The following stunning letter is the fourth installment of selected correspondence between Savitri Devi and George Lincoln Rockwell (1918-1967).
We wish to thank Matt Koehl of the NEW ORDER for preserving this letter, photocopying it for the Archive, and giving us permission to publish it.
—R. G. Fowler
Braunau on the River Inn
28 August 1965
Dear Commander Rockwell,
It was so kind of you, in your letter of the 18th July 1965, to tell me you found my letter (of the 12th) “inspiring”—in spite of all the criticism that I had poured into it. Very kind of you indeed not to take objection of my open expression of opinion regarding the very publication that is the official mouthpiece of the ANP.
Let me tell you at once—and from this sacred spot from which I am writing (from which I have purposely chosen to answer your letter)—that I fully understand and appreciate the explanation you give of the style and usual content of so important a publication. As you say, as we all know, the main thing is to win—by any means—the full possibilities and unlimited freedom implied in the word POWER, and then, of course, to be intelligent, ruthless, cool-minded and patient enough to use that power in the right way, in the right spirit, for the promotion of our everlasting Aryan (or otherwise called Indo-European) values, and the glory of all those who devoted their lives and energies to them, from the dawn of time, especially of the latest Exponent of this Cosmic Truth—the One Who was born here, in this place, in the house just opposite the tea shop window in front of which I am sitting and writing to you, over seventy-six years ago.
“Mais il importe peu que le flot déchaîné
soit impur, s’il fait bien le travail ordonné.”
(But it is of little account whether the unfettered waters be unclean, provided they do the work well which one expects from them.)
are the words which the French poet, Leconte de Lisle, puts into the mouth of a militant thirteenth century monk, urging the exploitation of the lowest lusts of his contemporary kings, barons, and commoners, in the war against the enemies of the holy Church. We are in a similar position: we have (in this ugly Dark Age) to fight an all-powerful enemy; we cannot of course waste our time examining the quality of our human material with a magnifying glass. We have to use the only material that is at hand, and that is—alas! not only in America, but also in Europe and everywhere, even the best Aryan countries—bad quality material—bad quality, because everything and everybody is, more or less, “bad quality” in this Dark Age, except those who lead the struggle against universal decay (those have to be of exceptionally outstanding quality).
In other words, the question is: either a hundred people (as followers) who fully know what our Doctrine is, and what moral and metaphysical implications it logically has, i.e., who fully know what they are about, but who will probably never bring us further in the practical field—or, and hundred thousand, a million, ten millions and more simple-minded and simple-hearted but brave and capable—practically capable—folk, who might not understand what it really means to be a National Socialist—who especially might not understand that any community built on common faith alone (without any regard to race) is incompatible with our doctrine—but who can (and I hope will) carry to power, the minority who does understand this, but who (most diplomatically) omits to tell them so—in particular, who can and I hope will carry you one day to power.
The least of these simple-hearted fighters, for whom National Socialism means nothing but raw opposition to Kikes and Blacks, is, when truly tough and faithful, far more useful in the immediate coming struggle than I, with all my logic, my “frightful” logic as a French enemy once called it.
I am the last person to criticize any effort enabling us to capture the precious energy of the many. I only sometimes wonder what the reaction of the many will be when you are in power, and when they find out the they have been fighting for values which were not in reality those Christian ones, which they had thought they were supporting, in other words when they find out what out National Socialist Doctrine—THE reaction against two thousand years of humanitarian race-mixing in the name of Saint Paul’s message (Acts of the Apostles, Chapter 17, Verse 26), THE revolutionary faith, in opposition to every man-centered one—really is. Then, perhaps, some “purges” might have to take place against some of those who will have believed the simplified preaching for mass-consumption.
Or are the masses sufficiently stupid and influenceable (provided one has the control of radio, TV, and cinema) not to find out the difference—the opposition—between our life-centered National Socialist philosophy, and that damned Christian outlook according to which “all men” (and “men alone”) have “souls,” and according to which, as in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, in the words of the Christian planter’s wife, “all the glory of the starry night is not worth the soul of the least of Negro slaves”? Perhaps.
You know better than I do. You are a leader of men; I am not. I despise the average man far too much to be able to lead him—which does not mean that I am not very glad when I can see someone else, who is fighting for the very same Ideals as those I have, make the best of that human material which he (the average man) represents. And I admire the natural skill of those who can serve my own faith better than I can myself, i.e., in the practical field. As you are so wonderfully doing.
It is not only your skill. It is also something else that goes to make up your capacity of action on a broad scale. It is all that you have—or had, or seem to have had—in common with the broad masses of “decent people.” The “decent” American “fought for America” (in reality for the Kikes, but that makes no difference psychologically) during World War II. You fought also “for America”—and brilliantly! That is a very good point from the propaganda point of view. That brings you at once nearer to those to whom you speak. Makes them feel in you “one of them.”
While how horrified they would be if they knew—some of them at least—that I, being “stuck” in India during that time, and unable to spout out war propaganda on the Berlin radio (which I was supposed to do in modern Greek and in Bengali, had I been able to go to Europe in time) and thus to help Germany directly, did my utmost—as a “second best”—to help Japan; the “White man” was against my beloved Führer. Well, I preferred yellow, slit-eyed ones who were fighting on his side; preferred them as collaborators and allies at least. (By the way, I wonder what you would have done if, during World War II, you had already been a follower of Adolf Hitler for over ten years.)
Anyhow, all you write in your most valuable book—This Time the World—about your military career and achievements, can only work now for your success, and that of the Movement.
All what you say about your two families, your love for children, your grief at the loss of your second wife, all that, I say, can only endear you to the great number of people with human feelings. You say in your book that you don’t like women without womanly feelings, for whom a Cause is everything (and a person only valuable as far as he is an all-out fighter for the beloved Cause). Most men will understand you and, I suppose, most women too.
Not I, of course—who would simply despise any man who would place me above our Common Cause, love me more than he loves our Common Führer. I would despise him; feel myself—or any fanatical, one-pointed, all round dedicated fighter, so “superior”! But you don’t need to attract me to National Socialism. I am “in it” already. Have been so consciously for the last thirty-six years—and unconsciously since always.
You need to attract the broad numbers of “normal” people—men and women who know what it feels like to have had a love affair, while I don’t (and don’t regret it for a bit!); who know what it is to be spontaneously attracted to babies—not “because” the Führer said somewhere in Mein Kampf that “healthy children are the most precious good a nation possesses” (which indeed they are; one has to admit it), but simply because they feel like taking the little ones in their arms—people who know what it is to have “personal problems” apart from economical ones (the only sort of problems I ever experienced, even in my youth).
Nothing can attract those useful numbers of possible fighters—of average men, who, given the proper training, can become out and out National Socialists—like the feeling that their living leader, is “one who has gone through their own agonies, their own doubts, their own disillusionments,” etc., etc. It was a masterpiece of propaganda on the part of the Jews to present the rest of the world, 2,000 years ago, with a religion centered around a God in human garb who has gone through all their sufferings, and knows what it is to be a human being.
What I love in your valuable book the most is something else. It is first your religious approach to National Socialism, so near my own—an approach that I have, indeed (unfortunately) found in very few people, though in a few: in John Tyndall (I must tell the truth); in Mrs. Jordan. Her husband is a sincere, efficient, valuable fighter, no doubt, but she has the religious approach (if I am not mistaken); and she is the one who, far from wishing to be loved first, wants her husband to put the Idea before her—and who herself puts the Idea before him, by all means. That ideological one-pointedness (in spite of a personal life entirely different from mine) is precisely what I like in her. I love that same religious approach to our common faith, that same adoration of the One Leader—our common beloved Adolf Hitler—in you also, in you especially, as the head of the WUNS.
But shall I tell you what I admire the most of all in your book—in your life, as you report it in your book? It is not that which I myself share with you (the religious approach to National Socialism; the attitude I already had myself years ago, as I went to India with the intention of forming a “Pan-Aryan League,” embracing all Indo-European or Aryan peoples). It is that which you possess and which I lack, although I should like to have it: that wonderful mastery over your own nerves, which allowed you to walk victoriously out of the mad house in which the Jews had shut you up; that mastery which you describe so well in the “vitamin injection” episode in your book. I doubt very much whether I, placed in similar circumstances, could have accepted that vitamin injection with as much apparent calm, nay, apparent indifference, as you did—especially as I do not, on principle, accept any vaccinations, injections, etc.—anything that implies any sort of interference with my body—which I want untouched, unspoilt, unpoisoned, unaltered. The pages you write about your stay in that hell are frightening. And I sincerely admire you all the more for having been able to get out of it, as I said, victoriously.
On the other hand, the glance which your pages give into a system of pressure exerted by the Jews of the so-called “free” world, on their enemies—i.e., on any one of us, if we fall into their hands—makes me hate the so-called “free world” and its masters all the more. I? Fight directly or indirectly to preserve that “free world” from destruction? NEVER! Destruction is all it wants, all it deserves. There is for me—for us—nothing, absolutely NOTHING to choose between it and the Marxist world. Jewish slavery both ways.
To hell with both!—and with their man-centered, equalitarian, Kike-teachings, be they two-thousand year old Christianity or one hundred year old Marxism—the expression of the same spirit in a technically more developed world that has no longer any time for spiritual considerations—but basically the same Yiddish stuff; the same doctrine: man looked upon as the center and the measure of everything; the “happiness” of man taken as a goal (as if it mattered a damn whether human individuals are “happy” or not, as long as they fulfill their higher destiny when they have one to fulfill, or contribute to the fulfillment of the higher destiny of others better than they, in other cases!).
How I hate, or rather despise, that silly bourgeois ideal of “human happiness”! I’m not interested—and never was—in my own “happiness” or in other people’s. And those who are can never go the whole way along our road, and fight to the end for our hard, ascetic, aristocratic faith.
You have earned the capacity of going the whole way long—as we all do—from the moment personal “happiness” had no longer any meaning for you except as the thrill of a full impersonal, cosmic struggle for the rule of the naturally best. May your children one day, in spite of a different education, come back to you of their own accord—boisterously rejecting all that other people tried to teach them—and tell you: “Here we are! We are proud—so proud!—to be Rockwell’s—and we have come to join your fighting forces!”
That is my wish, from this sacred spot—Braunau on the River Inn—from which I am writing this long letter.
That is my wish because your struggle in the USA sounds so wonderful to someone who lived the War and the year 1945 from the National Socialist side.
I remember myself in June 1945 on the beach of Varkala (Malabar Coast, India). I had been traveling ever since October 1944 like a madwoman, seeking out-of-the-way places in which the echoes of the war could not reach me. I did not want to know when the awful end would come. I hated the United Nations more wildly than any fighter of theirs hated us. They were, indeed, the forces in service of all I loathed and loathe; the instruments of those who wanted a man-centered, equalitarian world. I had come to know the end had come, a day or two before I had reached the Western sea; I had known it from a conversation of two men (Mohammedans from Hyderabad probably) speaking Urdu in a small shop where I had entered to have a cup of coffee. “Three weeks now,” one man had said, “since they stopped fighting in Europe.” I had felt an icy sensation throughout my body, and the emptiness of despair.
On the coast, at Varkala, at the foot of the ochre red rocks over which one could see palm woods, I looked at the Indian Ocean. I listened to it roar. I admired the strength of the enormous waves that came splashing up against the red rocks, or unfurling on the yellowish gray sand. Many years later—in one of my yet unpublished prose poems, Forever and Ever, I described my feelings of that day:
Oh, to sleep, to forget, to die! . . .
While in the distant West
events would take their course,
freed from the nightmare of surrender,
freed from the nightmare of remorse,
for not having laid down my life, in action at Thy side,
in absolute unconsciousness,
for ever to abide!
And I walked in to the sea:
Only another step,
into the roaring depth,
in order to sleep,
to forget!
I intended not to walk back.
But as I had water up to my shoulders, or nearly, a thought went through my mind like lightning: live—oh! not so see our resurgence, alas; I did not then ever expect our resurgence—but live to see the victors of 1945 in the pit; in a worse mess even than ours, even if it be so that I should take thirty years to enjoy that revenge. See them overrun by never mind who—finished forever—out of history forever. Not only in ruins, but sitting before the ruin of all their “values,” helpless—and enjoy the sight; enjoy the sound of my own voice telling them: “It serves you right for having fought against the Third German Reich!”
I walked out of the sea for the sake of that future possible enjoyment, and for that alone, and started living without hope, only for hatred’s sake.
What were you, Lincoln Rockwell, thinking about then? Who—which prophet, which yogi, which super-wise man—could have then foretold your stupendous conversion (as stupendous as that of Saul, disciple of the Pharisee Gamaliel, who became disciple of Jesus Christ—and the historical founder of his religion) and your no less staggering career from 1957 onwards? Who could have told me, there, on the beach of utter despair to which hatred and hatred alone had brought me back from the roaring waters of the Indian Ocean, that one day there would be such a thing as an “American Nazi Party”—and especially such a thing as a “World Union of National Socialists”—and that I would be, in twenty years’ time, writing to the very Commander of the rising Hitler Forces, here in our Führer’s birthplace—Braunau on the River Inn—and that the Commander of the rising Hitler Forces would be . . . an American? Who? Nobody.
Oh! Splendor of those unseen, divine workings, that bring about the most astounding results—with time; against time—and that prepare further History!
With a joyous, boisterous, triumphant, world-defying Heil Hitler!
Yours sincerely,
Savitri Dêvi Mukherji
Most unfortunately, as it is Saturday afternoon (and tomorrow Sunday) the Post here is closed. I cannot have any long letter weighed and put on the proper stamps and send it—unless I can find someone who knows the rates. If not, the postmark will not be from here but from Germany—Munich, also a holy spot.
