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Extract from Terror Campaign, 1961, by Rachel Levy
Miami Beach, September 8: It may have been Joseph Gable's sly humour which led him to choose the Holiday Inn as the venue for the American Party Convention. That being the choice, all the sunkissed trippers, boozed jewellery salesmen, suntan lotion executives and incumbent mafiosi (or those of them not attending as delegates), were shuffled away, any protest met with a little artistic persuasion in the shape of a Klan mask bogeyed outside their window, or a Star of David splashed in pig vomit over their bathroom tiles. Red, white and blue-striped swastikas draped from the tenth storey down, billowing in the sea breeze...
As I enter the lobby my heart's doing a fandango in my kishkas. `Don't do it!' Sarah Nichols had said, `they'll see Jew in your eyes and hear jew the minute you open your mouth. They'll plaster you all over the walls and beat the remains with nightsticks.' `Never fear,' I answered brashly, `I'll be a sweet young American thing from New Jersey. Restricted golf clubs and no pluribus unum. I'll wear my best infatuated grin of Aryan adoration. My hair will be straightened, I shall wear one of those Jane Russell brassieres and be Miss Fife-and-Drum Majorette of nineteen-sixty-one.' But I'm no longer so sure, standing alone in the very nub of Hiderland with square-jawed crewcut crackpots in flowered shirts and swastika campaign badges. (That nose, Rachel, pull in that nose!) The lobby dominated by a twenty-foot-high portrait of the Candidate - `Major' Rudolph the red-nosed Hitler with his set grin and his wide vacant stare, neck tightly enclosed in dress uniform, the Congressional Medal of Honour, incurred in the Pacific War, just flush with the lower frame of the picture. Flanked by two smaller, more modest blow ups of G.K.L. Smith, the Vice-Presidential Candidate, and white-haired Adolf, the Party's Founding Father...
In the event, access is relatively painless. A young southern belle at the reception desk flashes me two rows of faultless teeth, caressing a pure white phone. `Doctor Gable? A Miss Sheila Anderson, from the Tenafly Courier, by appointment with the Senator. Yes, surely. Please go up, Miss Anderson, tenth floor, elevator B.' She hands me a swastika ribbon. `They'll be waiting for you. Have a good day.'
An unlikely prospect. But the person awaiting me at floor number ten is another blonde goddess (are they making them in chemical baths somewhere?), who leads me up the red-carpeted corridor towards the Candidate's sanctum.
Rudy Hitler, face to face, not thirty feet tall on a hoarding or ranting on television to a legion of fans shrieking for the blood of the impure, turns out nothing special: a dapper all-American kid, every pound the Modest War Hero, with football shoulders out of place in a stiff shirt and tie, as if aching to get back into pads and helmet. The only outstanding feature is the Glare, Papa Ado1Ps inheritance, stabbing right at me, like a zombied mackerel, but compelling. A hynotist's weapon, disquieting over that neanderthal moose jaw.
The Watchdog is with him. Sunk in a brown leather armchair, immaculately manicured fingertips held together in front of that acquiline nose with a kind of unsettling daintiness. His face looks lifted, though pockmarks still show faintly in the carefully tended skin. His hair a distinguished grey-white shot with streaks of black, as if dyed by an interior decorator: Joseph Gable, formerly Goebbels, the brain of the Hitler campaigns. He gives me my second bad moment, gimlet eyes boring in after my racial descent. But theory either does not hold, or he decides to let me by. Rudy, on the other hand, ignores my nose to fixate on my uplifted chest, as planned. Boys will be boys. ';
`I have seen the Tenafly Courier,' Gable says, his accent suavely modulated to suppress the teutonics, `as a supposedly patriotic magazine it is consistently misjudged and misinformed.'
`We're a straight down the line Republican paper.' (Thank God I made sure to cover my back, anticipating the suspicion.) `We consider ourselves to be pro-American, running the gamut of views in the Party. We support the President, when he's right.'
`We've supported a lot of President Nixon's actions,' Rudy chips in, bright and chirpy, `he's stopped the Reds in Cuba, just as we urged him, but why was Castro allowed to get so far? Only a blind man, or woman, can't see the termites eating the G.O.P. from inside. And only a fool, pardon the straight talking, maw,
can ignore the real truth about the power brokers at the core - the Rockefellers, Goldwassers and all. Nixon might want to be pro-American, but he is tied hand and foot by the Jews.'The Interview:
Q: Senator Hitler, to what do you ascribe the meteoric rise of the American Party since 1958?
A: We are the Party in the right place at the right time. We have answers where everybody else has questions. We see ourselves as carrying on the work of our finest President, Joe McCarthy, a great American, betrayed by his own Party. He held us together after the Pacific War and didn't shirk from putting the blame where it was due. We all knew the Germans had given the Japs the Atomic Bomb. How could an Asian race develop nooclear technology? McCarthy showed how President Wallace had conspired to conceal that fact, because Henry Wallace was a card-carrying member of the Communist Party. Our own President! And you ask whether the country needs a clean sweep? The American people know this cleansing is necessary, if we are going to survive as a nation. The Republican Party has tied Nixon's hands in this. The Democrats have not repudiated their Communist past and present, from Roosevelt-Roosevelt to Addelhead Stevenshein. Those solid, Aryan, working Americans who were tricked into voting Democrat have at last woken up. They see New York social workers marching hand in hand with nigras to provoke unrest and Communism. They can hear the cooing messages of Stevenshein to Moscow, under the guise of, what do they call it - a `thaw' between the great powers! And the people do not forget Los Angeles - one hundred and fifty thousand dead, another half a million scarred for life due to government treason. A hundred and fifty thousand victims of Bolshevism's slanteyed puppets! And you want us to shake the murderer's hand? The American people want to make a firm stand, to prepare for the next sneak attack, and our two big Parties go on bickering and playing the plootocratic game, the game of divide and rule. You mentioned our meteoric rise. That's not the rise of a political Party, but of the American people, united under a new leadership! We stand for an America that does not lick its enemies' boots... an America proud of its Aryan inheritance, proud to be Christian and White! The other Parties may be the past of this nation, that's true. But we are its future. That's why we're going to win this election.
Miami Beach, September 8. The Convention! Packed crowds! Flowery shirts over vast Bermuda shorts! Havanas in every slobbering gob! Multitudes slip on sweat-covered floors… Hundreds of portraits of Rudy and Gerry bobbing frantically about. Southern belles with red-white-and-blue swastika sashes and top hats cheerleading, releasing multi-coloured swastika balloons to fill the Holiday Inn's Grand Ballroom. `Roo-dee! Roo-dee!' The bloated southern circus, an obscene harlequinade, America with her brains blown out, the waggon let loose and gathering speed into the pit. Bizarre effigies of Negroes and Jewish politicians bobbing and weaving in the craze. Journalists from east and west gaze stunned at the proceedings, the sheer scale and ferocity of the challenge thrown out to the two-party system...
The crowd goes completely crazy as Rudy mounts the rostrum. Two thousands right arms stiffen in the Roman salute. Cheerleaders faint with the emotion and are dragged off by stewards lest they get stomped to death in the ecstasy. Then Rudy speaks. A rapt silence. The amazing discipline of the lead. This is how it used to be, I'm told, at Papa Adolf's get-togethers in Illinois, the Chicago Crusades of the mid-forties, before Los Angeles and McCarthy… Adolf was a runt of a man who packed a mighty bellow, but he could never quite shuck off that German accent that set him apart from the mass. Rudy, in contrast, is a hulk and an indifferent speaker, but an authentic American cry. The faithful lap it up like nectar. The future belongs to us! At thirty-five he would make the youngest President ever - and after this, who can call that a rabid fantasy...?
A standing ovation. Cheers. Firecrackers at the back of the hall. And then the master stroke: with a gesture, Rudy calls for silence, drops his voice now, close up to the microphone, begins to croon about the Bomb. The Bolsheviks, the Nips, the Jews, the Commie Wallace ... a hush of frigid rage in the Ballroom. The sea of placards parts, and down the center of the Hall, the American Party's Sacramento Congressman is wheeled up to the podium. His spine bent, half his face burned away, but, as Rudy acclaims, his True American Spirit is totally unbroken - one of the few surviving film stars of pre-Bomb Hollywood - Congressman Reagan rises slowly, from his wheelchair, left hand gripping whitely at its aluminium arms. Weakly but determinedly he waves his right stump at the rally. The crowd watches, breathless, as he finally totters, unsupported. `This!' cries Rudy, `this is America! Wounded in battle but unbowed! We can stand! We can make our country whole again!'
Uproar! A hurricane of applause! Another thousand swastika balloons surge upwards! They know, they know they are riding the wave!
Today, Miami Beach. Tomorrow, the White House? And, the cold morning after –
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