Fleeing From England

The following essay has also been published in the appendix of my expert report.

The names of some individuals have been changed for 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 (first) 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, even had panic attacks. 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, if Britain refused to act against me. So, my 35th birthday, the first for seven 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 had announced a few days before that they would drop in the weekend after my birthday. So things weren’t all that bad after all.

It is October 15th, 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 Tony Hancock’s printing company in Uckfield, 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. Corrine Hancock, Tony’s wife, urging me to call the guys in Uckfield. For security reasons, they neither know where I live nor have my phone number. They always have to contact a third person out of any political or police focus, or Corrine, 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 from the PO Box in Hastings, and I 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 of the Cincinnati Real History Conference from end of September. That was my first public appearance since 1994 or so, and David 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 boy, and get to Uckfield 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 Crowlink settlement where I live up to the main road in Friston, 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 Friston to Jevington. 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 Jevington and further on through Filching right into Wannock, 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 the A22 towards Uckfield, 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 with speed control here. I really like it.

Half an hour later at the printers in Uckfield, Howard gives me the phone number of that Mr. 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 Tunbridge Wells”

“In Tunbridge Wells?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It just came to my mind.”

“I used to have fine lunches in Tunbridge once a month with my friend Robert. That’s now ruined, too. Oh well. And he bought that?”

“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.”

Tony 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 Tony.

“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 Southern Railways. Their number is here in the Yellow Pages.”

So I do, and it turns out that I will need roughly an hour.

“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 arrives more than an hour earlier at platform 17 or so. 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 sweat 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, extending his hand to greet 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 which I am usually portrayed 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 where I had moved. I tell Hastings 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 bye, and I pretend to go back to platform 10. But I make sure that he really leaves before going back to my train to Uckfield.

On Sunday evening I get another phone call from Corrine. 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 Hancock’ residence, and Corrine gives me the newspaper article.

“Tony tried to hide that from me,” she says.

“No, I didn’t” he intervenes.

“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 notice. “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.”

Corrine 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 to Spain, 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 hear 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 expert report, so he knew my name. I called him from Estepona at the Costa del Sol, where I lived with friends during that time, and he agreed to see me. He gave me a description of how to get to his place from Heathrow.

When I got to London in early June 1996, 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 Station 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 skills, since I led him in the wrong direction at one point, but when he took over control, he screwed up even worse, so I had to help him to get back on track. When we made it just in the nick of 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, proving that revisionists are the victims of severe societal persecution and prosecution. He didn’t want to have me as an expert witness, though, as he intended to discuss only persecution in court, but not history. I told him that I would be happy to be of service, but I never heard back from him about this matter.

“And what is this about the National Front and the British National Party?” Corrine 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,” Corrine rushes 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?”[1] Corrine 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 anybody from 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 Tony’s printing company while he was doing some printing business there, and later again as a visitor at Tony’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 some right-wing stuff, as many people are or were who turn up at Tony’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 anyone.

“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?” Corrine 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,” Tony 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.”

Corrine, Tony, and I agree to simply wait and see what would happen. In the meanwhile, my email box is overflowing with messages coming in from friends all over the world who received the Telegraph article by email. David Irving goes ballistic. He threatens that something serious will 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 the guy, 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 bandwagon and publish the Telegraph story: “Neo-Nazi,” “Racist,” “Fascist,” “anti-Se­mite.” I start hating myself for being such a devil incarnate as they portray me. How can humans be so mean to denigrate others totally without even knowing them?

My wife gets worried whether they might come and stay in the first place. 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 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 mile bicycle ride through juicy pastures full of cows and sheep, enjoying the most beautiful views over England’s most scenic costal area in the South Downs, the Seven Sisters. 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 do this tour, I feel great. Unfortunately, on Thursday before my family arrives, I get a flat tire, and so I cannot ride until this is repaired. Since I don’t want to lose time while my family is there, I postpone it until afterwards. Little did I know then that this would be the last time I would have this absolutely fantastic bicycle tour, and that I would miss this experience of nature, landscape, and my own physical strength most of all.[2]

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 Corrine:

“They have another story about you in the Telegraph. You need to see this. It’s getting 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 Stone Cross. No need for me to visit them with my family. I agree. So we pack our stuff, I drop them off at Schumacher’s and I drive down to Hancock’s place. The atmosphere in Hancock’s house is icy. No nice welcome, no smiles, no hugs as I usually get. They show me the article, and I start to read:[3]

“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 had been 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 its tradition of free speech and anti-German politics, wouldn’t bend to German orders. I was wrong.

“So what?” I ask Tony.

“We should plan ahead,” he replies.

“I figure that they are searching for me, if not now, then 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,” Tony 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 your Internet server? If they really want to find you, they will find you,” Tony objects.

“This is only a worst case scenario. I don’t think I am that important to them,” I try to calm him down.

“Germar, we can help you out of this. But, Germar, look me in the eyes,” Corrine says. There she goes again, I think.

“You know that I like you as a person,” she continues. “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,” Corrine responds. “I hate this Nazi pig Wolfgang. He destroyed your life, and he got us in trouble before.”[4]

“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 about his misbehaviors, bad manners, and mistakes.”

“What does this have to do with our problem,” Tony interferes.

“A lot, 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. Do you hear me? – 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 Tony 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’ve ever heard. Look into my eyes! If you lied to me, you are going to be in trouble, I promise you!”

That is Corrine live. It took me two years to figure out that this sort of behavior is her way of expressing positive sentiments for other people. Tony 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.” Corrine 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 Corrine’s sermon. 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 Schumachers’, and we spend the rest of the afternoon at Fort Fun in Eastbourne, which is an indoor playground. I tell my wife about the BMW, and she asks if it wouldn’t be better if she and the kids drove back in a taxi, but I insist in being their chauffeur. I try to forget the circumstances of my current existence. At Fort Fun we meet former neighbors from our time together in East Dean, including a former girlfriend of my daughter Tamara. The kids have fun together. Tamara 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. Kay, 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 of English. But Tamara remembers quickly, including the nice East Sussex accent. “Noi” they say for no, exactly the same as the Swabian do, the south-western German region where my kids grow up now. How quickly they learn, forget, and remember languages! And while the children play, the parents pretend that nothing had happened…

Around dinner time I drive the family back to Crowlink, 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 worries about me predominate. 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 closed the car door, I drive back to Uckfield. I realize only after my arrival that I forgot my wallet. Damn, the most important thing. So back I drive. 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 at Birling Gap, and walk over pastures, approaching my place from the rear. The wind is so strong that on top of the three hills of the famous Seven Sisters which I have to pass on my way, I have to bend all the way over in order to keep my balance. White balls of sea spume the size of a fist are blown up the cliffs and all over the Downs. What a perfect adaptation of weather to mood!

In the little valley into which Crowlink is nestled everything is peaceful, though. 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 are asleep already. 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 weren’t attached to your neck, you would forget that one, too, wouldn’t you?”

I smile and give her a kiss on her cheek. We agree upon a time when I would pick up her and the kids 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 nervousness 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 expects 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 Uckfield. Somehow, I am not too happy to sleep at Tony’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 Tony’s house. So I have to walk quite a bit to get there, carrying my important papers, the overnight bag, and my pyjamas, but I leave my computer in the car (which makes me nervous). Corrine 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 devices. And the blanket and pillows I get look crappy, too. But I am in no 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 opening to the back yard one can easily climb onto the roof and from there down into the yard. I really am paranoid. But only the paranoid survive…

The night passes by without any particular events, except that I don’t sleep very well. I get up very early, still before dawn. Tony 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 ought 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 Corrine. 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 Crowlink to pick up my family. When approaching the cattle grids that I have to pass to get to this remote settlement, I wonder what has become of that strange BMW. Just as I turn into the cul-de-sac leading to my place, I see it parked on 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 the lost world of Crowlink. 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 pasture anyway? So most people cannot 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 finding their own equipment…

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

“Hello Michael, 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 zoo 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 to leave toward the airport. We wait in vain for half an hour at the bus stop. In order to avoid arriving late at the airport, I decide to get a taxi to the next underground station. I take Kay onto my shoulders, a rucksack onto my back, and two luggage bags into my hands und rush ahead. My wife and Tamara have problems following my pace. I swiftly find my way through the confusing London underground system from one line to another, stairs up, stairs down, left tunnel, right tube, onto the Northern Line southbound, change at Leicester Square, stairs up, left turn, stairs down, onto the Piccadilly Line, westbound. Everything has to go fast, and I drag my totally confused family behind me who have lost their orientation. While changing to the Piccadilly Line out west toward Heathrow, my wife says in desperation:

“How do you know we are right? Where are we in the first place? I would be completely lost here if I didn’t have you.”

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

Only after we have sat down in the underground train to Heathrow, can we settle down, and I find time to explain her how the London underground system is organized and why I know my way around it. It is simply experience. On this 45 minute 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 Canary Islands. 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 U.S. 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. His leaving the country during his ongoing legal proceedings 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 recognize it at the tip of my nose when I try to hide something – Pinocchio. 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 gotten me into big, big trouble, even as an infant when dealing with my sometimes quite violent father, as my mother used to tell me.

At 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 prevent them from spotting me, as it might have bad consequences if they call my name and run over to me. It pains me to see the kids so confused.

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 takes her carry-on luggage and the kids by her hands and walks over toward the security gates. When my wife is back in the crowd of people, I join her and help her carry 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 Uckfield 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 has left me for good, there is nothing left that forces 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 managed to get an offer by a small publishing company called Theses & Dissertations Press, owned by Dr. Robert Countess, to work as their editor. I decided back then 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. Tony and I decide instead that I would simply travel to the U.S. with a visitor visa waiver. Everything else would evolve later.

Back at Tony’s place, Corrine informs me that Tony wants me to come to Uckfield to discuss things further. So I don’t hesitate a second, turn around on my heels and drive up to Uckfield. I won’t drive to Tony’s printing company directly, though. 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 Tony’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 at Heathrow?” Tony greets me.

“Not too bad. We did it fast and painless, almost.”

“Graham offered his help. You can stay with him in his house in Henfield for a couple of weeks if you like.”

“Oh, is he in?,” I ask Tony.

“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.”

Graham Jones is Tony’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 to this, 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 your 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 Graham’s residence. 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 Graham 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 at Tony’s factory, and you don’t seem to be a bad guy deserving that sort of trouble,” Graham explains.

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

“No, I have no political agenda whatsoever.”

“How then did you get involved in Tony’s printing business?”

Graham then tells me his story of how he was searching for a new job after he left a position where he had been absolutely unhappy as a professional printer. So he applied for several jobs, and one of them happened to be Tony’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?”

As harsh as this judgment sounds, it stems from Tony himself. He himself stated once, he needs an arson or a flood every once in a while in order to have a good reason to muck out his factory.

“That’s true,” replies Graham, “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.”

Now 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 Graham.

“Not really. I heard bits and pieces. Tony 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 hours telling him my story.

“But why didn’t you tell the court the entire truth about who actually did all of this, if not you?” Graham asks me toward the end.

“You mean I should have betrayed the real ‘culprit’? It was certainly stupid what he did. But if you look at it objectively, it is nothing that anyone 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 someone for something he obviously didn’t do. I assume that the court which sentenced me had a strong inkling as to who the real ‘culprit’ was. But they had no conclusive evidence against Wolfgang. What they found during the first house raid against me in September 1993 was a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing at 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 Wolfgang was a good friend of mine.

They launched a huge house search campaign against Wolfgang in August 1994. They searched eight places all over Germany where they thought he was hiding stuff. But for some strange reason, we were warned by someone inside the Bundeskriminalamt, which is Germany’s equivalent of the 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 at Wolfgang 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, would be sent to prison. That failed, too.

Make no mistake: Wolfgang 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 about what had happened with my Expert Report, then it was Wolfgang himself. But by so doing he would have incriminated himself massively, so you really cannot expect him to make such a sacrifice. Be that as it may. 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 mad 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 denounce others either.”

Graham 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 German magazine to the printer, and last but not least shutting down my second identity at the settlement I call my home. Howard is a big help there. He rents a van, and we drive all my property up to Uckfield and store it temporarily in a shipping container on the lot of Tony’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 will be that correspondence has to be forwarded in a time-consuming way.

While 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 Ryder-Smith in Jevington. John is a nice fellow of more than 70 years of age who had become a close friend of ours, especially of 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.

Graham tells me the next day that his mother will visit him at the very same weekend my siblings had originally planned to come: Hence I could not stay at Graham’s place during these days, because he would not want his mother to ask any questions. So I drive over to John’s place and tell him that my siblings will spend the upcoming weekend 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 Graham’s house for the weekend, and John won’t get worried about my collapsing world and won’t ask any funny questions…

That reminds me that I have another appointment for that weekend which I totally forgot. Marc Dufour, a French revisionist writer, wants to visit me to discuss his upcoming book Die Lüge spricht zwanzig Sprachen (The Lie Speaks Twenty Languages), which 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 placating his ire. Anyway, it had to be done.

Tony and Howard promise to get the shipping of my property going as soon as I inform them where to send it. I give Tony 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, about which I will inform him two days in advance. 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 week 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 Eastbourne.”

“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 had fled Germany that I was subject to passport control. What would happen? And idiot me told him that I live in Eastbourne. 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 was 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. It also would not be wise to leave an obvious trail 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 should be quite lax.

Graham tells me that there are tickets available at railway stations that include the ferry fare. So while doing some business in Eastbourne I go to the local train station in order 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 Graham’s place. It turns out that I indeed have to give my name and address, but I don’t have to prove 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: Michael Martin. 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 its golden beams 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.[5] 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 of November. I decide to have a last dinner in the Tiger Inn of East Dean, 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 what 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 upset 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 Graham returns from work, I tell him the bad news. He calls Tony 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 Tony’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 Graham’s place.

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

Tom Acton, the fourth guy of Tony’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 have been out of practice for over ten years now, so no wonder I couldn’t cope with him. He tells me that he is practicing secretly because Tony has been inviting him 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, Tom! I had no problems beating Tony and his friends even with the bad shape I am in now, so you will certainly beat them all!

Not giving up on searching for my passport, I decide to simultaneously 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 photos 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 Graham doesn’t have an adapter for it, so I cannot 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 tube 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 over to one of the clerks at the counter. She enters my details into her computer.

Let’s see what happens.

She hesitates, looks closely at 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 this 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, and out the door I go. You better not go back to German territory anymore, not even to an embassy! They have you in their system!

I cross the street and head for the next underground entrance. A big black limousine 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 in Brighton, I look for the first public telephone and call the embassy. I manage to get through 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 not. 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 Graham’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 call him from a public phone. 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. Graham even makes an inquiry at local police stations, asking in general for lost German IDs handed in, but not a single one has been found. It would have scared me if they had one. It could be the perfect trap. I ask Howard that he may 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 plan is 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. for 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” – Sinn 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 find a place to stay, and who wants to help me build up a new identity by guaranteeing 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 Graham’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 Graham comes home, I tell him the good news, but urge him not to tell anyone. 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, it was unfortunately real. I really was at the end of my wits. I stupidly 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 and include the passport in there. After all, I would need to have it with me all the time, not hidden in a box in Tony’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!” Graham said.

In the Land of Infinite Impossibilities

The next day, Friday the 19th Nov, 1999, Graham informs Tony 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 Eastbourne train station to get a new ticket for Dublin, and this time nothing will stop me! (Hopefully)

I meet Tony at 8 pm at an Italian restaurant in Hove. 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 from Eastbourne. I get out of Graham’s house well before he gets up. I take a different route through Alfriston, Litlington and East Dean in order to see at least a part of my beloved home 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. I hum a Carpenter song which I love while the train is leaving Eastbourne:

“I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden. Along with the sunshine, there’s gonna be a little rain sometimes.”

Well, such is life!

In the ferry port I have to hand over my luggage – just one bag – to a guy, and enter a coach. Being separated from almost everything I now possess 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 then, 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 that the ferry port is at the far south of the city, whereas the airport is in the north. I get on a bus to downtown Dublin, 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 downtown 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 one another.

At the youth hostel 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 hate to leave traces.

After eating some of my food supply, I decide to have a walk through downtown Dublin. 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 ten 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 all that easy to get a ticket for today, Sunday, the 21st, 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 haven’t said a word to anyone that I am 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 U.S. Immigration Services, then 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 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 remember from my first two times I filled in this I-94W form that it stated that one cannot be employed in the U.S. when entering the States with such a waiver, and that any adjustment is expressly excluded. But Dr. Countess insisted that he asked that lady twice, and she allegedly confirmed twice that it can be done. Anyway, I don’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 in my sweat pants 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! Hallelujah! 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 Craig Cox instead, a friend of Bob with whom I stayed already in June and September 1999 during my two lecture trips. He and his wife Suzan are certainly up at that time. But… they don’t answer the phone. I try it again, and after a while I get through.

“Hello?”

“Hi Craig, 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 exercise, 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 home shall be your home. I’ll be at the airport in half an hour. Does Bob know 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.”

Craig 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.

Craig calls Bob the next morning 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 Beetle 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 Linda Faith, 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 have been in email contact with Linda for several months while still in Britain, and I hope 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 plane ticket for the next Saturday, returning Sunday.

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

On Saturday I fly to Cincinnati, where Linda 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, Linda decides to show me her house, which she is currently trying to sell. So we get back into her car and 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,” Linda 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!”

Linda 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!” Linda 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 is 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 Linda who desperately tries to convince the police officers that this is not the guy they are looking for.

“This is not my son. You got the wrong guy. Please let him go!” Linda is extremely upset.

“Who are you?” they ask her. They pull me up from the lawn, and Linda 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 upset.”

I am shivering. The entire neighborhood is now gaping. I tell the cops that my passport is in the jacket on the backseat of Linda’s car. They get it, and one officer gets in his car to check my passport. Another officer 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 guy. That’s not him.”

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

The officers take off my handcuffs 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.

Back in the car, Linda apologizes:

“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.”

Welcome to America!

At least now 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 diversions and distractions like an animal that has to deceive its predator, took some time. A few days only after I left England, two gentlemen appear at my official Hastings address, where I have claimed 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 about the circumstances under which 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 could track down the location of my telephone socket. It so happens that Irving receives my comments only shortly before he cross-examines the most important expert witness, Prof. van Pelt. Irving’s libel suit probably suffers tremendously due to that. Some friends suggest that this was perhaps the reason why they started that witch hunt against me at exactly this time. They want 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 states in a rather fair article about revisionism that I could very well appear as an expert witness on behalf of David Irving. Maybe the thought of that made certain groups panic. But who of them knows that Irving never even 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 me 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” were 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 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:[6]

“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 has found attention in the highest circles, which assume 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 alleged 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 Constitution list historical revisionism as an act directed at undermining 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.”

Change of Scene

End of July 2000. All attempts to get a working visa in the U.S. have failed. I have left the U.S. to avoid trouble with the immigration services and have temporarily settled in Rosarito, Baja California, Mexico. I have rented a little house next to the home of Bradley Smith, head of the Committee for Open Debate on the Holocaust. From here I am planning my next move: to apply for political asylum in the U.S. It will be a desperate last attempt to get in.

During my 10 weeks’ stay in Mexico, Bradley and I become close friends. In August I book a flight to Iceland via New York. Although Iceland is only associated to the European Union, it makes me nervous to have to show my passport when leaving the airport, but nothing happens.

The wind blows cold in Iceland’s capital, chasing the clouds across the sky, and the sun struggles to keep temperatures within an acceptable range, even though it is August, just a few days after my mother’s 59th birthday. She has come to see me, together with my ex-wife and my two small children. We meet in the middle between Europe and Mexico, where the continents divide and the earth’s innermost is turned outside. By that time I have gone through an ordeal of persecution and prosecution because the powers that be could not let me get away with my knowledge and skills. And as it lies in my nature, I have not caved in, but resistance and pressure have made me even more resilient. The young student of days past has turned into a scientist of the most upsetting sort: I do my research where many powerful people do not want me to, and I publish the results of other peoples’ and my own research that many authorities want to see censored. I have decided long time ago to abandon my splendid career chances of becoming a professor for crystallography, and to pursue what I see as the greatest of all adventures instead: to boldly go intellectually where no-one has gone before, just because no-one wants to allow me to go there. Ostracized, slandered, prosecuted, sentenced, deprived of my academic title, kicked out of home, job, clubs, avoided by “friends” and even parts of my family, and finally also abandoned by my own wife, I now live abroad, on a different continent, all bridges burnt behind me. Looking back at the path of destruction my activities caused in my life, but also the havoc I have wreaked and still wreak as a one-man-show on a national as well as international level, my mother finally agrees:

“Yes, you are right, it is of tremendous relevance, but still, I cannot accept as a mother that one of my children puts itself in harm’s way.”

I am stunned by this late confession that my mother has been dishonest or misjudging:

“Now, after eight years, I have the first honest statement out of your mouth that I can accept. Was it so hard? I understand that it is the duty of a mother to keep her children out of danger, but mom, I am well over thirty now. I am responsible for myself, don’t you think? You know very well how I react when someone wants to force me to act against my will. You know me better. Whether it is my father who wanted to break my will or the German authorities that threaten me with incarceration for doubting the indubitable, it is the same thing. So why did you oppose me with these stupid dogmatic paradoxical statements? It drove me even deeper into it!”

They walk along Reykjavik’s beach promenade, and she goes on:

“I accuse myself for having raised you with this extreme moral outlook. Do you always have to be so honest and do you always have to tell the entire truth? Can’t you lie once in a while, or at least tell only part of the truth, if you know that your environment doesn’t want to hear the truth? As a boy you were always looking for a reason to understand why your father treated you so harshly and often unjustly. I told you about how he and his family were treated unjustly after the war, and I think that this is what caught your attention, looking for injustice done to your family, to your tribe, to your nation ever after. You are an extremist when it comes to justice, and you won’t stop until justice is done. I think I put you on the wrong track when blaming the unjust treatment you received from your father on him and his family having been ethnically cleansed from East Germany.”

I feel that I have to intervene; though there might be something to it, it surely isn’t all her fault.

“Until I turned 19, I had no desire to do any historical studies, not to mention research. I actually hated history at school. So I think you are basically off the hook here. This impulse came from elsewhere. It came from the East German student fraternity I was a member of, from being held back in a Czech prison, from the insights into the power games in German society using falsified German history as a weapon. And I also think that my extreme sense of justice and my sincerity and honesty, combined with my strong will, are something that lies within my nature. I do not believe that things would have turned out differently even if I had not had your Catholic morals around for most of my life.”

A few days later we part, not knowing that the next time I will see my son will be in summer 2004, and my daughter a year later, when she will be almost 11 years old.

Two months later, in October 2000, I apply for political asylum in the U.S. And this will be the last time I will ever trust authorities again.

INS # A 78 66 00 16, Case Pending.[7]

Notes

[1] A British radical right-wing group about which I know next to nothing.
[2] Until I got the chance to return to the same place in summer 2009, doing the same, well, similar tour almost every day for another year.
[3] This article and other documents connected to my persecution are posted on at www.germarrudolf.com/persecute/docs/index.html
[4] I quote Corrine using the words she actually spoke, and at the same time I distance myself from her in this regard. Wolfgang did not deserve such words. It is apparently a result of bad behavior on Corrine’s part. I apologize to Wolfgang that I did not defend his reputation during this exchange by starting a fight with Corrine. The only thing that was on my mind at that time was to save my own skin.
[5] Well, it turns out that I did return – 9 years later, to live in Eastbourne right next to these wonderful Downs for an entire year. But I never went to that particular spot in the Downs. I feared the emotions this would evoke.
[6] www.parliament.the-stationery-office.co.uk/pa/cm199900/cmhansrd/cm000522/text/ 00522w13.htm#00522w13.html_sbhd1.
[7] This case was closed in early 2006: Asylum rejected; dissident deported to Germany and promptly imprisoned, thereafter kept in custody for a new indictment, tried, sentenced and again imprisoned; finally release on July 5, 2009, but I am skipping ahead…