Nazi Lauck NSDAP/AO



Just a few days ago it was precisely one hundred and thirteen years since Adolf Hitler was born in the small town of Braunau-am-Inn, straddling the German Austrian border. Today as I write it is the 57th anniversary of his passing on.

This small town straddling the German-Austrian border is a charming location with its town gate and its main street leading down past the shops and pavement restaurants to the River Inn.

Today as then it is difficult to imagine a more delightful place for a young boy to consider his home. It has an almost Tom Sawyerish rustic simplicity about it. It could be a small village in Pennsylvania or perhaps France, it might just as easily be a small community hidden away in a Cotswold valley or a stone throw away from the flowing River Volga.

From womb to tomb the life of the ordinary townsfolk hovers between the wonders of Godís creations and the day-to-day complexities of nature. It lives and breaths by its seasons.

The church, where the Fuhrer was baptised and undoubtedly attended Sunday worship, remains as it always was then and before. Visit the church and gaze at the beautiful architecture adorning its purpose and marvel at the same exquisite expressions of love in a Greater Being as the young wide-eyed Adolf did. If his spirit wanders among the pews tonight it will experience few if any changes.



Just as today we have our Christmas card images depicting that loveable old rascal Santa Claus, traditional churches, snow and stagecoaches, so it is of our pastoral images. Those who share our race, wherever they are scattered across the far-flung corners of the earth, dreamily evoke images of rural springtime. Such is April.

The dusty village main street, the peal of church bells in the distance, the smell of natureís bounty, the spring zephyrs to cool the sunís excess, the lowing of cattle and the chatter of villagers going about their daily tasks.

In the distance the sound of children playing, perhaps down by the woods-flanked river, some lost in thought and others, the dreamers who wonder as to its origins or its eventual destination.

One such child would have been the future standard bearer of the White race, Adolf Hitler. How well one can imagine the young sturdy arm that tossed the pebble and occasionally picked a flower would later stretch as a signpost pointing in the direction of White Race salvation? Better, a salvation not only for his own kind but for all peoples who benefit, directly or indirectly, from White Race ingenuity and industry.


Sadly ours is now a Race that holds a death-wish dagger to its own breast. With its demise, should it come to that, the world and its peoples will rapidly descend to the nature of their very beginning; prime-evility.

A deserving end? Of course! Nature abhors weakness. Nature sweeps failure aside. It has no favourites. Nature itself is a victim of nature so why should there ever be exception?

Thousands of peoples throughout the world, from tribes to nations, have either perished or been rendered ineffectual. Today as tourists we visit the ruins of their once great cities and shrines, we scratch our heads and wonder - while our very own civilisation crumbles around us. And still we wonder. As sheep we are.

Even as our cities are overwhelmed by those of alien creed and race do we imagine that we can survive that which history shows brought death to previous race-nations like our own? Peoples who once too were all powerful and whose eternal life was seemingly assured. And yet now as tourists we stupidly gape and wonder, and we somehow think that we can escape the same fate.

Do we also pause to wonder what will take our place or even consider that our daily headlines record the dying convulsions and faltering heart of the White Race? We see but we don't see. We are the intellectually, morally and spiritually blind.



"Should we (the White race) be forced to disappear, a profound darkness will descend on the earth; within a few thousand years human culture will vanish and the world will become a desert." - Adolf Hitler

Never deceive yourself that the White race is cleverer than are others. Certainly it has a unique intelligence of sorts, but no race or nation that allows itself to be used as a sword against its own kind and then turns the sword on itself, can be considered intelligent.

No nation race that takes up arms on behalf of those whose purpose is to destroy it can survive. Its predictable end would signal the supremacy of the savage. Across Africa the savage despoils the fruits of civilisation. Harare today, London tomorrow.

The urinary stain of Africa across a monument! Hardly a fitting epitaph for a race that considered itself superior.

Nature will judge otherwise. We would share the wilderness of posterity with the Bushmen of the Kalahari, the Aborigines and the native Indians of the New World. How deservedly so.

Can there be redemption, salvation, or survival? Yes, but only through the humility to see ourselves as we really are; to recognise our strengths but be aware of our weaknesses also.

We shall need to use our intelligence constructively. Salvation will come by recognising that it is not the competitor races and creeds that threaten our survival.

It is our own kind, the traitors within, those who hold a death wish that imperils us all. It was this perception that gave Rudolf Hess the foresight to say: "In the and all will be forgiven, except treachery to our Race.'



I cannot perceive of a single threat to our race that isnít enabled by our own race-traitors. Non-Europeans are quite incapable of hurting us; they simply do not have the means to do so, many do not have the intention to do so for the re-routed river of the traitor class also sweeps them along. They seek only to better themselves and it is of little consequence to them that others may suffer as a consequence.

Whatever harms our Race and in whatever form it brings suffering you will find the White traitor's actions beget it. There is not a single lost soul abandoned in a hotel corridor, mugged on the street, defrauded by an alien landlord, betrayed by media treachery, who cannot trace the source of his or her misery to a White Race traitor.

If a knife were plunged into your back would you curse the weapon or would you strike the fiend that wielded it? If you are the victim - and misery comes in many forms - do you damn the perpetrator or do you strike out at the White race traitor who made the conditions that gave rise to your suffering?


Every misery heaped upon your shoulders was placed there by your own treacherous kind. For these we must reserve our special hatred that recognises only death and exile as just punishment.

Hitler recognised the strengths and weaknesses of his own kind. He sought to educate and make them aware or the dangers that threatened them. He sought to elevate and protect them by using their own spiritual, cultural and physical strength.

On the other hand his opposites the Race traitors work equally hard to dumb down the Fuhrer's people. They take away our culture, our spiritual wellbeing, they mock our heritage, our God, our values, our traditions, our legends, our folklore.

They set out to demolish our sense of belonging and our sense of decency. They corrode the spirit, they sleep with the enemy, and they display a mean-spiritedness that would shame Satan himself.

The choice is yours and mine. I stand with God and nature. Ours is the future for without it there is no future.



In this world today, just a mouse-click, or a plane ride away, there still stands that beautiful little town on the banks of the swirling River Inn. The church is still there as is the place of his birth. The Town Gate that welcomed him welcomes you too, if you care to make the modest pilgrimage.

In the springtime woods flanking the meandering River Inn the seeds of true socialism were once blown like a gale across the face of the earth. Today the gale is a breeze yet I feel in it a rising, a lifting, a darkening of the clouds.

The River Inn flows to the great seas to water the world. The morning will come and the sun will rise, tomorrow belongs to me.


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