Diary: February 25, 2012

Real History, and a Radical’s Diary

Documents on the First

Women live throughout their lives in a constantly darkening world of self-doubt, no matter how beautiful they are. Fortunate is the man who realises that fact.

[Previous
Radical’s
Diary]

Sunday,
February 12, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

Weight is down to 104.9 kgs, another milestone passed. Thirty-two pounds down in six weeks.

1:15 p.m. we drive out to Eton in the Skoda with Paloma, Adam, and Jessica for Sunday lunch;
I pick up the Pigmobile from the White Heather garage. The smashed window has been replaced.
The engine is pretty frozen, and I drive it back with Jessica, via Eton where I have a quick coffee. Lunch sets me back around a hundred pounds using up the rest of the —‘s kind donation.

Monday,
February 13, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I’ VE been off painkillers of any kind for four or five days now. Soon I can dispense with the sticks.

My German lawyer informs me of progress on our action concerning the pirating of my
Rommel biography: “Soweit sich nichts neues ergibt, werde ich nächste Woche nochmals die Firma teamWorx anschreiben.”

I reply: “Thank you. Nächster Schritt scheint, irgendwie Einsicht ins Drehbuch zu bekommen.”

Robert Wilkins inquires:

I
have always assumed, perhaps erroneously,
that Hitler was a practicing Roman Catholic.
I have based this assumption on what he wrote
in Mein Kampf and the fact that,
unlike Himmler and Hess, he never formally
resigned from the Church. Recently I have had
this assumption challenged by several quotes
purportedly made by Hitler taken from his
“Table Talks.”

So my question to you is this, did Hitler think of himself as Christian?

I reply: “Hitler paid his Catholic church tax dues until the end. Read my book The
War Path.”

Tuesday,
February 14, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I THANK Gisela W. for sending me a link to a new article posted online by
Jae:

I
am anxious to give Jae a helping hand up, so
please give me a heads-up when you see more
of her writings. I will tacitly link to
them.

K. disagrees and screams at me; I have to admonish him: “You are like a dog chewing over an old, much-buried and disinterred, bone. . . Why on earth should I not post links to her essays, which are very much in line with our thinking?” I add a German proverb:
“Cobbler: Stick to Thy Last.”

He retorts: “It is unhealthy that you interest yourself in trawling the internet for her insane bile and then republish it.”–

I point out: “Trawling? I have never done so.
Today a Gisela — sent me the link to her latest article, which I then posted as I found it to be well written.”

IN the late afternoon I drive Paloma to Gatwick airport in the Pigmobile, now that it is legal again. On the M-25 a huge foreign truck bears down on the inside lanes, flashing at cars to get out of the way. It then comes up to within five feet behind us, and I tap the brake lights as a warning to stand back. Paloma screams hysterically . . . and is seething with rage until we get to the airport.

April
1981: In his Rolls-Royce, author David Irving
has just driven his personal assistant Wenona
Bryan (left) home to Wanstead, in East
London, where her mother greets her.

AN UNEXPECTED email brings a welcome voice from the past, Wenona B., the Black student who worked for me in the 1980s. “Hello David,” she begins,

This
is Wenona. I have been thinking about the
past and feel that I have never really
expressed my appreciation for all the help
and support you gave me back in the
1970s/1980s.

I know you have had a rough ride in recent years — in fact journalists somehow got hold of me and wanted a comment from me. (Which I didn’t give.) I think we had some contact about that at the time and then, as usual, life has got in the way.

I trust you are well and I just wanted to say thank you for your help in the past.

[ WHEN I spoke at the University of Reading in 1979 despite the usual riots,
Wenona was the student who asked the brightest question about the Nazis. She was Black, her parents being immigrants from Barbados. I offered her a summer job, and she worked for two years for me as a personal assistant, i.e. one-on-one.

[ In
1981 Wenona told me she was getting married, and invited me to hazard a guess about her husband-to-be. Yes, she then said, he is White.
I asked what his parents thought. “They have come to terms with it,” she answered cautiously.
“They accept it.” And her parents? “My mother is crying all day, and my father says he’s going to throw me out of the house.” I don’t believe he did, though. He was a simple carpenter, and the salt of the earth.

After work I sometimes drove her home to Wanstead, E. London, in the Rolls, and joked with her that people we passed probably thought I was her pimp. Those were the days.

[ I later employed personal assistants from Indonesia,
Punjab, India and elsewhere, I drew attention to this fact when Deborah Lipstadt’s counsel, Richard Rampton QC, accused me of being a “racist” in the Lipstadt Trial in 2000.

By way of retort I taunted him that I had been facing his cross examination for several days by then, and able to observe his side of the courtroom —
the multi-million-dollar Lipstadt defence team, of forty lawyers, barristers, junior counsel, solicitors, historians and their assistants, clerks and others: and I had observed that, without exception, they were all White. There was loud laughter from the public galleries.

The
Judge, Sir Charles Gray, went ballistic at this contemptuous remark about his old friend,
Rampton.]

I reply: “Let’s meet one day. How are your mum and dad? I liked them. . . I am very fit and well. How are you. Fit or fat?”

Photo:
Wenona braids the hair of Mr Irving’s then youngest daughter, Beatrice.

Wednesday,
February 15, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

” YES, I am still married,” she has replied.
“All the work you helped with for the wedding, thanks again. I have four children. They are all in their twenties now. I only have one left at
Uni. I am not fat, yet! I weigh between 9 stns and 9 and a half stones, so not fat. Although I have to keep a sharp eye on my weight. . . My mother died a few years ago but my father is still going strong.

I feel as though I haven’t achieved in the employment area and despite my husband and I working very hard we still seem to be not wealthy. But that’s
England for you. The harder you work the poorer you are.

But I am proud of my children and I don’t think I have done too bad a job there. What about your children? How are they?”

Jessica has her first driving lesson. She comes back thrilled with it.

Thursday,
February 16, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I TELL Jae’s successor at our Atlanta bookstore:

I
have here the form from the bank to get you a
credit card on the [bookstore]
account, like the one I gave Little Angel. I
will complete it and mail it to you to
sign.

Little Angel is our nickname for Jae She has been very helpful. I cook chicken Kiev in garlic for supper, much appreciated by Jessica, but the garlic rather hangs around all night after that.

Friday,
February 17, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

R. WRITES from Iowa: “If you have not discovered it, Jae has written an article for the online Occidental Observer, published Feb. 7, 2012, titled “Only Whites are
Racist in Duluth”. One may wonder if her new b.f. [boyfriend] likes this. . .”

I reply at length:

She
writes well, which is the first reason why I
offered her the job four years ago, and I
stated as much in writing to her: unlike
those of almost any other correspondent, her
letters are faultless, well composed, and
flow well.

I paid her well for the work, and
I have just topped it up with an eight
thousand dollar payment — slopping over to
her the entire “Fabergé Egg fund” I
was collecting: it was actually twice
her back pay still owing, as I know how
easily people will otherwise start
whispering, and she will need the money in
her new life as a Hausfrau.

I still have no rancour whatever toward her. . . Men are basically upright, honest, decent and true, as I often told her.
Women behave odd, and I have often rediscovered that fact throughout my life.

I am curious about whether she has discovered the flaws in her wealthy new acquaintance yet. . . I am sure she will fare better. After her two false starts with others, I really hope so.

He said to me early on that he was “one of us,” and admired The Cause, whatever that is. But he is also scared of losing his job, whatever that is, too. . .

He will find that he joined the ranks of the
Undead as soon as he started dating her. His name will already have found its way onto countless Lists and Indices. It is rather like being bitten by a vampire; or is it a werewolf? I get confused.

Yes,
Lighthouse Literature is her online bookstore. . . I wish her well with it.

Saturday,
February 18, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I wrote to Wenona:

If
you look back two or three weeks in my
Radical’s Diary you will see a recent pic of
my youngest, Jessica (just 18). The oldest,
Josephine, took her own life in 1999, God
rest her soul. Never a day passes but I think
of her.

She replies: “I hope she didn’t suffer too much. . . Have you had a second family then? Robert Harris is doing very well for himself. You introduced him to me at your book launch. Of course he was always heading for greatness, don’t you agree?”

Sunday,
February 19, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

A CUSTOMER tells me that our bookstore no longer allows the use of PayPal. But it does. I investigate.

In the evening I begin restructuring my
Spring US tour. I also delve into the Admin of the bookstore and find that all the payment options except credit cards have somehow been disabled, which explains why PayPal was not being accepted.

Monday,
February 20, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

A SMUG text comes from B. at two p.m.: “Just had a . . . rather elderly gentleman who was getting into a black Bentley outside the Motcomb telling me that I was a very beautiful and elegant lady and that it would be his pleasure to take me out for dinner! I didn’t know what to say so just said, ‘Thank you, you are very kind,’ and walked off. Why oh why did I not accept?”

I am sure it has made her day. (Albert would disagree: he says women are highly offended by such episodes).

I interrupt Himmler to reply at once:
“Run after him. He is not blind.”

“Too late. He drove off. Mind you, I am sure
I have seen the car there before. I think he is one of the regulars at the Motcomb. Never mind, it cheered me up no end.”

Women live throughout their lives in a constantly darkening world of self-doubt, no matter how beautiful they are. Fortunate is the man who realizes that fact.

REMARKABLE how fast the human body recuperates from savage surgery. Today I find I can for the first time in five or six years, i.e., since confined for a year or more in a solitary
Vienna prison cell at the expense of the
Austrian taxpayers, tie the laces of my right shoe.

A Hoosier [citizen of Indiana] sends me a link. I reply: “Thanks –. No word on our
Little Angel in Australia yet I suppose?. . .
Wonder how many friends she has lost. Rather sad, really.”

A large fillet steak for supper. Too much.

Beryl
Irving’s sketch of David Irving’s father, in the
1920s. Copyright © the Estate of Beryl
Irving.

AFTER supper Beatrice [fourth daughter] emails me from [my daughter] Brisbane, Australia, that she has completed a webpage commemorating my Mother’s life and work as an artist and illustrator. “I finally got around to creating the berylirving.com
website.”

I have a look at it, and it is wonderfully done. Well, that is her professional job, of course, she is a web designer.

She contacts me then by Skype:

David
Irving: I am just looking at it, Beattie,
and it has brought tears to my eyes. Well
done, you little rascal. What a super
tribute. I will send you some more photos
which I scanned from my brother’s big
album.

Beatrice:
Thanks, I am really happy with it.

Left me
feeling a bit depressed the other day after
spending a few days looking at all her
wonderful artwork, am sad I never met her,
she must have been an amazing
person.

David
Irving: She was very patient with us, and
I cried for days after she died [in
October 1965].

Beatrice:
Well judging from all the sketches she did of
all of you and the animals, not to mention
the observations she made in her articles,
she must have been an

exceptional
mother.

David
Irving: I am so glad that the many hours
I spent scanning those sketches have found a
use as wonderful as this. . . How
many high grade scans of Dawnchild
artwork do you have? We are looking at a
commercial reissue of the book, if Auntie
Carol does not throw spanners in the works,
and Nicky too. . .

Beatrice:
. . . Lots of people I think would
like to see it published again.

I have
purchased some of her other books so that I
can scan the illustrations and post them on
the site. Eventually I will put them into
some sort of sorted order with captions and
credits. Roger, by the way, read the
Dawnchild
to our kids and they absolutely loved it,
especially James who would ask every night
for more.

David
Irving: I will mail a CD to you with all
the photos I scanned from John’s huge
glued-in album in the month before he
died. . .

Remember Jaenelle, who
worked for me in Lake End House? A paunchy
but wealthy Australian guy from Melbourne has
scooped her up and will probably marry her
later this year. I am devastated. She is in
Melbourne right now with him. I suppose
something like that was inevitable. . . but I
guess I am happy for her. ** sulk
**

Beatrice:
Congrats to Jaenelle, and commiserations to
you!

Tuesday,
February 21, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I TELL Hugo, who is returning to England: “I will be at the airport to meet you. White car.
Washed the bird-poo off it yesterday. Boy, that stuff is tenacious. What are they eating?”

Wednesday,
February 22, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

FROM four p.m. to 5:20 p.m. coffee with B. at the
Cadogan. As flirtatious and beautiful as ever.
She is great fun. She chats happily about the elderly gent with the Bentley; I suggest she prepare various blonde chat-up lines ready for the next time she sees him — “Is that a Rolls?” would work, it would get straight through to a
Bentley-owner; and “I’ve never been in one of those.”

She says it was one of the latest Bentleys, in his sixties, she would guess. Sounds elderly to me.

She asks if there is any word on Jae I describe how she appeared in the Marriott hotel in Warsaw at our group’s final dinner in
September and sat next to the Australian wearing the thousand-dollar diamond pendant he had given her, which rather wrecked the mood; and she remarks that it was “very unfeeling” of her . . .

Perceptive indeed. — She has not been wearing her ring for some time because a couple of stones have shaken out of it. She asks if I can get it repaired, and I said of course, I will do that. We are coming up to a twentieth anniversary.

Somebody evidently intends pirating my Morell research for a BBC television documentary. . . Can he see the tufts of
Hitler’s hair that I have? Can they use samples to test? Are the roots still on them? I leave him on ice.

Jessica now says that F.’s parents have forbidden her to come to Spain with us. I ask why, and she says, “Because of you, your views.”
I say, “But they don’t know my views.” She says:
“They are Guardian readers.” Nothing wrong with The Guardian, methinks, it is one of my favourite papers too; but I say: “We have no objections to your being exposed to their views. So who are the bigots!”
Precisely, says Jessica.

I feel a bit sorry for her, as F. — the school’s Head Girl now — is one of her best friends.

Thursday,
February 23, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I plunge into Himmler chapter 23.

Andrew S. writes from a cold Berlin:

I
want to understand Himmler and you’re the
only historian who I think can do that. I
remember you mentioning once that
Ian
Kershaw
wrote to you, claiming that his German wasn’t
good enough to testify at your trial. You
might be interested in this
video
where he speaks at length, and off the cuff,
in German without any problems.

His accent is
far from perfect but he can obviously get his
point across so either he’s vastly improved
or was simply lying about his grasp of the
language when he wrote to you.

I reply:

I
wrote him in 1999 asking if I could call him
as a witness [at the Lipstadt Trial]
on the meaning of words in German in the
Third Reich, and how they differed from
modern meanings. He replied that his
knowledge of German was too inadequate, so I
did not press him further.

I write to Beatrice: “I have already had five emails congratulating us. Thanks for the masterpiece, Beattie. Proud of you.”

Seconds later Beatrice replies from
Australia: “I thought you had added a link, the analytics page showed more than a 190 visits in one day. Also, someone sent me an email with some portraits of you, will forward shortly.”

I prepare a list of questions for the orthopaedic consultant who performed the operation.

Two pm at the hospital for his final check-out. Physio Jill puts me through more gruelling exercises. Then the consultant, and up onto his couch. He pounds, pummels, and twists my left leg, and pronounces everything perfectly healed and full mobility restored.

“Yes,” I say, “now try the right leg — the one you operated on.” Loud laughter.

Friday,
February 24, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

MY German lawyer has drafted a wonderful four-page reply to the Munich authorities, which has to be in their hands today. He will fax it to them immediately, on my say-so. I thank him:
“Bitte sehr. Ich habe diese mit Genugtuung gelesen, wie immer bei Ihren fabelhaft formulierten Schriftsätzen. Ich danke
Ihnen.”

I tell Beattie: “More high praise for your work, Beatrice” from Robert M. in
California:

Please
accept our thanks (and pass them on to your
daughter Beatrice), for the enchanting online
display of your mother’s artwork. Fanny and I
really enjoyed them.

I thank him at once:

Thank
you so much, Robert. My mother died over
forty-five years ago, and you can imagine how
pleased and proud I was when Beatrice last
week sent me that website to look at. .
.

Having said which, I was never hugely happy that she had moved to Brisbane. But she found a fine
Australian man to marry, and that is going to last and last. She has two beautiful
Australian children, and is an Australian citizen and civil servant.

When reminded of this, [your prime minister] John
Howard (left) told your parliament, “I don’t care that this gives Mr Irving the automatic right to enter Australia, we’ve changed the law once to keep him out” — the
Immigration Act, introducing a new “bad character” criterion! — “and we will change it again if necessary.” Is your Government in
“their” grip, or isn’t it!

Yes, that ban was imposed in February 1992, twenty years ago this month. Ah, the great freedom-loving democracies! Gerry Adams,
I.R.A. murderer and terrorist: “good character,” allowed to tour Australia since then; David
Irving, British historian and author of thirty well reviewed books, “bad character”, permanently banned.

Saturday,
February 25, 2012
Kew,
London (England)

I SPEAK this afternoon on Winston
Churchill and the efforts of MI6 to drag the
United States into World War II. Searching for my file of supporting documents, I ask K.: “I am racking my brains — where did I last speak on this same topic? It was within the last six months, and for the life of me I cannot recall.
Was it UK or USA?”

Then I recall: “It was the boat cruise in
November, I recall now” — the one where I had
Jae selling books at my “amphibious” lecture on the Potomac.

How essential she always was to me: I find this exchange in my diary for September 10 when we were in Kraków:

Jae is relentless; after all, she is
running a big bookstore for us now: “If we
sat down and totaled it up, I think you’d
find my actual basic necessities are more
than yours at present.”

“Ah,” I respond, “but you can’t just
count them in money. I need advice, wisdom, a
steadying hand, firm counsel, and a good
brain with which to commune. You provide all
these things free.

For all the rest there’s
MasterCard™.”

She has the last word: “Actually, I
charge you per day for those things,” and
adds a Smiley face.

2:45 p.m. we get to the West End location three-quarters of an hour late because of the
Hammersmith Flyover problems, which I had forgotten. We have only fifteen minutes before the function is due to begin. People are already crowding in. Helping hands whisk our half ton of boxes upstairs. Many congratulations on the total defeat of The Limp and much else. People notice I have lost much weight. But it will be some time yet before I can run a triathlon or climb mountains.

Perhaps I can enter for the
Tchaikovsky Prize at the Moscow Conservatoire, like my old friend the late John Ogdon
(he won it jointly with Vladimir
Ashkenazy: Guess which winner got the bookings); but I’d have to learn the piano first.

The room fills, more chairs have to be carried in from the balcony, from next door and from downstairs until over sixty or seventy are packed in, in front of, next to, and behind me.
We’ll need a larger room next time.

Michele Renouf wants to film, I groan and allow it, although I tell her it greatly inhibits what I feel safe to say.

She is incorrigible. We really must point out on our ticketing pages that filming and recording are not allowed without advance permission. My talk on how Churchill and MI6
tricked the United States into World War II goes well. I cite the material which Prof.

Thomas Mahl used at our 2002
Cincinnati weekend — for which he was heavily disciplined by his own university and directed to break off all contact with us; and I show them Chaim
Weizmann‘s three-page September 10, 1941
letter to Churchill, in which the Jewish
Agency leader promised that if treated nicely by
Britain the Jews could drag the United States in: “We did it before, and we can do it again,” he said, referring to their success in World War
I.

Finally I dwell on how we withheld forty-eight of the vital
MAGICS, the decodes of
Japanese diplomatic messages, from the American
Intelligence service because of a mid-level spat between them and our MI6 pointman in Washington,
Captain Eddy Hastings.

K. mans the books table and Hugo the entrance, clocking people in and out and collecting all the entrance money. Several folks have come from
Europe for the event. Marcus G. has come from
Germany, and a bright young man from Bad
Pyrmont. Arthur L. has come from Eindhoven,
Holland. We sell all the “Churchill’s War”, vol. ii: “Triumph in Adversity” which I brought with us. . . They all plead for me to come back soon.

AFTERWARDS I invite Hugo and K. to supper at The
Swan. There are four members of our Poland
“Wolf’s Lair” tour group there, so the conversation soon drifts on to Jae and her wealthy Australian acquisition. Anthony L-W. sits next to me, solemn and serious as always; he mentions that he received a disturbing email from her around Christmas, saying she was un-friending everybody who was on our trip, because somebody had leaked something from her
Facebook page.

Tony was quite hurt by the accusation.

Update,Tuesday,
February 28, 2012

READING this, businessman Chip L. of Richmond,
Virginia, who hosted us in his home three times and organised two well-attended dinners in Virginia, reveals:

“I was also
‘defriended’ on Facebook by . . .
Jae I would have thought our hospitality counted for more than that. . . No great loss.”

HOW
MANY MORE OLD FRIENDS did Jae dump to humor the Interloper, as she once called him. The power of money!

It is untrue, and I told him so. One of her
Hoosier friends had sent me something about Jae,
knowing we are pals, that was all.

Tony adds: “I was not prepared to be
un-friended by her, so I cut off my
‘friending’ to get it in first!”

Graham G. leans across him and says, “She
never sent that email to me.” Then he
realises, “But I am not on Facebook.”

Facebook: It sounds like an invitation to murder, it ends friendships all round at the drop of a hat, and most for no reason. It caused
Hugo the most intense problems with his sister, a charming lady, because of what it revealed two years ago about her husband.

As for Jae: I often wonder how she is doing?
I do hope her dreams in Australia are coming true, or most of them. I have now received twenty or thirty emails from her former friends.
That email to Tony wasn’t exactly spreading
Christmas cheer. I urge them all to bear with her, as this is a turbulent time, and she is a lovely person. This . . . behaviour is
. . . slowly eroding the fine reputation she had won among conservatives.
[—] has a lot to answer for.

We leave around 7:45 p.m. God, some folks are slow eaters.

Back at Kew, I turn in at nine-thirty, as the television is showing war movies on the History
Channel. Having been writing on World War II all morning, and spoken on it all afternoon, I think my belly is full.

[Previous
Radical’s
Diary]

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For
lovers of art: a brilliant new website
commemorating the life, art, and works of
David Irving’s mother, a professional
illustrator, by her granddaughter,
Beatrice

Jaenelle Antas writes: “Only
Whites are Racist in Duluth”

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