Diary: September 28, 2012

Real History, and a Radical’s Diary

bj
Documents on the First
I
say, You mean they like partying? Hugo
frowns and observes drily, Clearly
you’ve never ridden a
horse.

[Previous
Radical’s
Diary]

Wednesday,
September 5, 2012
London,
England

WE ARE planning our journey to Belgium. Kevin says: “I think take the Range
Rover just in case.” I reply: “Pity, the Bentley would be nicer.” He says: “We could take the
Bentley but we would need to be 100 percent certain of no trouble and have somewhere suitable to park it.” But he agrees: “Better to have you arrive in the Bentley.” “Better than the Pigmobile, perhaps.”

Thursday,
September 6, 2012
London,
England

JUNK for supper, because cash is running low.
Outbid last night unfortunately on the printer/reader microfilm-carrier; some guy offered two dollars more than I did. Perhaps it was even the seller himself. I write to him:

I
am sorry to see that I was marginally outbid.
Unfortunately being in the UK the time-zone
difference made it impossible to watch the
item.

10:57 a.m to my Polish publisher: “No sign of the money arriving in the account yet and it is now six days late. Without authors there are no books!”

WE are frantically searching for somebody to provide a 25,000-euro guarantee, a court-required bond, to enable us to serve our
Potsdam injunction on the German film company which has plagiarized my
Rommel biography.

My lawyer asks: “Have you a major sponsor up your sleeve?” — Well, yes, but only for real emergencies. I reply: “Only three more that I can approach, and I am doing so one per day — I approached a second one today.”

Friday,
September 7, 2012
London,
England

MANFRED S. cannot assist, as the lawyer has already told me, but hints at a contribution.

With some thought I tell him:

I
fully understand. You were the first of four
that I have written to, and I do not expect
the others, who have all been generous in the
past, to answer differently. Lawyers have a
very unrealistic expectation about other
people’s assets.

I cannot possibly put up such a bond, and it was very dubious that I could arrange one in the short time available. It is an iniquitous system when fighting wealthy corporations. I had it before, in Pittsburgh ten years ago, but then it was $10,000 “by midday tomorrow”.
I managed to make the payment, in cash, in the Allegheny County courthouse by the deadline. (It was an injunction against an exhibition promoter who came under Jewish pressure to evict me from the exhibition.

The
Jewish judge found in my favour.)

When
I finally ended the action, I got the bond back — minus a 200-dollar penalty for having made it in cash! And without any added interest, either. Crooks, the whole bunch.

I do not underestimate the kindness of my friends in keeping this going as long as it has —
twenty-one years now.

Then, unexpectedly a shimmer of light reaches me from [Capetown]: “Send me the phone number of your lawyer. Regards, U.”

BILL Cox
asks:

In
Denver last spring you mentioned that Picasso
didn’t paint his “Guernica” (right) to
commemorate the German bombing. Last summer I
went to a Picasso presentation at the art
museum and afterwards told the presenter
that. She demurred. This evening I sat next
to her at a party and at the end she
mentioned I’d said something rude to her at
her Picasso presentation.

She said I was
wrong, she had history books that said it was
about the German bombing and she wanted to
bet on it. I went along with this all the way
up to $10.

I reply: “The Picasso sketchbooks for the (hideous) ‘Guernica’ painting are on display in the Prado Museum in Madrid or the museum next door to it. The first sketches for the famous painting are made in his 1936 sketchbook. The
Spanish civil war did not start until that summer, and Guernica was bombed in April 1937.
To my untrained (!) eye it is clearly a bullfight depiction. Have a look at my dossier on the air raid and painting.”

Saturday,
September 8, 2012
London,
England

HUGO announces he’s off to Spain on Monday for five days. This evening I speak here in
London’s West End. I send the standard refusal note to one applicant, L.C. I hope thereby to have flummoxed the opponents — if he is one. A lengthy exchange with him begins.

Meanwhile a male caller, with an educated and well-modulated voice, wants to be told this evening’s location. I ask why he has not registered properly. “I want to be discreet,” he splutters. I say, “To whom am I speaking?”
Answer, again: “I want to be discreet.” He says he got the details from my website. I did not ask him how he got the phone number, perhaps I should have. He has withheld his own.

Why can’t I tell him the location, he persists? I say, “I want to be discreet.“

He gives up. — I deduce that L.C. was their mole, and they are now scraping.

Emails from G. in Peru continue all evening.

Sunday,
September 9, 2012
London,
England

I EXPLAINED to L.C., who is still persistent:
“I have to vet all unknown applicants pretty closely.” We had a fine function, standing room only — but without him.

He has replied overnight: “Fair enough. I’ll try again next time. I have to admire a guy who has been through the wringer.”

I tell the Belgians who have invited me to speak: “I will come with my driver by car. I will return the same night to England.”

Andy K. writes: “Recently returned from
Germany where I visited our mutual friend D.”
[Günther Deckert].

I reply: “He suffered badly for
chairing a meeting I spoke at, twenty years ago. Seven years in jail.”

“Yes, and as you know, he now is facing another imprisonment, subject to appeal.” — “He is very incautious.”

Monday,
September 10, 2012
London,
England

A WHALE of a fan letter reply from Tasmania, eighty lines long, and 1,193 words, which once again illustrates the folly of ever replying to fan mail, as Rolf Hochhuth once warned me:

I
am a recent convert to what is called
Historical Revisionism. Formerly, I held
firmly to all the official myths that control
all discourse relating to World War 2 in our
so called democratic and free Western
societies.

All
I knew about you was from the one single book in our Hobart City Library about you and historical revisionism, and that book was the one by your old friend (right)
Deborah Lipstadt, Defending
History: an account from her point of view of the trial that took place involving yourself. I glanced at it, and presumed that you were some kind of Neo Nazi, Jew hating, racist person who absolutely hated the Jewish people.

That was the impression I got from
Miss Lipstadt’s book.

I am ashamed that I had such thoughts about you, for I now have great respect for you. .
.

The thing that opened my mind to the truth of historical “revisionism” was the simple act of watching various videos on You
Tube.

In the future I intend to purchase more of your books, and to recommend them to others.

(That is a much shortened version of what is a very personal and interesting letter, about the Germans’ self-hatred and other phenomena.)

THE new microfilm printer-cartridge comes, and after some bafflement I get it working. I have another in storage in the USA, but so far as I know it is illegal to carry them now by air.
Indirectly, we have Israel, as usual, to thank for that ban.

Jessica is out working all evening; I hear her come back in quietly, after I go to bed.

Tuesday,
September 11, 2012
London,
England

NO sales during the night. The time is approaching to clone the US online bookstore and make a UK version. It still being the summer, donations, book sales, and registrations have virtually collapsed.

I send a rather urgent reminder to U. in
Capetown. The court’s deadline for posting the bond is fast approaching. Why is he now silent?
I fear the worst. It is after all a substantial sum we are asking people to put up:

If
you have decided [I write him] not to
contact my German lawyer about the
Sicherheitsleistung, I will understand
of course, but please inform me today as I
shall have to rack my brains for some other
solution, and as a matter of honour I can not
approach more than one friend at a time on
this. If we leave it more than a few days
longer, the German film production company
will get away with their theft by default.
Es ist eine Terminsache.

A
Swedish reader writes: “During the summer I’ve read your biography Göring and I wondered about Heinrich Himmler being invited to hunt at Carinhall. The mainstream picture of
Himmler (and Hitler) has always portrayed them as opponents of hunting. Himmler is even quoted equaling hunting and ‘murder’.”

I reply: “Himmler certainly enjoyed hunting.
Gamsbock was one of his 1935 targets, the chamois deer. It surprised me too. I do not think he ever [personally] killed a human being however!” — unlike Winstson
Churchill, see his memoir, My Early
Life.

Biting the bullet, I also write to Macmillan
Publishers in London, their publishing director
Will Atkins, “Re: publishing David Irving again.”

Macmillan
and (Papermac) published and republished many
of my books, which were all highly praised
before I withdrew the final one, my biography
of Dr Joseph Goebbels, from you in
1992 during the unfortunate reign of
Roland Phillips as editor. My
much-admired Macmillan editors in the past
were Adam Sisman and Alan
Samson.

Now that my writing career, and my life of somewhat infamy, are approaching the amber traffic-lights, I am preparing three final works, and have indeed written them, and I would be happy if Macmillan considered eventually publishing the third of them, diffidently penitent memoirs.

The other two are Churchill’s
War, vol. iii: “The Sundered
Dream,” and a biography of SS-chief Heinrich
Himmler, architect of the Holocaust, on which I have been working for fifteen years, with exclusive access to former KGB files and his private papers. (I was quite shocked that
Sisman went ahead with the Peter
Padfield work on Himmler, which was very inferior and ill-researched, and I told him so.)

Several chapters of the memoirs relate my exploitation of all Adolf Hitler’s surviving staff, now long-dead, whose confidence I had won over the years. (Macmillan kindly republished my flagship biography
Hitler’s
War, which still sells very well elsewhere after
Philipps ordered all copies destroyed on July
6, 1992 — “the author is not to be informed”).

I am attaching one draft chapter of the memoirs, concerning Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect and arms minister. Let me know if you’d like to see more. I’ve not approached anybody else yet.

I am exceedingly un-optimistic about the response. “Diffidently penitent”? — I should have written: “defiantly unrepentant”.

I WRITE to Hugo, who is now in Germany: “I’ve had a quick shufti at your easel, and bought the carpenter’s glue today, but we cannot go ahead with gluing anything until we have all the components. I think there is at present a wooden cross-strut missing, a bottom-strut, about 18
inches long with a tenon at each end, and a mortice socket in the middle.

It is identical, I think, to the top strut you have, so if you have lost the other we can easily get a clone made (I think there’s a shop in Poland Street which will do it).”

Andrew Ll. has bought the new edition of
HW:

An
extraordinary work, been reading your work
since high school. Just finished the original
edition Hitler’s War and can’t wait to read
the updated, revised version.

Wish your DVD was four hours instead of two, it’s another amazing product with outstanding music selection.

Nice, but a bit over the top, methinks.

I COMPLETE reading two more of the KGB microfilms today — these two were rather mundane, mostly printed items, but for the sake of completeness it has to be done.

Wednesday,
September 12, 2012
London,
England

I REPEAT the original message to U. about the bond we have to post, and now to Count V. also, and inform my lawyer to this effect:

I
have just approached a third benefactor,
Count V. He lives abroad but probably has a
suitable German account. he gave me fine
support particularly when I was a political
prisoner in Vienna.

Writing Himmler all morning, finally exploiting more of my handwritten Vienna prison draft pages. Some are quite useful! Later I spend an hour or two meanwhile rummaging in the online bookstore’s code, and converting the frontpage image into an image-map.

Thursday,
September 13, 2012
London,
England

ERIC F. picks up on my GPS “scrambling” issue
[Previous
Radical’s Diary]: “Perhaps your
GPS travails are caused by scrambling — but I doubt it. Along a certain route through downtown
Seattle, a straight south-to-north run through the city, my Garmin system puts me into an inexplicable loop. I have many times noted the
‘arrow along the highway’ phenomenon, as well as ghost restaurants in the middle of cornfields, etc.”

I reply:

Thanks
Eric. Glad to hear I was not imagining the
GPS scrambling. The episode in Iowa was
hilarious, but could have been bad:
Mississippi in full flood. It’s three a.m.,
and we are searching for a hotel. GPS Arrow
begins to wander, and we follow it, until it
starts going across open countryside, then we
stick to the road, which gets narrower and
narrower until we are at the end of the legal
road. It continues as a country track to the
right, along the flooded river-bank.

The
river is rising, and suddenly we are sinking
into the mud. The heavy-loaded Expedition
sinks to its metal floor-pan, the wheels spin
uselessly. Gabriela (my then assistant,
right), in full party dress, offers to
get out and push, and takes off her high
heels. Regrettably I did not let her, saying
she would sink in to her knees.

I often fantasize about what she would have come out looking like if I had accepted her offer and let her push, while gently tapping the throttle at full mud-spin. Alas I am a gentleman.

My gaze then caught sight of a button marked
2/4. We were a four-wheel drive. That saved us, and I rocked us to and fro and drove free
— with half a ton of stinking Mississippi mud, and boy!, does it stink, clinging to the bottom. It went rock hard over the next few days inside the brake assemblies. Had to have it all manually removed. Thankyou,
GPS.

I have found out how to get into the
HTML of every page of the bookstore, so I can begin to tweak things. I ask
Australia (Ken Grundy) to ship two boxes of
“Churchill’s War”, vol. i: “Struggle for Power” up to Atlanta by air.

Friday,
September 14, 2012
London,
England

KEN gives me horrific prices for getting the two boxes to Atlanta for this tour. Total shipping cost will be $980. Nearly a thousand dollars. Thirty books would sell for around
1,200 dollars. I reply:

Thanks
Ken. It would be cheaper to fly you to
Atlanta with the package! Please investigate a cheaper route.

TO
PILAR in Madrid I send birthday greetings for today (her seventy-fifth?). [Left: Pilar as she was when I married her]. She always told me she was a year older than I, but
Paloma says it was actually two.

In the evening I have a lengthy conversation with U. in Capetown, who calls me: He will deposit something with [my lawyer], I am not sure if it will be the entire amount that we need, 25,000 euros, or whether we must find another backer too. We are nearly out of time. I said I am sure the enemy is hoping we cannot raise the funds to post the bond. He thinks there will be a terrific hoo-ha once it becomes known.

Saturday,
September 15, 2012
London,
England

I RETIRE to bed around eleven pm after completing another KGB microfilm, one film per day.

Sunday,
September 16, 2012
London,
England

UP AT crack of dawn, because Hugo returns today — except that he doesn’t. I drive to
Heathrow, I wait there for an hour, and am back at the flat at nine-forty. No sign of him, and he does not call my phone.

“I was at Terminal Three at the appointed hour this morning,” I tell him, “teeth brushed and shoes shined, and waited over an hour. . . moved on several times by the police. . . no Hugo. Was it the wrong day?”

Hugo confesses:

Er,
sorry, yes. I am arriving tomorrow
Monday at eight am. I am most terribly sorry,
David. Pease don’t go out the aerodrome again
on what might be yet another wild goose
chase.

RELIEF, short-lived! It turns out that Count V. has agreed two days ago to contribute the amount needed to bridge the remaining gap for the
German court bond. But then, when we press for details, I get this message from his staff:

For
your information: Count V. is in hospital and
will not be available until the end of the
week at the earliest.

Ouch. The drama continues. What next? Chicago
W.? The Sheikh? Those are my rarest, most precious friends and contributors. — Dare I throw them into this mince-machine?

I DON’T know who posts these videos on
YouTube but a lot of people are getting the wrong end of the stick.

Monday,
September 17, 2012
London,
England

MY fearless champion on Wikipedia, Thomas
Holzel, reports: “David —

I
had been banned for life on Wikipedia (again)
by a rabid Zionist who took over shepherding
this ban when Jayjg mysteriously
disappeared once again. But the ban has been
lifted — once again — by (anonymous)
editors. So I notice significant forward
progress on your bio, with many more new
protestors jumping in to defend your
reputation.

I spend the first hour of the afternoon writing to Chicago W.

Michael […] complains that Kansas
City has vanished from my itinerary, and he bought two tickets. A check shows he’s right, and that somehow I omitted to put him on the list.

Tuesday,
September 18, 2012
London,
England

KEVIN points out a snag about our coming journey to Belgium: “We will have to use the
Bentley-Turbo if we do Eurotunnel as they won’t take the Range Rover due to its LPG conversion
— even if the tank is empty they won’t let it on. You will need to be very sure that security and parking are appropriate.”

I contact the organisers in Ghent. I am beginning to think I should be taking the
Pigmobile.

I spend the evening booking locations for the
US tour. Advance registrations are still well down.

Wednesday,
September 19, 2012
London,
England

I INFORM my lawyer that I have now approached a fourth prospect, Herr X in Bad Pyrmont, and that I will phone Chicago W this afternoon. I can’t do it earlier because of the time difference.

Then I drive out to J&R Engineering in
Slough to discuss the problem of the blue exhaust-smoke when the Pigmobile engine starts.
The Sikh guy checks it visually, cannot diagnose a fault, says a piston-ring repair or rebore would cost far more than 500 pounds, so it’s not worth it. The van still runs okay, but she eats oil.

I find that Hugo has tipped a box of four-year-old teabags into my new PG Tips
[a popular brand of English tea].
The resulting taste is foul, and I have to jettison the lot.

An email comes from a stranger: “I have a round object, looks like a large pie pan. Heavy.
Given to us by two women in Pennsylvania years ago. After they gave it to us, they wanted to buy it back for $500. Claimed it was from
Hitler’s Gardens in Burgettstown.”

I reply: “Probably that is actually
Berchtesgaden? Send me a photo and I will give you an opinion.” — She never does.

I bake some cod fillets for Jessica and Hugo for supper and earn their praise.Jeckeln,
Himmler and Karl Wolff

Thursday,
September 20, 2012
London,
England

I AM coming round to a strange realisation from my study of the Amt II files on the
Moscow films: there is a lot of Heydrich-down material, but very little Heydrich-up, i.e.,
Himmler was for one reason or another not being kept rigorously informed or consulted. I wonder how far into the war that persisted?

It puts a different complexion on the
November 30, 1941 10pm intercept, where Himmler berates SS Obergruppenführer Friedrich
Jeckeln for carrying out the Riga massacre of
German Jews, and “far exceeding the
Richtlinien” given him by Himmler and the
RSHA, i.e., Heydrich; and he threatens
Jeckeln with disciplinary measures if he exceeds them again.

But on mature thought, it was very much within the guidelines issued by
Heydrich, so the intercept may indicate that
Himmler was unaware of them? — I lecture Hugo, who spends all day watching WW2 documentaries and contaminating his brain (rather as he contaminated my PG Tips), you have to have a very blank sheet in your brain, otherwise you cannot arrive at startling conclusions which are compelled by the real available evidence.

Watching a film on the Canadian cavalry slaughter in the Battle of Moray Wood (in WW1)
Hugo explains, “Horses like being in a cavalry charge.” I say, “Pure speculation, like when you tell me what J. is thinking and doing.”
He says that when horses get together it is difficult to control them as “they all want to gallop in a herd.” I say, “You mean they like
partying?” Hugo frowns and observes drily, “Clearly you’ve never ridden a horse.” He is wrong.

More YouTube. This comes from San Antonio,
Texas:

I
want to write this to you to try and thank
you for the relief and “light” that you have
brought to my life. Even now I weep writing
this. Even though I am only sixty years old
and did not live during the Nazi or WWII
period, I have carried, deeply evidently, a
burden about it, being that I am of German
descent on both sides of my family. My
mother’s father had six brothers, of whom
five were in WWII on the American side, one
who was machine gunned.

I, like many others, have been intrigued, mystified, and without question harmed spiritually by the “official”story of this period. I found your material and some others quite by accident. I had decided to make a study of the Nazi period because I wanted to see how an enlightened people could find themselves going down the path they did. I began looking for a biography of Hitler to read. When I found reviews of your book, I decided to get it.

Then
I started listening to your talks on YouTube, reading Thomas Dalton’s book, etc, etc. I found myself walking between the legs of an elephant. An amazing experience. I am going to read your other books also as my journey continues. I just can’t thank you enough for your honesty, hard work, diligence, and steadfastness. I will be praying for you and will be sending support. May God Bless you and keep you.

Then I find that a Matthew P Gill has written this: “Books like Grey Wolf do real historians no favours. I am in the middle of reading “Hitlers War.” Great book, great read, I am so thankful that you have been able to bring real facts out and tell them the way they really are. This is one 34 year old who is already a great fan of your work and shall be teaching my son real facts about WW2, thanks again for all your great work. KBO” — Keep b*ggering on.

I TELL my lawyer that Chicago W. is good for the entire balance we need, but now it’s a technical problem as she is not at her phone right now.

I remind him, “I’ll be in Belgium all day tomorrow, speaking to university students.” I add that perhaps Mr U will go the whole way for us, when he sees how hard we have been trying elsewhere.

Herr X replies from Pyrmont that he will do it, but would like to chat with the lawyer first. Almost at once he sends bad news: After talking with his bank, it will take at least four days and the cash needed is tied up elsewhere. I forward the message to the lawyer:
“Not very good news for literally the eleventh hour.”

Friday,
September 21, 2012
London,
England – Ghent, Belgium – London,
England

WE LEAVE for Dover after loading up the
Bentley and drive straight down the M20 and into a Eurotunnel shuttle train at 11:20 a.m., and hurtle through The Tunnel to France a few minutes later. One of the great achievements of the Margaret Thatcher era. She truly got things done.

What an experience, and what good value! The whole thing costs only £55 return, including up to nine passengers. Beat that,
P&O! Wish I had known that when I took
Jessica over by ferry in August.

At Ashford, you drive straight down a ramp into the end of a long double-decker train of closed wagons, rather like horseboxes with tiny windows, then along the inside of this train like a worm in an intestine. Handbrake on, the steel shutters at the end of each compartment roll down, a loudspeaker in excellent English soothes us, and within minutes the train rolls off into The Tunnel.

There is slight bouncing or rolling motion, and the vaguest impression of things blipping past the darkened windows. Kevin says we are doing 150 mph.

Exactly thirty-five minutes later the train halts and the process is reversed; we are out onto the autoroute without formalities. Drive straight through northwards on the super French highway, tollfree this time, to Ghent, and this is where things go daft because human beings take over.

Kevin sits for thirty-five minutes in the parked Bentley, refusing to let me plug in the
GPS, while he thumbs the “perfectly adequate” GPS on his Blackberry — which turns out to be incapable of finding the street we need. In fact his Blackberry tells him only where he is, not where he needs to get to!

Eventually he hoists the white flag, the
TomTom is inserted and we speed across the city to where the student fraternity building is. As they say, had they held the meeting on the university campus it would have been banned by our freedom-loving Lefty authorities. Fifty or sixty students spend the evening with me, and the number swells.

I give them a two-hour talk on the Global
Vendetta, as requested, pulling no punches, and then outline the history that the Lefties either don’t know or are trying to conceal, about Hitler, Himmler, Heydrich and the rest. (I relate to them my lecture to 800 students in
Bonn University’s Audi Max in the 1970s!)

I tell them the bad news, that yes millions were killed; but that, as “his ambassador to posterity,” it seems quite evident to me that it was being done at levels way below Adolf
Hitler‘s ken. I show them half a dozen documents which clearly indicate this, which, as
I point out, they won’t find in any of the books written by the “conformist historians.”

They listen enthralled, the audience grows larger as the evening goes on. Kevin films part of it. Book sales are huge. We scoot off back to
Calais a few minutes after ten.

We stop several times for Kevin to scoff junk food. I doze during the drive, and we are there before I know it; straight onto the train, I fall asleep again, we arrive at Ashford at about midnight-thirty, and I am back home at two a.m.
The Bentley swallows about a tank and a half of gas for the four hundred mile round trip.
Jessica emerges from her room, and we chat briefly.

Saturday,
September 22, 2012
London,
England

WE are nearly out of time. We are still
10,000 euros short of the amount needed for the bond before we can serve the injunction. I post an appeal for the remaining amount on our front page. My lawyer says he will phone the three
“candidates” we have lined up tomorrow.

Rolf Hochhuth has surprisingly emailed, he has tried phoning me, and says:
“Come visit me in Berlin.” Of course, I can’t.

Sunday,
September 23, 2012
London,
England

I WRITE to Petra in Key West, the Czech girl who is handling the mail there:

I
thought you’d get a laugh out of this.
A
big Czech magazine has yesterday used my
photo to illustrate an article about
John
Irving.

Hugo is quietly livid that we did not take him with us to Ghent, and I think he is casting about for revenge.

KEVIN comes and we all have Sunday lunch at the
Palmer Arms in Dorney. Hugo accompanies K. in the Bentley and I drive over there with Jessica in the Pigmobile. The last “quality time” with her for many months. I comment on her beautiful
English accent, complete with the requisite drawl, and she admits that she knows that she speaks well, and is very grateful for the importance I have always attached to it.

At three o’clock I pick up Terry and we drive over to the warehouse. He dives in and fishes out the sash-cramp (to mend Hugo’s easel) and kitchen stuff for Jessica, who now goes up to university, and then the box containing the
Betacam master-tape of the Ich komme wieder tape. Very successful. The storage is slowly emptying.

I tell Jeannie, who runs the bookstore in
Atlanta, “I am winding things up here in London.
Hate to leave my daughter Jessica, she is such a star. She shows no interest whatever in coming to the USA; very insular in her outlook. Her schoolfriends are more important, it seems.”

I read messages from my lawyer. He has written hopefully to Rolf H. about the emergency over the bond. It does not look good. He has already had to tell U. in Capetown that if we cannot raise the entire amount, he will wire his contribution back to him. He has asked Herr X if he can contribute anything at all. Count V is hospitalised still, Chicago W is not answering, and we are running out of time.

We repair Hugo’s oil-painting easel in the evening. The sash-cramp does the trick, and white glue. He marvels. In two days’ time I fly off to the USA.

Monday,
September 24, 2012
London,
England

A VERY lengthy letter comes from one of those strangers out there who has been reading my works all his life, without telling me, a
Californian, Colin W.: eight-six lines long and
1,278 words. [Too long to include here]. It ends, “… To put it another way, while I eagerly await your autobiography, I haven’t the least interest in
Lipstadt’s.”

I reply, “Well I will confidentially give you a link where you can read a few chapters. I have written the whole thing before memory fades. But it is unlikely to find a publisher. I sent the
Speer chapter to Macmillan’s, my old publisher, two weeks ago and they have not even acknowledged it!”

MY lawyer has found that U. has already transferred the first 15,000 euros to his account for the bond. “Wirklich ein
äußerst zuverlässiger Mann.”
He asks if I can persuade Chicago W before the deadline expires. I tell him he can discuss the
1993 Munich prohibition (my expulsion from
Germany) with Rolf H., who has asked about it.
“Show him whatever he wants to see, we’ve been
Du friends since January 26, 1965.” His birthday was the same as my darling Josephine’s,
April 1.

Tuesday,
September 25, 2012
London,
England

HUGO has got his revenge. He greets me with an apology for having “wound me up” last night.
He is referring to the half dozen photos of a wedding which he had eagerly procured from, I assume, Australia. Yes, I agreed, they were not unexpected but they had shaken me . . ., the bride looked stunningly beautiful — and blissfully, genuinely contented. My overriding feeling was one of great happiness for her (though her bum appears to have added volume since I saw it; that’s Australia for you).

I add that it was rather like having to identify the corpse of somebody you love. It blots out all else. I have forced myself therefore to conjure up memories of our happiest days together. She often looked even more beautiful, when she was with me. . .
Hugo and I now have a twenty-pound bet, on
[. . .] . If she is lucky, I will lose again.

TIME to leave England, for many months. I board the Pigmobile, which is now empty except for a few loose items. Jessica is very sad and demands a hug. She is such a good daughter. I am sure the other four were almost as good at her age, and I remember Josephine asking for a hug once too, the year before she died.

Over to Eton. I post the three parcels and am at Dawn’s twenty minutes early. I park the
Pigmobile opposite her house. I will return to the UK in mid-2013 and look for a house to rent.

Dawn takes me to Terminal Five. Check in, lunch, and off to the boarding gate. Here I find that my aisle+exit+legroom seat 26C which I obtained after tussling with the British Airways website for an hour yesterday, has been arbitrarily changed by them to 28C, two rows back, because of my “damaged leg”.

The difference? 26C was an exit row with eight feet of space in front of it, 26C is a regular aisle seat with zero feet in front.
British Airways has given my earlier seat to two delighted elderly short fat Lesbian Americans instead. Fat lot of good they will be in an emergency.

So I get no work done. The plane leaves on time, and arrives at Atlanta about nine cramped and idle hours later.

THE car rental center is literally ten miles from the international arrivals terminal.
Something to bear in mind when booking to
Atlanta in the future. At the rental center there are no baggage carts and I am toting a fifty-two-pound box of Banged Up with my other luggage. I hand-carry everything up into the Avis desk on the third floor.

Some difficulties with them, because they say they have only one Expedition and it has 17,000
miles on the clock, which is way too old for my liking. It probably still has the original tyres.

Eventually Rita T., a young Black
Chicago-born sales clerk with a waaaaahd
mouth like a pair of shiny black flip-flops, drums up one with 6,900 miles. She smiles a lot
— and asks if she can do the tour with me. That would be a real hit with my friends.

Waiting for the Expedition, the Avis lady in the parking lot points to a two-tan Suburban and says why not that, it has only 1,200 miles. I check the rear interior. The carpets are worn and torn. She checks the odometer and then corrects herself, it has done 28,000 miles.
Near-miss!

Around ten p.m. (three a.m. UK) I set out for our bookstore location, an hour’s drive across
Atlanta and out to the north-west. At McDonald’s
I buy a coffee: it is a free promo today, says the young Black sales girl, again wowed by the
English accent, and she asks if she can do the tour with me! Is there a sign stuck on my back saying, “This is a geriatic stalker, but
Blacks please humour him”? — Nope. No explanation for it.

Wednesday,
September 26, 2012
Atlanta,
Georgia

. . . I THEN check my emails. There is a message from Chicago W: she has written:
“David, I’m back home in Chicago. Do you still need me to wire the dollars to your attorney?”

Talking of wire, this took us right down to it. So all is saved, and the injunction will now be served on our opponents. I live to fight another day. La lotta continua. “You are one of the very few best friends I have,” I croon. “And, unlike most females, reliable!”

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