This series was issued on 10 July 1935 to commemorate 100 years of German railways.
6 Pf – “The Eagle” locomotive
12 Pf – Series 03 Express Locomotive
25 Pf – “Flying Hamburg” express rail car
40 Pf – Streamline Express Locomotive 05 001
Back in 2013 I made the first digital edition of the book “Ich kämpfe” (I Fight!) in English language. I made this PDF digital version of the book because it is very important for the ideological education of every true National-Socialist! Today is the 105-th anniversary of the National-Socialist German Worker’s Party – the NSDAP and it is a good occasion to popularize the book “Ich kämpfe” (I Fight!) again.
This book was presented to every new member of the NSDAP. After WWII the Allies and the Bolsheviks tried to burn all copies of the book, which they were able to find. Fortunately, the book was printed in huge numbers and our enemies failed to destroy all the copies – now the book is available all over Internet and is beyond their reach!
In the book are included: articles by Philipp Bouhler, Alfred Rosenberg, Robert Ley, Viktor Lutze and Joseph Goebbels, quotations of the Führer, a description of the National Socialist way of life, a statement of purpose, a listing of important NS dates, a brief history, an honour roll of martyrs of the Movement, the Pledge of Loyalty, words to the Horst Wessel Song, and more.
Heil Hitler!
Your comrade,
Propagandaleiter
1. Germany.
Berlin.
– Day of the Wehrmacht.
– Mass revelry in Lustgarten.
– Displayed ‘carriage of Compiègne’, where the armistice between Germany and France was signed in 1918.
– Dr Goebbels at an anti-aircraft battery military exercise on the streets of Berlin.
– The population at the amusement rides.
– African elephant, making a collection of donations for the army.
– The population visits the barracks and accommodation of soldiers of the Wehrmacht.
– Distribution of food to the population.
– Competitions on boats on the river.
– Demonstration of skill soldiers motorcyclists.
– The population at the planes and tanks.
– Sappers with a ‘live’ bridge.
– Shooting from machine guns.
– Children throwing grenades.
– The population watching the exercises of infantry.
One of the aircraft factory.
– The process of assembling aircraft.
– Assembly of aircraft.
– Shop for the production of aircraft engines.
– Workers in the shop, women at the machines.
– Assembly of engines.
– Open the gates of the shop.
– A series of aircraft leaving the shop.
– Test flight group of newly built aircraft ‘Heinkel-111’.
Lübeck.
– Views of the city and individual architectural buildings before and after the raid of British bombers.
– Consequences of Anglo-American raids.
– The ruins of the Dome Cathedral XII century and other ancient buildings.
– The ruins of the Church of St. Mary.
– The Lubeck opera house was also destroyed.
– Announcer about the barbaric nature of the raid on Lübeck.
– In the old part of Lübeck there were no military facilities. factories and plants.
– Immediately after the raid, the National Socialist Party support group and the military began to help the population.
– The camp kitchen distributes hot food.
2. France.
An unsuccessful attempt to land a British landing at the town of Saint-Nazaire.
– The special operation by British commando forces and the Royal Navy had three objectives: disabling the dock, destroying the old locks at the harbour entrance, and destroying all ships, including submarines, anchored in the harbour.
– A group of British disembarked from several dinghies and were taken prisoner by a special team.
– The British are led out of the house.
– British soldiers whose task it was to destroy German submarines were killed or taken to linen.
– On the streets lie the corpses of English soldiers.
– Destroyed English boat in the water.
– Wrecked British and American ships and military equipment.
– Captured English paratroopers in fuel oil, they are directed to the lorry.
Destroyed and half-submerged English destroyer.
– He had to undermine the gate of the lock.
– The destroyer sailed under a German flag, but it is of English manufacture, German sailors show this flag and English markings.
3. Germany.
Presentation of awards by the Führer in his headquarters to a group of heroes - pilots Luftwaffe.
– Iron Crosses are Lieutenant Strelov (20-year-old Hans Strelov became the youngest holder of the Iron Cross), Major General Hube, Colonel Traut, Major Schultz.
– Adolf Hitler and the pilots.
4. USSR. Eastern Front.
Transport base of the Luftwaffe.
– Refuelling transport planes.
– They take off into the air.
– View from the aircraft on the transport columns of lorries.
– Course to the front.
– Planes in the air.
– Dropping ammunition and food to parts that are surrounded.
– Landing of aeroplanes.
– Unloading of materials and cargo.
– Loading them on horse-drawn sleighs, from here the goods are sent to the front.
Military operations in the Donetsk region.
– The Soviet troops continue to attack with superior forces.
– Reflection of the Soviet attack by guns of all kinds.
– Fragments of the firefight.
– Calculation at the guns.
– Explosions.
– German soldiers shooting.
– Destroyed Soviet tanks.
– A German soldier is helping a wounded comrade. panorama of German positions.
– Panorama that opens before the German positions: countless dead soldiers on a snowy field.
5. USSR. On the central section of the front near the Donets.
Snowploughs preparing the road for transport column.
– Mobilised civilians and prisoners of war on clearing roads.
– Cars are on the cleared road.
– Horses, harnessed dragging the gun.
– The column is moving to the front.
– German tanks, infantry in camouflage.
– Infantrymen take up positions.
– Artillery fires on the Russians in the forest.
– Tanks and armoured vehicles rushing forward.
– Wide front German troops are on the offensive.
– There is a firefight.
– Shoot infantrymen.
– Fragments of a firefight.
– German soldiers after hours of battle enter the village.
– Trenches left by the Soviet troops, the corpses of Soviet soldiers.
– Burning village.
6. Indian Ocean.
German trade blockade in the Indian Ocean.
– A German ship discovers an English steamer.
– A special team is sent to the English ship.
– The crew of the English steamer is transferred to boats and taken aboard the German vessel.
– The English steamer is destroyed as weapons and ammunition are found on board.
– Captured English sailors on board a German ship.
– Unloading of prisoners on one of the islands.
– German ship continues the journey.
– Detection of an enemy ship attempting to escape.
– Shelling of the fleeing ship.
– Fire on the ship.
– Burning ship goes to the bottom.
– Announcer on the success of the German trade blockade in the Indian Ocean.
By Bruno Beger
“So that’s what we want you to do. You can have a couple hundred men, whatever you need, but break up that damn Communist meeting, and do a good job. Break heads, if you need to, but I want them routed out of the hall in a way they won’t soon forget! I’ve had it up to here with their bragging and boasting. Filthy traitors!” the stocky, brown shirted man paused, then continued. “And, look, Beger, I don’t care if you are a medical student. This is the SA, not one of your collegiate duelling and debating societies. You don’t stop and patch up those swine, like that last time, understood?”
The young Sturmführer tried to keep the distaste he felt for this assignment from showing. Will I never hear the end of that? He wondered impatiently. Damn! I’m as good a National Socialist as any of them. That doesn’t mean I have to let a man bleed to death! And, he rationalized, if I had let him die, it would have been another nasty headline about us. No matter that the Communists had no compunction about murdering us, but let one of them die, and the whole damn press is on us like a hive of wasps.
“I mean what I say, Beger. We’re not going to bail you out this time if you get yourself arrested again doing something that dumb. Let the bastards die, you get the hell out before the police come, you hear me?”
Bruno Beger still smarted over the injustice of his arrest. He was involved in a street brawl which occurred when a band of Communist bullies tried to break up a Hitler Youth troop march. He and a squad of other SA men had to come to their rescue, and the ensuing fight had been bloody and brutal. At the sounds of police sirens, both sides had broken off the fight and scattered. One brawny communist lay on the ground, screaming for help, blood pouring from a wound in his left arm. Bruno had stopped to help the man, applying a tourniquet, twisting it tight to stop the arterial flow that threatened the man’s life. A stunning blow from a police truncheon caught him as he knelt by the injured man. He awakened in a jail cell, charged with rioting, disturbing the peace, and assault.
He had stood before the judge, head aching, vision blurred from a concussion, listening with dazed confusion as the man whose life he had saved accused him of assault and attempted murder. Only the attorney supplied by the party had kept him from a felony conviction and a long sentence. Aloud he gritted a clipped “Zu Befehl!” stiffening his already rigid posture.
“Still squeamish, Beger? Well, you’ll learn.” He tossed a sheaf of papers at the young officer. “Here, study the situation, and let me know how many squads you think you will need. We expect they will have anywhere from 2000 to 2500 people present. It’s their big May Day celebration, so they’ll be out in force with their overstuffed wives and snivelling brats.”
Oh, great! Thought Bruno Beger, as he took his leave of his Sturmabteilungsführer. Now I get to beat up women and children! I don’t mind getting into fights with Communist’s, but women and kids..? I can’t believe the Führer really wants this. He stormed from the building, brushing aside a couple of brown shirted troopers who gaped after him in surprise. He made a valiant effort to slow his pace and control his expressions as their startled comment reached his ear. “Wonder what put a wild hare up his…?
Bruno worked off some of his anger on the long walk back to his dreary lodgings. Part way home, it started to rain, a cold drizzle that chilled him through and through. He folded the papers and put them inside his shirt, trying to keep them from getting too wet. He considered briefly taking the bus, but a quick check of his pocket ruled out that possibility. He hunched his shoulders and walked faster.
Bruno closed the heavy Anatomy book, and stared unseeingly at the dark red cover. He had a major exam next morning, but his thoughts kept returning to the problem his Sturmabteilungsführer had posed. He added his own parameter to the problem: how to break up the meeting without risking women and children.
He hitched the threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders, shivering slightly in the late April dampness. His uniforms hung from the wooden pegs that served as a closet. He glanced up, catching sight of the dripping shirt. God, I hope it dries before morning. The thought of wearing a damp uniform all day sent another shiver through his already too thin body.
He stood, wringing water from the bottom of the shirt, hoping it would dry faster. As he adjusted the pants on their wire stretcher, he heard a faint scurrying on the table. He turned just in time to see a rat make off with the scrap of cheese rind he had been gnawing on. An irrational anger seized him. He picked up the dagger from the table and started after the rat, cursing it, furious at the loss of his last bit of food. Then the idiocy of his action struck him. The rat was only doing what rats do, the fault was his for leaving the cheese unattended.
He slumped into the wooden chair, his elbows on the table, and his hands over his face, it seemed hopeless. The exhausting job on the docks barley paid his tuition and rent. He scrounged what food he could from discarded cargo and earned a few pfennigs at an occasional odd job, with which he bought stale bread and sometimes a scrap of cheese. He had been lucky last week. The cargo master had discarded a box of half spoiled fruit. Bruno fell upon it as if it were a gift from heaven. He knew his diet was woefully inadequate. He had had to fight to keep his treasure, but it was worth the bruises. He had feasted on the salvaged fruit, savoring each drop of juice, remembering a time before the great depression when there was always enough to eat, warm clothes, a loving home and family. Now it was all gone. His father had been killed in the first war, fighting against the French at Verdun. The ruinous inflation had swiftly eaten up the family’s savings and taken their home. His mother was living on a tiny pension and the charity of grudging relatives.
He pulled himself up sharply. Stop whimpering and act like a man. Feeling sorry for yourself is a waste of time! Put your mind to the problem, Think! A particularly violent gust of wind and rain rattled the window of his tiny room. Somewhere a rat chattered and squeaked. Suddenly he sat up straight. A big grin split his face, and he pounded the table with glee. That’s it! He shouted triumphantly.
Bruno strode into SA headquarters on the following morning. He handed his manpower requests to the Sergeant on duty. “Forty men for preparation, ten for the raid itself, and five dachshunds.” The sergeant looked at Bruno unbelievingly. “Five dachshunds? What in the hell are you going to do with five dachshunds?”
Bruno smiled. “Why, carry out my orders, Sergeant. I was told anything within reason.” he turned on his heel and left, leaving the sergeant staring at the requisition with combined amazement and disgust. Bruno swore his forty helpers to secrecy. Then he asked for volunteers to constitute the squad of ten who would actually break up the meeting. There was such fierce rivalry that he finally had to resort to drawing lots to select the squad.
May Day finally came, and Bruno and his men were ready. The evening was fine, warm and clear. The young SA men watched from their vantage point across the broad street as the Festival Hall, draped with red bunting for the occasion, filled with burly men, stuffed into their Sunday best, escorting girlfriends, wives and families. The broad center aisle was decorated with the red communist hammer and sickle banners, the podium also was bedecked with communist symbols and flags.
There were to be speeches, entertainment and lots of beer and sausages. The evening got underway with a vigorous, if tuneless, rendition of the Internationale… “Arise ye prisoners of starvation, arise ye wretched of the earth….” the crowd sand with more enthusiasm than harmony. Just as the final strains died away, Bruno and his men made their move.
Spotting their brown uniforms, the burley guards stopped them as the entrance. “No SA men wanted!” one of them snarled, as he pushed Bruno back.
“Don’t be silly” Bruno retorted, “We’re the entertainment!” He jerked his head at the men, each carrying a large sack and every other man leading a dachshund. The little dogs were wearing red collars, and the leashes were wound with red ribbons.
The head guard laughed. “You had me fooled. Ok, go on in.” He waved them in with a chuckle. Heads tuned as the eleven men marched down the center aisle at parade march, what the Amis call goose stepping, each one carrying a large wriggling, chittering bag. The little dogs seemed to enjoy all the attention, scurrying on the short little legs, yipping excited tiny barks, rolling their big dark eyes. The crowd was laughing and pointing at the little creatures.
One by one the men stopped at intervals down the center aisle. Bruno continued to the platform at the front. He leaped upon the podium and seized the microphone from the startled speaker. “We brought some of your comrades to the party!” he shouted, as he emptied his bag. Rats and mice poured out, squeaking, chittering, climbing up pant legs and onto tables, nipping at ankles and swarming over the entire podium. Down on the floor, the men simultaneously emptied their sacks full of excited rodents, and then unleashed the dachshunds.
Pandemonium reigned. Men swore, beating off the rats, women shrieked, children screamed. The dachshunds, their hunting instincts aroused to the maximum, began chasing mice and rats through the milling screaming crowd. Clutching girlfriends, wives, children, sausage rolls, and steins of beer, the men bolted for the exits. They streamed from the hall, swearing, dragging hysterical women and screeching children. The maddened rodents swarmed all over them. The men beat at their pant legs, the women howled as thousands of tiny claws tore at their dress’s and stockings. Within minutes the hall was empty of all but rats, mice dachshunds, torn and tattered bunting and flags, overturned chairs and tables and a few guards, who beat a hasty retreat as the chase swirled around their boots. Cursing, kicking, beating off rats and dogs, they finally capitulated, leaving the hall to the hunting dogs and their grey prey.
From their vantage point across the street, Bruno and his men watched the spectacle with glee, doubling over with laughter. When they caught their breath, the Sergeant clapped Bruno on the shoulder. “You certainly broke up that meeting about as thorough as I’ve ever seen it done.” He collapsed again in a fit of laughter. “Who would have thought those commies would be so afraid of their blood brothers?”
At last Bruno whistled to the valiant little dogs. Reluctantly they abandoned the chase and returned to their handlers, who greeted them as canine heroes, praising them, picking them up and hugging them exuberantly. The Communists had hastily assembled a goon squad to look for the “entertainers”. With magnificent understatement, Bruno whispered to his men. “I think it’s time to go!” Silently they slipped away through the dark alleys and passages, until they reached the relative safety of SA headquarters.
The following morning Bruno stood at attention in front of an irate SA commandant. “….yes, you broke up the meeting, Sturmführer, but hardly the way I expected. You just don’t have the SA temperament I am afraid. Turn in your equipment. You’re through here. Dismissed!”
Bruno paled. He had tried so hard. The Party had meant everything to him, and now he was disgraced, expelled from the SA. He squared his shoulders and marched, frozen faced, from the room. His rigid self-control held until he was out of the office. He walked slowly down the long corridor to the now empty common room. Slowly he upholstered his pistol. It was all over. He couldn’t stand the shame and disgrace. Bruno walked to the window and stood staring for a few minutes. He chambered a round, and raised the gun to his temple.
A black clad arm reached over his shoulder and snatched the gun from his hand. “Don’t be a fool Bruno! Didn’t the commandant tell you? He transferred you to the SS! We asked for you particularly, actually had to fight him for you. You’re exactly what we want, smart, resourceful, original, and self-reliant.”
The black clad SS man took a bemused Bruno by the arm and led him toward the door. “We have plans for you! First off, we’ll get you a decent uniform. I’m afraid though, you’ll have to move into barracks for a while. You are to go on with your studies, but you’ll have to give up working on the docks. The SS pay is about the same as the army, but you’ll have a scholarship for your tuition, and room and board, so you should make out if you’re careful..”
Bruno listened, stunned, as the man continued to tell him about the unit he was about to join. They were going to pay him! No more working on the rat infested docks, eating scraps and living in a slum garret. His studies paid for, the military training he had wanted so badly, and best of all, becoming part of the very best, the elite Leibstandarte. The SS man added, “What do you know about the Ahnenerbe…? He looked up, his step quickened. Suddenly, it was a beautiful day.
By Reich Minister Dr Joseph Goebbels
There are two types of orators which differ fundamentally and essentially: those who speak from the head or the intellect, and those who speak from the heart. Accordingly they also turn to two types of people: those who listen with their intellect, and those who listen with their heart. Orators of the intellect are generally produced by the parliament; orators of the heart are born of the Folk.
For the orator of the intellect, it is imperative that he have at his disposal a wealth of statistics and knowledge. If he is to speak effectively, he must master dialectics as the pianist masters the keyboard. With the icy coldness of a relentlessly developed logic, he orders his chain of thoughts, and draws from them his inevitable conclusions. He is effective mainly with people who are accustomed to working principally or exclusively with their intellect. Great, rousing successes are denied him. He is unable to stir the masses to the depths of their souls, nor can he rouse them to achieve great and monumental goals. He remains limited to the purely didactic.
As he himself is cold, so he leaves those around him cold. At best he is able to sway people, but he can never rouse the masses and mobilise them, regardless of their own advantage or even to the acceptance of death and danger.
It is different with the orator who speaks from the heart. That is not to say that he has no control over the skills of which the orator of the intellect is the master. Frequently they serve him only as tools which he, as a true virtuoso of rhetoric, uses at his discretion. In addition to this, however, he has other capabilities which the intellectual orator can never hope to attain: the clarity of his diction combines with the seemingly natural simplicity of his train of thoughts; he divines instinctively what must be said and how it must be said. He unites the greatness of the poetic spectacle with the monumental nature of the ideas he expounds. He knows the most secret hopes and aspirations of the soul of the masses, and knows how to reveal and stir them as if by a masterstroke. His speeches are masterpieces of declamation. In a far-reaching epic form, he portrays people and circumstances; with a sharp stylus, he engraves his theories on the slates of time; with elevated and noble emotion, the looming pillars of his philosophy tower over his chain of thoughts. Just as his voice speaks from the depths of his being, so does it penetrate deep into the listener's being. It causes the most secret strings of the human soul to resound. It stirs the indolent and the lazy, it rouses the half-hearted and the doubtful; cowards it turns into men, and weaklings into heroes.
Such words are only rarely heard by history. However, once they penetrate a lethargic period with their omnipotence, then people and circumstances are orientated anew by them.
These rhetoric geniuses are the drum beaters of destiny. They begin as loners in degenerate and crumbling periods of history, and suddenly and unexpectedly stand in the middle of the brightest spotlights of a new evolution. These are orators who shape the history of a Folk.
Like every great man, the orator of renown also has his own style. He can only speak as he is. His words are an integral part of him. Whether on an appeal, on a poster, in a letter, or in an essay, during an address or during a speech, he speaks the language which corresponds to his nature and his manner.
There are numerous examples in history which demonstrate perfectly that eminent orators resemble each other only in greatness of their desired effect. The manner of their call to the Folk and their appeal to the hearts, on the other hand, is always essentially different and varies according to the time, the nation, and the character of the era. Caesar spoke differently to his legions than Frederick The Great to his infantrymen, and Napoleon spoke differently to his guards than Bismarck to the representatives of the Prussian State Parliament. And yet each of them used the language which the people they were dealing with understood, and used words and thoughts which kindled enthusiasm in their minds and met with a response in their hearts. They gave a concrete expression to the deepest and most puzzling demon of their time, and, in so doing, have been handed down in history as the harbingers of the great ideas of the time who made history and formed the lives of Folk.
It also seems as if different races vary in their disposition to the powers of oratory, as if there are people whose talents are not suited to this rousing art, and then again others who seem almost destined for it. It is not in vain that one speaks of a Latin eloquence. The plenitude of indifferent and important talents, as far as rhetoric is concerned, in the Romans gives this a certain justification. And it is also probably true to add that these talents for rhetoric were directed at a public which understood it, fostered it, and gave orators the greatest possible opportunities to exercise their talents.
As far as oratory is concerned, the German Folk have not been served well in the past. They have brought forth in abundance statesmen and soldiers, musicians and poets, architects and engineers, expert planners and organisers. But there has always been a shortage of great rhetoric talents. Since Fichte addressed the German Nation with his classical speeches, there has been no one who stirred the hearts of the Folk, until Bismarck's call to his time. When Bismarck left the rostrum, it remained empty of real talent, until a new harbinger of the Folk's suffering arouse out of the collapse after the Great War. What existed between these times was at best mediocre, sufficing the daily business of Parliament and sittings of the board, but meeting only with an icy reserve as far as the Folk, who should have been deeply roused, were concerned.
This may have been a product of the times themselves. There were no great ideas and no idealistic projects; times were barren and sated. The only illusory revolt at the time, Marxism, was secretly aligned to the time, and its supporters were representatives of materialism, which has never ignited the spark of true geniuses.
Revolutions, however, give birth to true orators, and true orators give rise to revolutions. In the course of a revolution, one must not overestimate the written or printed word; it is the spoken word which arouses the hearts and minds of people with the secret magic of its immediate effect. People perceive with their eyes and ears, and the infectious force of the masses who are gripped by the sound of the human voice carries along irresistibly in its spell those who are still wavering and doubting.
Where would the statesman of genius, who has sown the seeds of a higher and unfathomable destiny, be if he did not have at his disposal the strength of speech and the explosive power of words! It gives him the possibility to make ideas from ideals, and reality from ideas. With its help he gathers around his flag people who are prepared to fight for it; driven by it, men risk their lives and livelihood to lead a new world to victory. From the propaganda of the word, organisations are formed, from the organisation the movement develops, and the movement conquers the State. It is not a question of whether the ideas are correct; what is crucial is that they are correctly presented to the masses, and that the masses themselves become their propagators. Theories will always remain theories if men do not carry them out. In times of turmoil, however, men obey only one appeal which ignites in their hearts, because it comes from the heart.
It is difficult to classify The Leader in this series. His skill in moulding the masses is so amazing and unique that no pattern or dogma can be superimposed upon it. It would be absurd to think that he had ever attended a school for oratory or speech; he is a genius of rhetoric. His rhetoric is unique to him, and has never been influenced by anyone else. One could never imagine that The Leader had ever spoken differently than he now speaks, or that he will ever speak differently. He says what comes from his heart, and his words therefore go straight to the heart of his listeners. He possesses the remarkable gift of instinctively sensing what is in the air. He has the ability of expressing it so clearly, logically, and unreservedly, that the listener comes to believe that what is being expounded has always been his own opinion. This is the actual secret of the magical effect of a Hitler speech. For The Leader is neither exclusively a speaker from the intellect nor from the heart. He speaks from both according to the demands of the hour at hand. The essential characteristics of his speeches to the Folk are: clarity of structure, a relentlessly logical development of his chain of thoughts, simplicity and general intelligibility of expression, razor sharp dialectics, a marked and never deceptive instinct for the masses and their feelings, a fascinating emotionalism which is used with the utmost economy, and the power of being able to appeal to the soul and generating an immediate response.
Once, many years ago, when The Leader was still a long way from power, he spoke to a gathering which consisted largely of political opponents. In the beginning he was therefore met with only icy rejection. In a two-hour match with the unruliness of his audience, he lay aside all their objections and arguments. In the end he was speaking to a sea of people shouting to the furthermost row: Hitler is our Columbus!
This summarises the essence of Hitler's speech. Hitler had managed to inspire the Folk. The times and the longings of the Folk were confused and secretive, but he had clarified them and wrested from them their secrets. He showed them again to his listeners clearly and simply, in such a way as the man on the street had long perceived them, but had never before had the courage to express them. Hitler said what everyone thought and felt! More than that: he had the courage of his convictions against the opposition of almost everyone present to draw a moral and to make demands with an iron logic which arose from the needs of the time.
The Leader is the first person in the evolution of Germany who used language as a tool to fashion history. When he started, he had nothing else. He began with only the strength of his mighty heart and the power of his mere words. With both he reached deeply into the souls of the Folk. He did not recognise the needs and worries which oppressed the little man and speak about them; but for him they were only a mere depiction; he was not a tendentious describer of the existing conditions like the others. He situated the difficulties of the day in their general national sense, and gave them a meaning which reached further than the actual day. He appealed not to the bad, but to the good instincts of the masses. His speech was a magnet which drew the blood and iron that still existed in the Folk to it.
Stupid and arrogant bourgeois blockheads delighted for some time in saying that he was only beating his own drum. They were making fun of themselves, and did not know why. Because they themselves were so completely lacking in the power of oratory, they saw in it a lesser form of statesmanship. They were only after power, without fully understanding that Marxism had taken the power from them by force, and would only ever return it to them by force. They formed conventions in which a Folk's movement was forced to march up. They tried their hand at coups where a revolution was in the air. They displayed contempt for the masses because they were unable to control the masses. For the masses surrender only to a man who can take them under his inexorable command. They obey only when someone understands how to give them orders. Their instincts are too acute not to be able to distinguish whether something is really meant, or merely said.
This is perhaps the classic proof of the inner purity of the German Folk. They lent their ear to the appeal of a man who had only himself and his words to challenge the State and the society, the press and public opinion, and all that seemed sensible and useful. And this is also, on the other hand, the classic proof of the rhetoric genius of The Leader which towers above all times. His word alone caused a whole era to totter, a seemingly established State to collapse, and a new era to dawn.
A historical orator who triggers off such an effect must have at his disposal all the possibilities of the spoken word. And such is the case with The Leader. He speaks to workers just as naturally and supremely well as he does to scientists. His words penetrate just as deeply into the hearts of the farmers as the city dwellers. When he speaks with children, they feel deeply touched by his words. When he speaks with men, the magic of his voice stirs their most secret feelings. His speeches are the philosophy of history translated into the language of the Folk. He has the gift of calling forth long forgotten great historical epochs from the past and presenting them in such a way that they seem well known even to those who had never known them or heard about them. His speeches are totally devoid of the provocative tone of one upmanship which usually characterises the so called speeches of scholarly men.
Again, and again his words revolve around the central thought of the Folk and developing nation of our race. His wording to express this is without measure. The listener never has the feeling that he has heard it all before. The people are continually impressed anew and in ever changing ways with the great and fundamental thought of our national rebirth. At the same time this type of rhetoric is devoid of anything doctrinaire. If a fact sounds initially like an assertion, it is inevitably verified in the course of his explanation by an inexhaustible abundance of examples. These examples are not taken from one particular section of the population and society, with the result that other sections remain unconvinced of their power of proof. They all come from the knowledge that this speaker, contrary to all the parliamentary charlatans, believes what he says.
In his speeches the mundane side of life comes alive and holds the listener captive. Here the sufferings of the day are tackled not only with the heavy-handed tools of philosophy, but with wit and the sting of irony. Here humour manifests both tears and laughter and celebrates its triumphs. Here a note is struck which also resounds through the sorrows and worries of everyday life.
An unmistakable sign that a speech meets the highest standards is the fact that it not only sounds good, but also reads well. The speeches of The Leader are stylistic masterpieces, whether they be totally impromptu, or developed along the lines of a few brief keywords, or read from carefully formulated notes on the occasion of an important international gathering. Those not in his immediate vicinity can scarcely distinguish whether the written speech is being made freely, or whether the speech being made freely is the result of a carefully worded written speech, because both are polished speeches in the best sense of the word. This picture would not be complete it if were not mentioned that The Leader is an outstanding creator and master of public debate. The last time a large section of the general public had the opportunity of seeing him as such was during his clash with the Social Democrats at the Reich Parliament of 1933, when he responded to a clumsy and insolent complaint made by Wels, a member of the Reich Parliament at the time. People had the feeling that a game of cat and mouse was taking place. Marxism was driven from one corner to another, and where it hoped for mercy, it was met only with annihilation. With an almost breathtaking precision, his rhetorical lashes pelted Wels. Without the aid of a script or any hastily sketched keywords, The Leader held his great, long awaited reckoning with those Social Democrats who were old hands in Parliament and who now received the coup de grace. How often before had he pushed them into a corner in his meeting whenever they dared to approach him.
At that time they still had the opportunity of falsely reporting humiliating defeat as triumphant victories in their newspapers. Now, before the eyes of all the Folk, they succumbed to his power and were threatened with complete defeat.
All those judges and public prosecutors who had wanted to take Hitler for a ride, when he appeared as a witness or a defendant, with their seemingly naive and harmless questions or stupid and dull comments, have a tale or two to tell about this relentless, rhetoric mind on the offensive. A triumphant victory for the defendants arose from the People's Court Trial of 1924 which was supposed to resolve judicially the uprising of the 8th and 9th of November 1923, because The Leader countered the mountains of lies, malice and lack of understanding with the radiant strength of his open truthfulness and the compelling effect of his forceful eloquence. And it is not without regret that the Republic took note of the Army Trial in Leipzig in 1930, which was supposed to destroy The Leader and his Movement, but which in reality served as a springboard for his rhetorical effectiveness which spread into the rest of the world. One can only recall with horror the fact that a Jewish Communist lawyer could once call him as a witness before a Berlin court and bombard him with questions for nine hours without a break, and note with proud satisfaction that here Jewish Bolshevism was opposed by a man who relentlessly cut him short with the power of his oratory and did not desist until he lay overwhelmed on the floor.
We saw and experienced The Leader as an orator in the Party Day Of Freedom in 1935. He spoke to the masses fifteen times in the space of seven days. In doing so, not once did he repeat the same thought or use the same turns of phrase. Each time what he said sounded fresh, young, vital and insistent. He spoke differently to the office workers than to the SA and the SS, and he spoke differently to the youth than he did to the women. He, who in his great talk on culture, bared the most secret secrets of artistic creation, addressed himself in his speech to the Army to the last soldier in the last Battalion, and was understood by him. He has cast an arc under which the life of the whole German Folk takes place. He has become a messenger of the word, who approaches his manifold existence with the divine grace of language.
The Leader is at his very best as an orator when he speaks in a very small circle. Here he continually addresses himself to every single one of his listeners. This gives his talk the impression of a moving stream which continues without a moment's rest, and arouses in the listener the sort of interest which never wanes, because the listener continually feels he is being personally spoken to. It may be that he is speaking on a topic that has been raised purely by chance and to which he lends an expertise which strikes everyone and causes the specialist to marvel at his knowledge, or it may be that an everyday matter is mentioned incidentally by someone and is suddenly bestowed with fundamental universality.
Here The Leader touches on the heart of matters more intimately and in greater detail than his public speeches permit, in order to lay it bare with a relentless logic. Only someone who has heard him speaking face to face like this can grasp the immensity of his rhetoric genius.
Of his speeches to his Folk and to the world, one can in fact say that they are words which strike an audience such as history has never before seen. They are also words which ignite in the heart and which continue to have a lasting effect on the formation of a new international epoch. There is probably scarcely one man today in the whole of the civilised world who has not once heard the sound of his voice, whether he understood his words or not, and in whose heart of hearts the magic of his voice has not met with a response. Our Folk can consider themselves lucky to know that there is a voice above them to which the world listens, a voice which is blessed with the ability of turning words into thoughts, and setting an era into motion with these thoughts. This man belongs to those people who have the courage of saying yes and no without subsequently modifying what they have said by an if or a but. In a situation where, in every country of the world, millions and millions of people have been hit by bitter suffering, grave afflictions, and terrible sorrow, in which there is hardly one star in the dark clouds that hang over the skies of Europe, in which people are filled and driven by dulled longings which they lack the gift and grace of expressing, he stands over Germany as one amongst the uncounted millions silent in their torture to whom God has given the ability to say what we suffer!
