Douglas Mercer
October 7 2023
Boo hoo Jew—that’s what you want to say after you read about this colossal waste of time. A bunch of senile old Jew coots and irrelevant crotchety old kike biddies are sitting around a Jewish old folk's home with way too much time on their hands and are “pouring out their grief.” It is a cascade of sorrow and avalanche of lies. They can see from the beam in the eyes of their interlocutors that when they tell the fibs about what happened to them in the “camps” they are hitting all of their Jewish erogenous zones. You might as well dangle a piece of cheese in front of a rat and they teach these old hebe farts that if they tell that big tale about the evil Germans they will get all sorts of attention. Their minds are wandering and if you told them to tell stories about life sized unicorns or other assorted chimera they’d come up with some whoppers there too and would lay it on thick. So out of it are these codgers that they are lucky if they can keep their diapers dry and usually they are not that lucky. They live in a world of mental no man’s land but they’ve been told again and again that the holocaust is what everyone wants to hear about. Were you traumatized at Dachau? Were you separated from your parents on the ramp at Auschwitz? Do you know what your name is? The year? How to spoon feed yourself? But no matter they are survivors and no one is going to say a bad word about survivors. They will just listen to the preposterous horror stories, wipe away the silent tears, and tell them to keep coming up with good ones. The paying public can’t get enough of it and the crying jags are endless.
“After a difficult day exploring the memories of Holocaust survivors at a Jewish care home, social worker Paula David tried a new way to cope with the horrors of what she’d been told, and to help the residents process their trauma. She sat down with her notes and recordings and began to put the survivors’ words together thematically. Little did she know that the collective poetry that emerged a year later would become a music album, Silent Tears, heard by people all over the world.”
Poems forsooth! Silent tears! Lachrymose and saccharine, she loaded up the toast with vatfuls of butter. You could have told those brain addled geezers just about anything, made up any story, and when you told them it was their story they’d nod their head as the drool dangled and dripped on to their pants. What better way to elicit the tear-jerkers than take some old folks who got to the euphemistically named “retirement home” after they were found wandering the neighborhood with no pants one too many times and peering into windows and start quizzing or coaching them about the bad old days at Bergen Belsen. The embellishments must have started quickly though they made them in good faith if you can call a doddering old fool who fails every test of basic orientation and who thinks Gerald Ford is still president can be said to speak and act in good faith. No, this crowd who have to be spoon fed their soup lest they burn their crotch in a spill is the perfect blank screen for all these holocaust memories. Indeed, they are the perfect Rorschach test of the fake and implanted memories themselves. A crowd of wizened Alzheimer patients who can’t remember the day of the week but when it comes to what happened at Treblinka some eighty years ago suddenly have steel traps for minds.
“When David read the lines she’d compiled to the residents of Baycrest Center in Toronto, they were astonished by how much they resonated — not realizing that they were their own stories. They said, Oh, this is amazing. Somebody understands how we feel. And then they started opening up more.”
These are doddering old dementia patients. And just in case any of the obtuse in the back of the room missed it what they are saying is this: the wrinkled oldsters (supposedly!) told the lady some stories, she wrote them down, read them back to them, and they had not the faintest clue or intimation that they were the stories they had told (supposedly!). Do you smell a rat? Is there something fishy here? Is something rotten in Jerusalem? You bet. Why, she could have told them that that they told her that Rudolf Hoss himself hung a child with piano wire from a rafter just for shit and giggles and they’d have assented with a credulous nod and sworn up and down on a stack of Talmuds that they witnessed it firsthand. She could have told them they had said they saw Karl Brandt make a cameo at Ravensbruck and stuck Rabbi Schmulie from the neighborhood in a tub of a thousand degree minus zero water just to watch his face turn blue and they would sign a legal document testifying that their own two eyes saw it happen. And of course she could have told them that they told her that famously gapped tooth Angel of Death took a three-year-old kike and went full Dr. Moreau on him by sewing his legs where his arms were (and vice versa of course) and they would have been able to see it all in vivid Technicolor in their mind’s eye. It resonates don’t you know. Boo hoo said the Jew—as they cry you a trail of tears.
“For most of the survivors, English was not just their second language, it was their third, fourth or fifth. They were struggling to express such deep-seated feelings in a language new to them, says David, who worked alongside them over several months until a book of poetry was published. They were thrilled to unexpectedly become bona fide authors, she says. It gave them this incredible confidence and pride.”
Bona fide authors may be a trifle and tad overblown don’t you think? More of Methuselah like nobodies who have been warehoused to live out their dying days; and no one would have heard or cared about them until this nosy and pushy Jew with her eye on the main chance started poking around and realized that she could use them as the perfect vehicle to tell the old tales again in a reprehensible reprise. And then when they look up at her with their void like blank and vacant eyes she tells them by the gods they’ve won the Booker prize, they are in negotiations with the Pulitzer people, and word on the street is that the Nobel crowd has some interest. And so they sit in their stupor with their super deluxe motorized wheelchair scooters (they are the terrors of the ward!) and they smile idiotically and put their thumbs up to the phantoms they see in front of them. Indeed so effusive and fulsome have been the accolades that have been pouring in that one might deem them the rightful inheritors of Phillip Roth.
“The group had allowed the survivors to open up about traumatic things they hadn’t shared before: the sexual violence, torture and forced sterilization they had experienced at the hands of the Nazis. For decades, they had carefully edited their stories to what they could manage, could bear. Their new-found openness was a result of being among a group that understood. Often, something important would be prefaced with, I’m taking this story to the grave with me. And then they’d proceed to tell either me or the group, says David of the stories that emerged. And the group was able to comment and react because they also had first-hand knowledge.”
Well, maybe not firsthand, more like a perverted game of telephone where the reality for the Jews was hard work for once but by the time it passes down the line it’s an Aryan doctor sewing a colon to a bladder. And perhaps the new found openness (if such it can be called) was due to the fact that someone showed up and talked to them for the first time in years and for once they did not have to stare at the ceiling all day. And they soon gleaned in the ever dimming recesses of their failing minds that they were some kind of celebrities. No dog has ever salivated to the Pavlovian bell like these antediluvian fossils did as they began to pour out (regurgitate that is) the litany of the charnel house right on cue. In their dangerously elevated moods at the attention (the nurses were fretting) you could have got them to cop to the killing of the Lindbergh baby or to poisoning wells or drinking the blood of White children; none of that was desired so the operant behavioralists channeled them into the more fruitful and lucrative paths of trotting out tales of lugubrious Germans who packed living Jew children in frozen ice and played one of Beethoven’s more exquisitely lovely and heartbreaking sonatas to drown out the screams.
“Music producer Dan Rosenberg met David after a concert for his recent project Yiddish Glory, which features new recordings of songs written during the Second World War, and which is the second-ever album in Yiddish to be nominated for a Grammy. When he heard about David’s book he suggested making an album based on their poems, testimonies and writings. That way, their stories would continue to be heard. The driving need for all of them was that this shouldn’t be forgotten, and should never happen again, says David. That was their motivation and their self-assumed obligation. It’s excruciatingly painful to tell horrific traumatic memories over and over, and these survivors will do this until the end of their lives.”
Now one of those infamous “bergs” horned in on the act. We’ll hit the big-time ma! The topper most of the popper most! Yiddish glory! And stick that in your pipe goy and smoke it. The banal and mendacious poetry was not bad enough, they had to set it to lurid and lugubrious music. So now anyone anywhere can hum along to the lies, catch a catchy tune about the horrors of the showers, and tap their toes in time to the travails at Treblinka. The trauma of Ravensbruk now has its own time signature and its leitmotif, the dead at Dachau have ditties and tunes and they’ll worm their way into the soapsuds brains of the soft-hearted. After all the potential for disgustingness is limitless; why, they put up a big Broadway show replete with fancy if forgettable show tunes for that vile Jewish rapist murderer Leo Frank; and it went on tour and they hoofed and sang their Yiddish hearts out in honor of a Jew raping and killing a young and innocent White girl. So maybe these made-up traumas will hit the boards too—and Silent Tears will one day end up in the repertoire and the American songbook and be performed at Junior Colleges by rank amateurs who have no idea whatsoever that they are paying homage to the greatest story that never happened.
“For Silent Tears: The Last Yiddish Tango, Rosenberg employed the Payadora Tango Ensemble (with whom he’d worked on past projects). Silent Tears has since been performed at venues including Ottawa’s National Arts Centre, Copenhagen’s Jødisk Kulturfestival and Madrid’s Centro Sefarad, and the project will feature on BBC Radio 3’s Music Planet this coming Saturday (September 9 2023), including an interview with the band and an in-studio concert. Rosenberg invited Juno Award-winning Lenka Lichtenberg to sing some of the songs, after working on her album Thieves of Dreams. On that release, she sang the poetry of her grandmother, who was a Holocaust survivor. But none had been as distressing to perform as Silent Tears’ A Victim of Mengele. It didn’t help that it was the first one of three songs that Rosenberg asked her to record.”
Another “berg” eh? Couldn’t they find a “witz” or a “stein” or were they all tied up bellowing out the Hava Nagila for middle class Jews on a Saturday night in southern Florida? And of course no Holocaust fraud is complete until the Angel of Death makes his blinding appearance for what Yiddish Tango (it takes six million to tango) would be complete without the capstone of that world famous gapped toothed colossus. He was the kind of guy that makes sopranos quake and tenors quail when they think of all the regaling they’ve got of his foul deeds. And of course this berg is that next best thing to a survivor, she’s the dirty spawn of a survivor, she’ll carry the torch of make believe until her dying day when she makes her equally repulsive offspring promise on a stack of torahs that they will---you guessed it ---never forget.
“There are things in Silent Tears that people need to hear, that are as relevant as ever with the ongoing plight of minorities, their displacement and the dehumanizing of the other. A harrowing case in point is the under-told story of Holocaust survivor Molly Applebaum, who as a child was buried underground in a small wooden box in a barn in Dabrowa, in Poland. In her cold and filthy underground torture chamber, with only a small hole through which to breathe, she was sexually abused and covered in insects for two years. Five of the album’s tracks are based on the diary she kept at the time.”
Little Molly Applebaum! She got a raw deal, did she not? This is a new one on me. Tales from the crypts by way of The Marquis De Sade in the form of the German High Command put her in the bowels of the earth and unleashed crawling things on her while they copped a feel. And for two years is the kicker, they didn’t just put her in her dank subterranean home for two weeks or two months but two years by the gods. This is a veritable sub genre in itself: the most notoriously outlandish and obviously untrue narrative you can make up with the outrages getting more outrageous in the telling as if the story makers are trying to out top each other in fallacious rhetorical derring-do, imagination and bone chilling detail. Really, if there were justice in the world the Guinness people would get in the act and set up a category for the most farfetched holocaust tale the more farfetched the better. And they can print the runners up and the winners who luridly expose the alleged serial killer nature of the Germans and how they would lock them in airless boxes or sew twins together just to make a video that Himmler could be amused by as he took his dinner at his digs on the Wilhelmstrasse. You’d call it straining credulity but by now the public is so inured and is so accepting of the National Socialist as monster and psychopath that the world is like a credulous baby; they swallow it all hook, line and sinker and take it as yet one more salutary tale of the depravity and the darkness of the human heart. After all in a given situation man is capable of anything.
“She adds while a lot has been said about the Shoah, it’s almost never enough, pointing out that in her native Canada only 30 per cent of people know about those events. There are kids growing up knowing nothing about it. So if there’s another opportunity to educate people about the past, and do it through these very personal stories, as painful as they may be, we must. It’s a view echoed by Rosenberg, who wants to see the story of Applebaum, now 92 and living in Toronto, better known. Put another way, Hitler once controlled radio stations across Europe, but today Molly’s words are being broadcast as music on Austrian and German radio networks and have reached No1 on World Music Charts Europe.”
The topper most indeed. And here as an aside we learn that the snot nosed kid with the bugs on her skin and the eyehole to breathe through and the stray hand in her pants somehow miraculously was able to pry her way out of her sealed box and make it to the ripe old age of 92. How about that? It seems that she came through the “ordeal” no worse for the wear so it could not have been all that bad. But banal reality never stopped the Jews from foisting their fibs on a naïve world and they have yet another new sub-genre as a noxious notch in their belt: the ghoulish geezer tales set to music. The taller and the more implausible and insupportable and empirically unverifiable the better. We can all agree that it’s all very tawdry and untoward and distasteful to say the least but also pure evil to say the last. To think that our Uncle’s ferocious voice once ruled the airwaves of Europe and he was set to finally fix the Jewish wagon forever but now on the frequencies emanates sickly music dedicated to the improbable sorrow of an eerie and demonic people is just about too much to bear.
Senile Jews Tell Tall Tales
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Douglas Mercer
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Re: Senile Jews Tell Tall Tales
Paula David
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Douglas Mercer
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Re: Senile Jews Tell Tall Tales
Little Molly Applebaum
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Douglas Mercer
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