannot see him, so I have no way of soothing his mood. Anyway, it had to be done.

Andy and Howard promise to get the shipping of my property going as soon as I inform them where to send it. I give Andy a check over £3,000 which I ask him to deposit after I left the country. In return, we agree that he will give me £3,000 in cash the evening before I leave, which I will tell him two days before. This way, I get enough money for the journey without triggering any alarm bells in the bank. You never know…

Next, I have to figure out which way to leave this country. England, I really love you, I don’t want to leave you. But you apparently don’t love me. You hate me. I have understood, though I know that you wouldn’t do so if only you would listen. It makes me already homesick to just think about leaving.

Leaving the country by plane is too dangerous. When I left Britain in June 1999 for a two weeks lecture tour to the States, the officer at Heathrow Airport checking the passports took mine and hesitated.

"You are a German citizen, right?" he asked me.

"Yes. Why?"

"Why do you start your journey here in London?"

"Because I live here in England."

"Where do you live?" he persisted.

"In Langley."

"Do you have any British identity?"

"Mpff – I only have my Social Security Card."

"Alright, give me that."

I handed it to him, and off he went, vanishing for some two minutes behind a door. My heart beat faster and faster, I started sweating. That was the first time since I fled Germany that I was subject to passport control. What would happen? And I idiot told him that I live in Langley. Don’t you know that your Social Security Card is registered with Howard’s address in Hastings? Oh, boy! There was trouble ahead!

The guy returned, gave me back my passport and social security card, and said everything were alright.

Poooooohhhhh.

Remembering these frightening minutes, I figure that a single entry in some sort of database that those security guys use to check identities might be enough to cause a different outcome the next time I would be subject to such scrutiny. It also would not be wise to leave an obvious trail for the British authorities of my leaving the country by having my name on the passenger list of a flight from London to the U.S. So I better not leave from a British airport. Crossing the channel isn’t an option either, because passport controls are pretty strict there, too. The only option is Ireland, indeed. Independent southern Ireland. Crossing the Irish sea on a ferry shouldn’t be a big deal, and since southern Ireland has no security problem as Northern Ireland has, I think that passport controls for passengers of a ferry are quite lax. William tells me that there are tickets available at railway stations that include the ferry fee. So I drive down to the next larger train station to get information about this. Most important, however, is the question: Do I have to give them my real identity when buying a ticket? I don’t want to appear in any database as having left Britain towards Ireland. So that would be crucial. Since I don’t want to risk anything, I leave all identification papers at William’s place. It turns out that I indeed have to give my name and address, but I don’t have to proof my identity with any kind of ID. What a relief. So I purchase a one-way ticket to Dublin in the name of my false second identity. Everything is fine.

Next I clear and clean my rental apartment, so that Howard has only little work to do once my rental agreement runs out in January 2001. After this work is done, I leave my settlement for good. The sun is about to set and pours her golden rays over the pastures. Even the sheep look golden. I really do not want to leave. Isn’t this just a bad nightmare? Can’t someone wake me up?

I get out of the car, and sit down on a bench right at the fence near the cattle grid to watch the sun set a last time over my home. I will be terribly homesick. Look at this! Burn this colorful view into your memory. This is the last time you will ever see this. It will be rare soul food for many years to come in foreign countries…

It is Thursday evening. My train leaves on Saturday, the 13th. I decide to have a last dinner in a medieval inn in the small village closeby, my favorite place to go. While standing at the bar ordering my food, I notice a young couple and a middle aged woman talking with heavy German accent, the two women talking entirely in German together. I decided to join them, just for the sake of not sitting around alone. I speak to them in English. The young guy is obviously English, but the young lady is German, and the older lady, her mother, too. Both Germans don’t notice that I am German. The English guy notices my accent, but can’t get it sorted, though he is engaged to a German. I let them guess which my native language is, and when I reveal it, the girls are stunned that I was able to follow their secret conversation all the time. I like these games. I was pretty bad at English in school. I finished with an E. And now, not even all English people would recognize my accent anymore. Anyway, this evening was successfully filled with something other than sorrow and pain.

The next day I finish the last bits and pieces, and try to get things ready to go. In the evening, when getting all things ready, I notice that my passport isn’t where I thought I put it last. I am totally excited and scared: Where is my passport?

I reopen and search every box that I packed (at  least that is what I think I do). I turn every piece of paper upside down. Nothing. It is gone.

When William returns from work, I tell him the bad news. He calls Andy to cancel the meeting we had agreed upon to hand over the £3,000. Together, we try to remember all the steps I took.

The next morning, I go to Andy’s place, telling him about my lost passport. We all search his house. Maybe I lost it there. Nothing

I drive to my empty rental apartment to see if it is there. Nothing

Did I lose it on the pastures the night I walked through the storm? No, that cannot be, as I definitely had it at William's place.

Did I lose it in the inn when carelessly throwing my wind jacket on the bench with the heap of all the other jackets? Or did I lose it at a different restaurant the other day? All inquiries at these places lead to nothing. Where is that damn thing!

Michael Davies, the fourth guy of Andy's printing company, cheers me up that weekend by inviting me for a long walk around Devil’s Dyke north of Brighton, and for a Badminton game. He beats me. I was out of practice for over 10 years now, so no wonder I couldn’t cope with him. He tells me that he is practicing secretly because Andy invites him now already for several months to join his badminton group, and he wants to surprise him with a gigantic performance when he eventually joins this group as a greenhorn. You will do it, Mike! I had no problem to beat Andy and his friends even with the bad shape I am in, so you will certainly beat them all!

Not giving up on searching for my passport, I decide to parallely try to get a new, replacement passport from the German Embassy in London. I gather all the information I need. It turns out that I can get a provisional passport in a few days. However, a proper passport requires some six weeks to be done, but it can be sent registered mail to a street address. So on Monday I have some passport portraits made. I haven’t shaved myself for almost two weeks now, so the portraits look pretty terrible. I still have a German plug on my shaver, and William has no adapter for it, so I couldn’t do anything about it. Anyway, it’ll do. The photos just resemble me the way I look now!

I get on a train to London Victoria, and then make my way by the London underground to the German embassy. I enter the building with a sick feeling in my stomach. I quickly get the forms I need, and fill them out. Then I hand them in to one of the clerks. She enters my details into her computer.

Let’s see what happens.

She hesitates, looks accurately on her screen. She puts my application down and comes back to the counter:

"Would you please sit down for awhile, Mr. Scheerer?"

"Why? What is wrong?"

"There is a problem, I have to check that first with my boss. Please sit down over there and wait awhile, would you?"

I smell a trap. I pretend to sit down. She looks at me, sees me sitting down, then goes out the door. I jump up from my seat, out the door I go. You better not go back to German territory anymore, not even in an embassy! They have you on their system!

I cross the street and head for the next underground entrance. A car stops in front of me, blocking my way. I almost start to run. It turns out that the guy is just looking for an address. I cannot help him, though. I probably wouldn’t even if I could. I quickly get into the underground and vanish. Get me out of here!

As soon as I am back, I search for a public telephone to call the embassy. I manage to get through to it and get hold of the lady that dealt with me. I apologize to her that I couldn’t wait, and ask if she had found out what was wrong.

"There is a passport refusal ground in your record" she explains.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"That means that there is some reason why the German authorities would not issue a new passport for you."

"What sort of reason is it, can you tell me that?"

"No, I am afraid, our records don’t say anything about that."

She is probably right. It isn’t her fault. She might really be ignorant. Well, I am not, but I certainly wouldn’t tell her. So I hang up and get back to William's house. What else can be done? Perhaps I do not even have to leave Britain? Perhaps they cannot extradite me at all for legal reasons? How about getting some legal advice for a change? Already in 1997 I had been in touch with a lawyer who was experienced in similar cases. He is familiar with my case and might even have learned from the media  what is going on. So I drive to the next major town and call him. It turns out that he is already aware of my situation, as he had seen the Telegraph articles.

"So what do you think is most likely going to happen if they find me?" I ask him.

"European extradition law has massively changed during the last years. As I understand it, you were sentenced for a crime in Germany that formally is a crime in Britain, too, with similar punishment. Under such circumstances, citizens of the EU are subject to immediate extradition without any further legal ado."

"But the crime I allegedly committed would never lead to any prosecution in Britain, not to mention to a verdict" I retort.

"That is certainly true, but you won’t get a single British judge to listen to you. Your case is to be handled on a mere executive level. The justice system does not even get involved. At least I consider it 99,9% likely that nobody will listen to what you have to say. You have no right to be heard legally."

"So there is no hope whatsoever?"

"No, I am afraid not."

"Thank you for your advice."

Was that the end of the story?

In the meantime, everybody is searching feverishly for my passport, but nothing turns up anywhere. William even makes an inquiry at local police stations, asking in general for lost German IDs handed in, but not a single one was found. It would have scared me if they had one. It could be the perfect trap. I ask Howard to eventually try to get my unused ticket to Dublin reimbursed, which he promises to do. Due to the delay of my departure, I at least manage to correct some more errors in the forthcoming book. The proofs I get on Wednesday for "Giant with Feet of Clay" have a totally screwed up Table of Contents. Good that I could fix that…

Now, a new parole is being given out: I shall leave for Ireland, hiding there under a new fake identity, hoping that they won’t search for me there for years to come. Even if I cannot reach the U.S. in lack of a passport, Ireland certainly is a safer place to be than England, not only because they are not looking for me there, but also because Ireland refuses to extradite individuals accused of having committed "thought crimes". Sin Fein and the IRA being the reason for that. I already got in touch with a friend there who is willing to give me shelter for a few weeks until I found a place to stay, and who wants to help me to build up a new identity by guarantying for tenancy agreement and bank account.

On Thursday night I finish my last correspondence and figure that on Friday I might get things sorted for a departure to Ireland on a different ferry, this time with my car. So I open a box in which I am collecting recent correspondence that I dealt with at William's place, in order to add the new correspondence to it.

I don’t believe my eyes: My passport is patiently sitting in there, grinning at me!

When William comes home, I tell him the good news, but urge him not to tell anybody. If there is a leak in the system, this disinformation would serve wonderfully on my behalf.

"This is ingenious! Did you plan this right from the start? Was it all a big show?" he asks totally overwhelmed.

"No, unfortunately, it was real. I really was at the end of my nerves. I idiot packed the passport and stamps and all other stuff into that last box that I kept open for the last documents that I wanted to collect. It never occurred to me that I could have been so stupid to include the passport in there. After all, I would need to have it with me all the time, not hidden in a box in Andy’s container waiting to be shipped. At any rate, it comes in quite handy that everybody thinks I lost my passport. I even told David Irving about it. I am sure this bad news already has gone around the globe. And even the German authorities believe that I sit in a trap. Let them think this is true."

"That is perfect!" William said.

In the Land of Infinite Impossibilities

The next day, Friday the 19^th Nov, 1999, William informs Andy that I would leave on Saturday. This is the signal for him to get the £3,000 and to meet me that night. I go to the train station to get a new ticket for Dublin, and this time nothing will stop me! (Hopefully)

I meet Andy at 8 pm at an Italian restaurant. He gives me the money, and invites me to my last dinner in England. We spend some nice hours together talking about all sorts of things.

Where would I be without these friends?

My train leaves Saturday, early in the morning. I get out of William’s house well before he gets up. I take a diversion to see at least a part of my beloved home are for a final good bye. I park my car near the train station. Howard will eventually use a second key to try to sell it to the local Renault dealer.

The journey to the ferry harbor of Pembroke via London on the train is absolutely relaxing compared to the last three weeks. In the ferry port, I have to hand over my luggage – just one bag – to a guy, and enter a coach. Being separated from all I have makes me nervous. Don’t screw it up, guys! I need my clothes! That’s all I have! The bus drives right into the belly of the ferry – the right one, I hope. We don’t need to get hold of our baggage. They do it all for us. Why is it that I don’t trust them?

Of course, nobody controls our IDs when leaving Britain’s coast, but it makes me relax to actually see that it really doesn’t happen. The journey is quiet, boring. What would you expect? I try to flirt a bit with one of the girls at the delicatessen counter. That is about all the excitement you can find here, I guess. The movies they show don’t interest me. I cannot sleep either, so I just sit around and stare into the Irish Sea and let my thoughts wander around: First the coastal line of England disappears in the distance, a coast that had become home, and the, after some two hours, the Irish coast approaches.

Regarding ID control, it is of course different when arriving in Ireland, but it is nothing more than a guy taking a glance at my passport. No scanners or computers anywhere in sight. That is the difference between airports and ferry ports! I like it!

"Where do you come from?" the guy asks me. What sort of question is that?

"From England, of course. I mean, the entire ferry came from England, didn’t it?"

Perhaps he wanted to know where I live, but the answer to that wouldn’t have been any different. Anyway, he doesn’t care and lets me pass. It takes a few minutes before I receive my bag, and a few more to find a bus driving to downtown Dublin. It turns out the the ferry port is at the far south of the city, whereas the airport is at the north. I get on a bus to Dublin downtown, and from there on a bus to the airport. It is already after 6 pm when I arrive there, and none of the airline counters offering direct flights to the States are open. I have to come again tomorrow, some lady tells me. They would open at 8 am. What a disappointment. I wanted to get out of here as quickly as I can. But since nobody knows that I am here, it doesn’t really matter.

I ask a taxi driver where I can best spend the night. He is a nice guy and tells me that prices are lowest in a certain area close to the city, and that he’ll drop me off there. So I enter his van, and while driving to what turns out to be a youth hostel, we have a nice chat about the English, the Irish, and the Germans and their relations to each other.

It turns out that the cab driver drove me to a youth hostel. There I have to deposits my ID card, which I don’t like to see, and my details are being entered into a computer, which I hate to see. But I am quite sure that no hotline leads from this cheap youth hostel to London or Berlin. It is just that I leave traces that I don’t like to see.

After eating some of my food supply, I decide to have a walk through Dublin’s city. We are approaching Christmas, and so the town has its usual Christmas decorations everywhere. However, I am a bit disappointed about this city. But I don’t have to stay here, so why bother…

I spend the night together with some 10 other guys in a large dormitory, and I get up at around 5:30 in the morning, take a shower, have my breakfast, get my ID back from the clerk, and head for the airport in a taxi. I am too early and have to wait until the ticket counters open. It turns out to be not too easy to get a ticket for today, Sunday, the 21^st, but I manage to get one for roughly 1,000 Irish Pounds. Destination: Huntsville, Alabama. Right into Robert Countess’ place. He wants to have me as an employee for his publishing business, so he will have to cope with my sudden arrival even though I did not say a word to anyone that I was coming.

As a matter of fact, my flight first goes from Dublin to Shannon, where we all have to leave the plane in order to pass through U.S. immigration, and come back aboard afterwards. That is strange. I didn’t know that they even do this abroad. So be it. Perhaps it is a huge advantage, because if anything goes wrong with the INS, than they don’t have to deport me. They just dump me in Ireland, and that would be my second choice anyway. Getting caught in New York or Atlanta would be much worse. Any deportation to Europe, with the authorities there being informed about it, would certainly end with my incarceration. So, thank you Jesus!

I have to fill in the usual I-94W visa waiver form. I know that this is not the way to enter into the States when getting employment. I had some fights with Bob Countess about it. Already in October he got in touch with an immigration lawyer and she claimed that I can come with a visa waiver and that it can be adjusted. I didn’t believe it, because I remembered from my first two times I filled in this I-94W form that it was not allowed to be employed by a U.S. company with this waiver, and any adjustment was expressively excluded. But Dr. Countess insisted that he asked that lady twice, and she allegedly confirmed twice that it can be done. Anyway, I didn’t have much of a choice right now, and if it turns out that it cannot be adjusted, we have to find other solutions.

The immigration officer looks at me and at my ticket.

"You have only a one way ticket. We cannot permit your entry with just a one way ticket. You need a return flight."

Sh... What do I reply to that?

"Yes, but I do not yet know when I am going to return. That is why I didn’t book a return flight." I tell him.

"What is the purpose of your journey?" he asks.

"I am about to expand into the U.S. market and want to open a kind of business branch of my publishing company there. It’ll take some time, and I will have to travel a lot."

He looks at me in my casual clothes and my unshaven face, and doesn’t seem to really believe me. I certainly don’t look like a business man who is expanding his company on a world-wide scale. However, that is what I really want to do, and what my business with Bob Countess is all about. And finally, I really want to return to England’s sunshine coast, once they let me…

The border official murmurs, makes his stamps in my passport, and says something like "You’d better get a return ticket next time you fly to the U.S." Well, I like return tickets that work, but any return ticket to Europe is not going to work for me, I am afraid…

And off we go! Halleluja! I made it!

The flight to New York is as boring as all flights are, and I need to wait several hours for my connecting flight to Huntsville. I arrive there at 9 pm local time. Bob Countess is already in bed at that time, so it doesn’t make sense to call him. I call Jack Stevens instead, a friend of Bob with whom I stayed already in June and September during my two lecture trips. He and his wife Suzan are certainly up at that time. As a matter of fact, they don’t answer the phone. I try it again, and after a while I get through.

"Hello?"

"Hi Jack, it’s me, Germar"

"Oh, how are you doing?"

"Fine, thanks. Listen, I am here at Huntsville airport."

"Oh, really? So you made it, huh? I didn’t know that you were coming!"

"Well, that was the purpose of the whole game, wasn’t it. Anyway, yes, I made it. May I ask you if I can stay the night at your place, and if you could pick me up here, please?"

"Sure. My house is your house. I’ll be out there in half an hour. Does Bob know that you are here"

"No. Nobody knows. You are the first I've told.. You know, I didn’t want to bother Bob, as he is certainly already sleeping."

"That’s fine with me. You are really welcome here. You can even stay longer, if you wish."

"Thanks. And don’t tell anyone yet!"

"Sure. See you."

"Bye."

Jack comes some 30 minutes later, and we drive to his place. Suzan welcomes me in her friendly way that really makes you feel welcome. I have seen these guys only twice for not too long, but that sufficed to make it a real friendship. I know I can count on them.

The next morning, Jack calls Bob and tells him about a big surprise that is waiting at his place for Bob to be picked up. He doesn’t tell Bob what it is, though Bob urges him to explain.

A few hours later, Bob drops in with his VW New Beatle and is really surprised to see me waiting for him. We have a nice drive back to his place, during which I tell him about how I again absconded the European Thought Police. I ask him if he would allow me to get in touch with Catherine Link, a lady I met in Cincinnati at Irving’s Real History Conference in September this year. Certainly he agrees. I shouldn’t even ask.

I was in email contact with Catherine for quite a while in Britain, and I hoped to find more than just a friend in her. Since I don’t know where to stay, I decide to call her and ask her if I can visit her. She is surprised to hear my voice, and is happy to meet me, but urges me to wait until the coming weekend when her kids are at her father’s place, so that she has time for me. So it is arranged. I get a ticket for Saturday forth, Sunday back.

Bob informs me that he had dumped this lady lawyer, which appeared to be not very competent, and had found another immigration lawyer in Birmingham, a guy from Bangladesh, who made a real good impression on him. We shall visit him next week.

On Saturday I fly to Cincinnati where Catherine picks me up at the airport. She invites me for lunch at LaRosa’s Pizzeria. I take the opportunity to ask her if she would be interested in being employed by Theses & Dissertations Press, Bob’s publishing firm that I am supposed to become the director of, once my working visa is granted. She is really enthusiastic about it and more than happy to say yes. After lunch, Catherine decides to show me her house, which she is currently trying to sell. So we get back into her car a drive a few miles. While approaching the house, she slows down and gets nervous.

"Oh my gosh, Police everywhere"

"Some four or five cars." I quickly count.

"You must know that I have trouble with my son Paul. He is on medication for Schizophrenia and has absconded from the hospital where he was supposed to stay by police order," Catherine explains.

"So the police are here because of him?" I ask.

"Almost for certain. Look, that is my house. They are all around that house!"

Catherine drives by very slowly. Suddenly, one of the police officers gets suspicious about the slowly passing car and goes after us. In a second, we are surrounded by some ten cops, some of them pointing their guns at us.

"Oh my gosh, they are aiming at you!" Catherine says.

"Get your hands up", one of the police officers shouts, but somehow I do not believe that they mean me. They cannot. Why should they. So I open the door in order to ask them what this was all about, which really was a big mistake. These cops are extremely nervous and excited. They interpret my move as a threat. One officer points a gun right in my face, another drags me out of the car and pushes me face down into the grass. A third one handcuffs me. That's it…

Everybody is totally excited, especially Catherine who desperately tries to convince the police officers that this is not the guy they are searching for.

"This is not my son. You got the wrong guy. Please let him go!" Catherine is extremely upset.

"Who are you?" they ask her. They pull me up from the soil, and Catherine identifies herself, explaining that the one they are most likely looking for, Paul, is her son.

"But this is not my son. This is a visitor, a friend of mine who just arrived in the U.S.!"

"Ma’am, don’t get excited, stay back and wait until we have checked his identity. If you are right with what you are saying, then there is no reason to be excited."

I am shivering. The entire neighborhood is now gaping. I tell the cops that my passport is in the jacket on the backseat of Catherine’s car. They get it, and one officer gets in his car to check my passport. Another officers talks via a phone to someone, getting information about the guy they are looking for. They are informed that Paul has tattoos on his arms. So they quickly lift my sleeves, just to see that there is nothing.

"That’s not the guy. We got the wrong one. That’s not him"

The officer checking my passport gets out and just says "Nothing. He is clean."

The officers take my handcuffs off and apologize for this.

"Well, having the usual prejudices about this country, this is pretty much what one expects to experience, isn’t it? It was a nice adventure, at least." I tell them with a broad smile on my face.

"Oh my gosh. You made it out of beleaguered Europe into the States to avoid being arrested, and I almost screwed it all up. I am so sorry for that" Catherine apologizes afterwards.

Welcome to America!

At least I know that there is nothing on U.S. records. You always have to see the positive sides of things.

The Chase has Begun

My move abroad using several diversion and distractions like game that has to deceive its hunter, took some time. A few days only after I had left England, two gentlemen appear at my official Hastings address, where I claim to live since 1997. They tell my friend Howard that they are looking for me. Howard, however, can tell them only that he does not know where I am (which is fortunately true) and that he only takes care of my incoming mail. It is strange that these two gentlemen are quite satisfied with this explanation. But perhaps they already know that they cannot expect any more details from Howard. After all, I have not committed any crime according to British law, so they cannot do anything against my operating my legal business from underground with the help of friends.

Things are quite complicated initially, however. Our new mail forwarding system is rather sophisticated for security reasons, and it takes many weeks before the mail finally reaches me. It thus happens that some requests of my customers are not being taken care of in due time, which upsets some of them. If only I could tell them under which circumstances I am forced to work!

During all this upheaval, David tries to contact me. He wants me to assess an expert report that his opponents filed for his upcoming libel suit against Deborah Lipstadt. For security reasons I had to cancel all my British internet accounts, and it took a while for me to find a way to get access to the Internet again without risking that the British or German authorities can track down the location of my telephone socket. It so happens that Irving receives my comments only briefly before he cross-examines the most important expert witness of Deborah Lipstadt, Prof. van Pelt. Irving's libel suit probably suffered tremendously due to that. Some friends suggested that this was perhaps the reason why they started that witch hunt against me at exactly this time. They wanted to cripple David Irving's means to conduct his case properly. Perhaps there is some truth to it. In an article in the Los Angeles Times of Jan. 7, 2000, Kim Murphy stated in a rather fair article about revisionism and Irving's upcoming libel suit in London that I could very well appear as an expert witness on behalf of David Irving. Maybe the thought of that made certain group panic. But who knew at that time that Irving never intended to present me as an expert witness...

On Jan. 16, 2000, right at the start of the Irving trial, Chris Hastings from the Sunday Telegraph brags about his alleged triumph of having successfully slain the evil dragon -- even if it is only an innocent, powerless young man:

"Neo-Nazi accused of ‘racial hatred’ goes on the run [...] Germany has issued an international arrest warrant for Germar Rudolf, who fled to England to escape a prison sentence for inciting racial hatred."

Not quite yet, Mr. Hastings, because the arrest warrant issued, which makes him so happy, is not the same as the actual execution of it! But the language is rather clear: a manhunt for a dissident in the "free" western world.

The manhunt turned completely into hysteria with a BBC report about Rudolf on March 28, 2000, which was repeated the day after by the south English regional TV station ITV at 23:20: Six or seven photographs of mine were shown during the report which had been taken from my website www.vho.org. The public was warned to beware of this "Nazi sympathizer". Mr. Michael Whine of the British Jewish Board of Deputies was pleased to appear before the cameras and announce that regarding me, England was dealing with a "new breed of dangerous Nazis". To understand the full extent of this witch hunt, one must realize what the British audience most likely considers to be a “new breed of dangerous Nazis”: In 1999 two severe bomb explosions in London killed many people. Most of the victims where members of colored ethnic minorities and homosexuals. The media claimed -- prematurely, as usual -- that “dangerous Neo-Nazis” where responsible for these bombs. Not even a year later, the BBC called me a “new breed of dangerous Nazis” hiding in the area of Hastings. What would the average Englishman have thought what kind of a person I am when watching this? A mass-murdering criminal running around with lethal weapons?

The local press chimed in once more with "Escaped Neo-nazi still hiding in Hastings [...] he [...] was still being hunted." (The Hastings and St. Leonards Observer, March 31, 2000). Obviously, the powers that be are striving to familiarize the local populace with my likeness and condition them to be afraid of me. It wants them to complain to the police about the desperado in their midst.

But did anyone really care? Well, on May 22, 1999, the British House of Commons felt obliged to briefly mention my case. The busy Labour member Andrew Dismore had asked the Secretary of State for the British Home Department during a session on prevention of crimes [sic!] to make a statement about my case. Although the home secretary's response was not long, it was very clear nevertheless (www.parliament.the-stationery-office.co.uk/pa/cm199900/cmhansrd/cm000522/text/ 00522w13.htm#00522w13.html_sbhd1):

“The Government are aware of the reports in some quarters that Mr. Rudolf may be in the United Kingdom. The police have also been informed of the allegations against Mr. Rudolf.”

This indicates clearly that my case had found attention in the highest circles, which assumed at that time that the police will solve that issue – with handcuffs, with what else…

Each year, the Stephen-Roth-Institute of the University of Tel Aviv compiles a report on anti-Semitism around the world. Following typical Jewish persecutorial paranoia, historical revisionism is listed in that report as well. Since the year 1999/2000, the section about German revisionism of this report is about one individual only: Germar Rudolf. For decades now, the reports of the German Agency for the Protection of the German Constitution lists historical revisionism as an act directed to undermine the German state, an outrageous claim indeed. The report of 2003 states that I am the only revisionist left over in the entire world that does any work worth mentioning: “Only […] Germar Rudolf continued his activities as before.”

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