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"The
Cigar- Box"
- Die Originalgeschichte Erich Fromm was a Jew. He had pale skin, dark hair, a thin ridged nose, red thick lips, sharp eyes, narrow chest, pale nipples, a circumcised penis, narrow insteps, long toes, a fierce intelligence and a quick wit that was vigourously employed to make a coat of impenetrable and humourously decorated armour to protect him from the world's arrows of outrageous fortune. All we have of him now are two charred dental bridges and part of a scorched jawbone. They sit very quietly in a cigar-box. Those of you with some interest in macabre facts may just possibly recognize something here. There are a great many stories from American, Russian, Hungarian, German, British and Italian sources, some inside and some outside authority, some blatantly sensational, some prurient, and some, we must admit, the result of serious investigations conducted to search for real historical truth. Many of these stories talk of a scrotum with one testicle, a twitching hand, a South American passport, a singed moustache, a built-up shoe and even a black heart. But by now after over fifty years of filtering and researching and cleaning away the myths and lies and vested interests, the final believable other account of two dental bridges and part of a jawbone in a cigar-box is an account of the last remains of Adolf Hitler. Adolf Hitler was a gentile, or so he said. We could give you a description of his physical self, like we did with the Jew Erich Fromm, but Adolf Hitler is a celebrity and Erich Fromm is not, so we think you know what Adolf Hitler looked like. It is curious, considering their mutual animosity, that Erich Fromm and Adolf Hitler should end up the same way. Though we must admit, we are cheating a little, because there is an importance difference. Whereas both dental bridges in the cigar-box in the story of Erich Fromm belonged indeed to Erich Fromm, one of the dental bridges in the cigar-box in the second story belonged to Hitler's wife. Erich Fromm used to have a wife but she had disappeared on Crystal Night. Erich Fromm was gassed and burnt at Treblinka. Adolf Hitler was shot and burnt in Berlin. Both their deaths, you could say, were self-inflicted. Erich Fromm had beaten the Treblinka Camp Commandant at chess, and in doing so he had declared that the Jews had invented the game of chess whilst on holiday in Egypt in 910 BC. Everything fitted. The king on the chess-board was an almost impotent pharaoh in a matriarchal monarchy. He was so governed by etiquette he could only make a simple, single step at a time to keep intact his rigid dignity and imperial bearing, whilst his sister-wife had almost unlimited powers of movement. The castles were pyramids with a square base that meant they could only move forwards or sideways to keep their alignment to the sun, and the soft desert sand governed the movement of the knights' horses, making them hesitate with a sideways movement before they could go forward in the ultimate desired direction. And the pawns, which on most chess-boards look like savagely circumcised pricks, were the Jewish slaves easily disposed of, but capable one day, after the Germans, just like the Egyptians, had been defeated, of putting back their foreskin crowns and becoming kings again. For his ingenuity and great temerity, Fromm was put under a cold shower and attacked by dogs. Then he was scratched about the head with barbed-wire, shot in the hands, then in the feet and then just under the second rib on the right hand side. He was under some pressure to declare the Camp Commandant had won his chess game, that chess had been invented in Prussia as an elitist war-game to be played by gentlemen-officers, and was certainly not invented by Jews in Egypt where the English General Montgomery was at that very moment defeating the German General Rommel, and that the Third Reich would be everlasting, and certainly last longer than Judaism or Christianity. Erich Fromm could not find it in him to agree to much of this, and he eventually died joking about the smell of National Socialist hospitality, enquiring about room service and asking for the central heating to be turned up a little because he had a cold coming on. Hitler had been under some pressure too. The times were so hopelessly malevolent. The Russians were making their way street by street to his town apartment whilst he would much rather have been in his country retreat on the Obersalzberg. The ceilings were likely to fall in from almost continuous bombing, the garden was a mess, he was on a last minute honeymoon which wasn't going too well, and his friends were either deserting him or killing their children in the room next door with Prussic Acid. Erich Fromm's uncle was a capo, a trusty. He shoveled the ash. He used to be a dentist, and he had cared for the teeth of all his family. He recognized his workmanship from his nephew's mouth, and since the jawbone was attached, he picked up the full set from under his broom and hid them in a cigar-box, which had been confiscated by a camp guard from the otherwise empty suitcase of a Dutch Jewish citizen who had hoped to smoke a last ritual cigar. This Dutch optimist made fearlessly confident because the times were so hopelessly rebarbative, had fancied dying with a Havana cigar in his mouth. And he had almost managed it, standing naked beside the death-pit, wreathed in sweet smelling smoke, stroking his pot belly and looking at the moon. The first shot had blown the cigar out of his mouth, and the second shot had blown the brains from his skull. Erich Fromm used to own a suitcase. It too had been almost empty, save for an ebony and ivory chessboard with 32 gold chess-pieces. Erich was a good player. On the sudden and mysterious disappearance of his wife, he had sold everything he and she had ever possessed in Berlin, and bought a very expensive chess-set. It had not been as expensive as it should have been, but the times were so hopelessly incorrigible. It was good to invest all your savings in your second love, now that your first love had gone missing. However the chessboard and it 32 gold pieces never even made it passed the collecting-point at Friederichstraße. The gold king and the gold queen decorated a field marshal's mantelpiece for several weeks, then the complete set with a missing knight, was sold to an opera-singer who was singing Herman Baristichoff in The Queen of Spades at the Deutsche Staatsoper. With a missing black queen and separated from their board, the pieces were then temporarily lodged in a bombed church that served as a temporary SS Headquarters. Missing two bishops, the now 28 piece gold chess-set disappeared into a railway signal box outside Munich, saw the inside of a cauldron at Gestling, and united in molten form with a set of candlesticks and a gold tap marked H for Hot, arrived as a gold bar in Baden Baden about the same time the Americans landed at Messina. Ultimately this gold bar, gold bar 27 in Sergeant William Bell's inventory for the Washington Bank temporarily set up above a Medici palazzo in Verona, ended up on the back seat of Lieutenant Gustav Harpsch's stolen and crashed Mercedes. Perhaps we should not be too surprised to know that the dimensions of this gold bar are the same as the dimensions of the cigar-box that rests in the surgery desk drawer of Erich Fromm's cousin in Monterrey. Erich's cousin, like his father, became a dentist, and we can easily think up reasons why Erich's cousin kept this macabre relic, like sentiment for a relative, a memento mori for his grandchildren, a proud exhibit of their great grandfather's excellent workmanship, a last piece of defiant evidence of Erich's famous talking mouth, a grisly memorial of never to be repeated infamy, and perhaps, since Erich's Monterrey cousin was something of an amateur geneticist, the remains were a repository of DNA material that future researchers might find useful to connect Adolf Hitler to Erich Fromm and prove they both had the same great great grandmother. Adolf was always fearful that his mother's family were Jewish. Just think if we had kept the skeletal evidence available throughout history, with the new methods of genetic analysis, we could have solved so many of history's little mysteries. Anastasia candidates could be proven to have been Romanoff, child corpses found in the Tower of London could be proven to be related to their murderer Richard III, and Christ's children could have proved themselves to have had a father who was himself the son of God, and thus stopped the hopelessly unlimited flow of Masonic literature now burdening airport bookshops of the world. Erich Fromm's uncle died of lung cancer in Pasadena in 1956. After he had been liberated from Treblinka by the Americans, he had taken up smoking cigars. Maybe there was no connection, but I doubt it because everything we know is connected somehow, the good and the bad, the comfortable and the uncomfortable, fact and fiction, Jews and anti-Jews, Erich and Adolf. Quelle: Greenaway, Peter, Gold, Paris 2003 1 – The last apple
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