Grandpa’s House

As I opened the back door to the house, a rushing blast of pent-up air hit me squarely in the face like the onslaught of a summertime northerly. It was as if years of accumulated stuffiness had been expecting this very moment, longing to set itself free from its black confines. In reality, the house had only been unoccupied for a few months or so since my Grandfather died.

I say house, but it was really like a Fort Knox; locks on every window as well as those roller shutter things that blocked out the apparent curse of natural light. Just to get to the back yard required a set of keys to unlock to the garage, and then there was another couple of extra keys required for the deadlocks. For this reason, it made no sense for me to feel that there was danger lurking inside. It would have been nigh on impossible for anyone to break in, yet in these early Saturday morning hours I was convinced that something sinister lie in wait.

I had been in Adelaide on tour.  Instead of crashing with the band after the show, I had asked my Dad if I could stay and Grandpa’s house. It would be nice, I thought, to have a break from the endless drinking and fart jokes. I also wanted to visit the house one last time before it was sold. Grandpa was the last of my Dad’s parents to pass away, and with this loss came the end of an era in my family. I have fond memories of our family making the pilgrimage from rural Victoria across to Adelaide during the school holidays. During these visits, we would stay and Grandpa’s place. My brother and I would share the same bedroom that my Dad and his brother slept in when they were kids. I can still picture this room clearly in my mind: two single beds with brown quilts, and old organ and a row of books including various editions of the Guinness Book of Records. The cupboards in the room towered all the way to the ceiling, hiding whatever secrets they contained beyond the reach of a mere child.

My Grandpa and I did not particularly get along. I think he found me weird, as I indeed was (and am). For my part, I found him confusing. At times he could be sentimental and warm, on other occasions he appeared reserved and faintly mocking. I remember one time he observed my (admittedly terrible) heavy metal outfit and stated that I was “a real weird one.” I shrugged my shoulders and walked off, not knowing how to properly respond. Yet there were times he was capable of kindness. From the vantage point of his off-peach colour reclining chair, he would observe the family, slightly tear up, and comment that he loved having us all around him. I was a part of that feeling, I liked to think. Given my mixed feelings toward my Grandpa, I was surprised to find myself bursting into tears at his funeral. As he was lowered into the ground, I remember thinking that we hadn’t simply lost a family member, but that what had ended was a small piece of our collective memory. There would be no new stories about my Grandpa which we accumulate in the coming years. As a family, were now confined to conjuring up the past through wandering anecdotes and fragments of fading memories.

Perhaps this is why I felt so strange stepping foot into the empty house. I couldn’t associate this place with anything other than my Grandpa, and to enter his sacred enclave after his passing felt like some sort of criminal activity. I didn’t want to touch anything, because I wanted it to remain exactly as it was in my memory. Yet it was not all just projection, I am sure of that. Some energy that didn’t want me there either. I was intruding in a space that should have been left in peace. This energy made itself known to me via a cold shiver as I attempted to orient myself in this familiar yet new environment.

mainI walked into the living area felt around for the light switches, hoping that the light would instantly dismiss the eeriness. Yet when I turned them on it just made things more surreal. The lights were dim and served only to illuminate my sense of aloneness in the house. I had started to wish I stayed with the band. I decided to walk throughout each room and switch on every single light in the house. Grandpa would have hated that, but I wasn’t doing it to spite him. I needed to convince myself I was alone. As I stepped throughout the house, I saw ghosts of years past. On the far side of the otherwise empty kitchen stood my Grandma, mixing her horrible green sludge health drink. I had flashbacks of my brother playing the old organ and serenading the family with awful but hysterically funny original compositions. Then there was the time that my Mum had a run-in with Grandma in the hallway over whether Adelaide or Victoria were the rightful heirs of the Grand Prix. I looked in the pantry, too, so often the scene of my ravenous scavenging. To my surprise, there were still some items left in it- remnants of Grandpa’s time spent here alone before he passed away.

It was late and I was tired, so I soon went to bed in my Grandpa’s old room. I don’t know why I chose it. It was a bad idea. It would have been much better to choose the old room my brother and I shared. I reasoned that as the front door to the house was immediately next to my Grandpa’s room, I could escape quickly if anything happened to me. This false sense of security did not help me sleep. I tossed and turned for the remainder of the evening, alternating between periods of intense cold and clammy sweat. Sooner or later I must have succumbed to sleep because the fear subsided, and the next thing I knew I was witnessing the rising of the morning sun.

As I prepared to leave on that day it dawned on me that I would never see Grandpa’s house again. It was due to be sold soon, and I did not doubt that the new owners would spruik the place up. Even if I was to return one day, it would never again be as I remembered. As I walked through the various rooms one last time, I knew that this was my only direct line to my Grandpa. When I stepped out of the house and onto the street, I knew that my Grandpa would also become an abstraction, someone to be revealed to me only through the stories of others and my faint memories. This made me sad.

 

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Small Moments in Love #3

The paths we walked became sacred to me, but like all things beautiful the memory is laced with pain.

The moments we shared- nothing more than tiny windows in time really- was mostly spent walking together.  These were occasions that allowed us the momentary chance to dream. Extracted from the complexities of the rest of our lives, these walks provided space to imagine the future. There was no clear destination in mind on these adventures- an apt metaphor perhaps for our drifting yet intoxicating bond. Mostly we would end up in the city after navigating some course through the suburban backstreets.

As we walked we talked about plans. She wanted a house with a white picket fence- in this, she was firm an irresolute. “With me?” I once asked as suspicion grew within me that I might have been an accidental character in her fairy tale.

“Of course my darling! Who else!” she replied.

“What else do you want?” I asked.

She responded with growing excitement. “Well, not much really. Just a house by the water, a family and lot’s of money so I can travel.”

“You want to travel with me, right?”

I had asked a stupid question, apparently. “Stop being so silly,” she said sarcastically. “Of course with you.”

We continued on. She was beautiful and I wanted to be around her.

I knew she was just trying to make me feel good. I grew increasingly sombre, as I too joined in the illusion that everything would work out as we planned.  This was in spite of a gnawing realisation that everything we were experiencing would soon end. I held her hand, telling myself that in so doing we would be bound together somehow. She gripped my hand in return and everything seemed OK for a while.

The twilight hours would eventually descend, and the sun would retreat so that it could commence its shift on the other side of the world. We hurried our pace, not wanting to be caught in the darkness. Once in the city, I would drop her at the train station. She always needed to leave by sundown. One day she left for good. I returned to walk the path home alone.

 

 

 

 

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An Afternoon BMX Adventure

I. 

My BMX had white tires. It was a cheap knock-off brand from K-Mart, but I rode the life out of it. I had initially wanted something cooler like a Mongoose, but I knew I this was a pipe dream fuelled by watching the movie BMX bandits. My family had little money for such indulgences. In those childhood years I took what I could get, and what I got one birthday year was a functional yet basic BMX. Despite its lowly status, my BMX did everything I needed it too and I was thankful.

I made custom modifications to my BMX, as boys often like to do with their machinery. The trend in the early 90s was to use Spokey Dokeys. Spokey Dokeys were coloured plastic beads that you would clip on the wheels. As you pedalled they would move up and down, making a pleasing clickety-clack sound. I used to pretend that it sounded like an actual motorbike, until the day my friend Shane showed me an even cooler modification: using a clothes peg, you attached a little piece of cardboard to the wheel so that it would flutter in between the spokes as you pedalled. This was advanced BMX modifications 101. It sounded a lot more like a motor than the Spokey Dokeys.

II. 

Part of the thrill of riding a BMX is to ride as part of a gang. My own BMX gang roamed the streets of rural Warragul in a spirit of adventure which had no clear goal in mind.  A motley gathering of about five misfits, after school we would grab our bikes and head off to different locations around town in search of intrigue. Favourite destinations were the Kiah Park nature reserve, the so-called snake-pit off Edinburgh St and the creepy cult house up towards the local cemetery. This house has remained the same in the decades since- a two-story wooden building which one can barely glimpse due to the dense foliage and trees blocking passing views. To be fair, it was not verified fact that the occupants (who no-one ever saw) were part of a cult, but it sure seemed that way. Either that or they were serial killers.

III.

My own true love, however, was to get away on my own.

On the occasional weekend, I would take my BMX out for little road trips. With my trusty backpack, I would take my snacks (mostly a cheese and Vegemite sandwich and piece of fruit) and head out into the countryside to see what I could find. Most of the time these were uneventful, but I found them therapeutic. I loved the feeling of endless open space. As I built up my confidence I would travel a little further each time, gradually pushing the geographical boundaries of what I and my BMX were capable of. This all took place in the days before everyone was paranoid about everyone else being a dangerous criminal, and so my parents were relatively carefree about my pilgrimages to various outposts surrounding Warragul.

A favourite trip was to ride through a local park where the town council kept an old steam locomotive as a testament to a bygone industrial era. Once there I would crawl all over the locomotive and examine every square inch of this strange beast. I travelled to this site just last year and the locomotive has since been removed. I felt a sadness wash over me looking at the bland strip of grass where the locomotive used to sit. Must everything be a war on history?

IV. 

There was this one time I got real adventurous: I decided to ride my BMX along Brandy Creek Road for as far as I could before I got scared. I was headed nowhere in particular, IMG_0117-600x340but I harboured a secret ambition to one day ride as far as Rokeby- a tiny farming town about fifteen minutes drive down the road. At Rokeby I could have parked my BMX
alongside the lake and skimmed some rocks. But it wasn’t to be. 
On this day I only got as far as the driveway to Mary Seabrook’s house, which was only a kilometre or so outside Warragul. I got increasingly worried that I was going too far and that I might be kidnapped or run over. The noise of the cars as they approached behind me was mildly terrifying. I didn’t trust drivers. 

It was near the letterbox to the Seabrook’s that I decided to park my BMX. I sat and watched the wheels turn as they slowed down to their resting position. I glanced over toward the Seabrook’s house, which stood at the end of a long driveway. It was a solitary, melancholy house that sat perched on a hill overlooking the countryside. Mary’s husband shot himself in the chest with a shotgun some years before, and I wondered if this gruesome act took place on the property. Perhaps it was haunted. What would it be like to explore this location at night time?

I ate my sandwich as I observed the mountains surrounding the town. In the distance, I could see the towering pinnacle of Mount Worth. I noticed that it was covered in trees. In fact, the whole panorama before me was so very green- the depth of which I have not seen since. It had been a sunny day but there was a crisp, fresh breeze building by the late afternoon.  As I sat I closed my eyes and felt the wind blowing across my face. I imagined I was the captain of a ship and was on a daring sea voyage. It was a nice feeling.

V. 

After some time I gathered my backpack and prepared myself for the return journey. The shadows were growing long in the late afternoon sun. I loved this time of day precisely because it frightened me. The shadows signalled danger, and my mission now was to keep myself moving ahead of the encroaching darkness before anything bad happened to me. It was a manufactured sense of impending doom of course, but the strange tingling sensation felt good throughout my body.

As the darkness grew, the headlights of the cars behind me shone ominously over my BMX as they overtook me furiously pedalling along the side of the road. I felt like I was in the spotlight of some interrogation, except I couldn’t defend myself because I couldn’t see exactly who was advancing on me. All I knew is that I had to pedal faster and faster. Eventually I caught sight of the lights of the local Milk Bar around the corner ahead. I knew once I got there I would be safe. From there it was not too far to my house, and the streets from that point on were all lined with homes with their lights on.

VI. 

I made it home safely and rejoined the noise and clamour of my family. My BMX was stored safely in the empty space under our house, where it would endure the stuffy darkness until the next afternoon’s adventure. Despite walking into a flurry of family activity, I was still imagining myself out by the Seabrook’s letterbox, planning future trips to the faraway vistas I had observed that afternoon. I had done well to make it as far as I had, but I promised myself that next time I would go even further.

 

 

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Portrait of an Anxious Mind

I realised I had been on the same webpage just 1 hour before. It was 2am and my panic resulted in another bout of sleeplessness, so I had been indulging in a favourite pastime: googling my headache symptoms in a subconscious attempt to prove to myself I was about to die.

I didn’t really want to die, did I? Perhaps it was better than this? Why was I so anxious about dying anyway? Perhaps it was because I knew I was going to hell?

I had been scrolling through various health and medical websites for the past 3 hours, trying to find something to would convince me things were not that bad. I doubled back on WebMD for the second occasion, thinking that I might have missed something the first time around. When I first loaded Dr. Google I was content to merely list my symptoms- right side headache, head pressure, dizziness, stiff neck …ad nauseam. This repetitive action brought up a staggering array of results, each of which informed me that I was about to die. I could feel my stomach twist and turn in a familiar yet still unwelcome knot of fear.

My wife suddenly turned in her sleep. She murmured something and then resumed her bliss. I was jealous. 

I kept going with the checking, convinced that somehow the information online would make me feel better. I then remembered something: I could put quotation marks around a search term to pull up results that contained that exact phrase. The Lord was indeed shining his light on me. I set about this new task with the eagerness of an apprentice determined to prove himself to his master. There was no turn of phrase I didn’t try:

“It is unlikely to be cancer”

“Cancer is rare”

“Rare in people under 40”

“Recovery rates are good”

“It’s probably nothing serious”

And so I continued my paranoid search in the darkened moments of the early morning. It got so bad that at one point the Google server sent me an automated security message: “Your account is displaying suspicious behaviour.” Great, I thought. I was now marked as spam.

My wife woke-up. “What are you doing? Stop that for God’s sake. It doesn’t help.” I knew this but simply couldn’t look away from the screen. 

The glow of the screen transfixed my eyes as I gazed into a world of medically induced fear. What I learned over the past 3 hours of relentless checking was that I had cancer. I also had Multiple Sclerosis. It was also likely I had some sort of thyroid problem, with a possible bout of TMJ thrown in for good measure. Overarching all of these perilous conditions was the ongoing threat of instantaneous demise due to stroke or aneurysm.

“Just put the bloody phone away,” my wife muttered under her breath. 

With reluctance, I put the phone down. Just one more website and I would have been OK. It would have told me that I was overreacting and that my anxious mind could produce the very symptoms I was seeking reassurance for. Having woke-up my wife and got myself listed as a spam account on Google I placed the phone in my draw and shut my eyes.

Sleep came slowly. I woke the next day exhausted from last night’s battle. I had to face the world- a world of superficial appearances and never ending pursuit of all forms of success, where everyone wants you to be healthy and well and just super confident and together all the time. A world where daily lies are the currency we use to co-exist: “I am doing great thanks, how are you?” “Oh yeah my wife? she is amazing! we have the best life!”

It was a performance I had undertaken countless times before. And I was good at it. But this morning my body would not let me. I called in sick and opened up google on my phone.

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Small Moments in Love #2

The Church I attended throughout my childhood was small but vibrant. Each Sunday evening we would have a more informal service that was designed to ‘reach out’ to people from non-church backgrounds. I remember these services as a lot of fun, particularly as they were followed by a relaxed dinner in which we would all chat. One of the women in the Church had connections with the local First Australian community, and would regularly bring along a group of girls to these services. They were of similar age to me- perhaps around 11 or 12. Over a period of a few weeks, I noticed that I had caught the attention of one of this group, who would often stare at me at various junctures during the service. Was it possible that she liked me?
I certainly liked her. She had deep, searching brown eyes. I liked the way I would catch her smiling at me from across the Church. I pretended I didn’t notice for the most part- a mixture of disbelief that someone as pretty as her could actually like me and an equally strong desire to be seen as ‘cool’ and nonchalant. Even so, I would steal a gaze in her direction when I felt it was safe to do so.
Yet my ability to wistfully stare was hampered by the fact that she was always surrounded by her friends, who banded around her in what I perceived as a mildly protective stance. They used to stare at me too and would giggle in a way that made me feel as if there was something positively ridiculous about the simple fact of my existence. Again, I tried to ignore it, whilst simultaneously enjoying the attention. However, one evening after the service this group of friends approached me as I stood alone in the Church foyer. I noticed my future beloved (my imagination was working perfectly well) was not with them. Continuing to giggle, one of them shyly told me “My friend likes you.” And with that revelation, they skipped back to their friend and proceeded to assess my face for a reaction.  I smiled at her and tried my best to display a combination of  romantic interest and apathy- a difficult mix to get right.
Eventually, we all left for the night. I only saw the love of my life on one more occasion. Later that same year I attended the Warragul Show with some friends. It was the usual kind of country town deal; a blend of kitsch entertainment with exorbitant prices. Nevertheless, the whole town seemed to be there and it was the most fun one could reasonably hope to have as a grade Sixer. At some point, I noticed the same group of girls from the Church service. They were hovering around a stand selling cheap trinkets. I decided to keep back, too nervous to approach. I didn’t want to appear desperate.
Unbeknownst to me, the girls were already fully aware of my presence at the Show. In fact, at the precise moment I saw them they were helping my beloved choose a bracelet to give to me. Upon deciding, her friends raced up to me and said it was a gift to me from their friend who ‘really, really likes me.’ With that, they ran off, keen to observe my reaction from a distance. In pleasant and nervous shock, I unwrapped the tissue paper in my hand. The contents appeared to reveal nothing more than a crinkle of plastic. It seemed there was no bracelet after all. I looked toward the group of smirking girls, sighed, and deposited the object of my rejection in the nearest bin.
I went to stride away in defiance but was stopped in my tracks by the same group of girls, who had ran up to me before I could escape. “Why did you throw away the bracelet?” they asked. “She really likes you and chose that herself. HOW COULD YOU?” I was mortified and explained that I thought it was a cruel practical joke and also that I thought I was in love with their friend. I raced back to the bin and retrieved the crumple of plastic. On closer examination, there was indeed a small, faux-silver bracelet inside. One blink and you would miss it, as I indeed did.
With my heart overflowing with regret, I put on the bracelet and chased down the object of my love. For the first time, I approached her directly. I ran up to her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before running away so that I could watch their response to my kiss from a safe vantage point. It was to be the last time I would ever see them. They were still laughing together and smiling back at me.
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Western Civilisation in the Twenty-First Century Conference

I will be speaking at the University of Adelaide History Department’s Western Civilisation in the Twenty-First Century conference on 20-21 February, 2020. My paper will deal with nationalism and racism as manifest in various extreme heavy metal subcultures. The event looks fascinating with lot’s of interesting speakers and topics.

More details can be found on the event page:

https://westernciv2020.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

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Nazi Show Trials and the Politics of Condemnation

Roland Freisler was one of the more unsavoury personalities of the Third Reich-era. This achievement was no small feat given his competition: Himmler, Bormann, Goebbels and Streicher were all strong contenders in the crappy personality department. Nevertheless, Freisler occupied a unique place in the pantheon of Nazi functionaries as the odious Judge responsible for condemning thousands of political prisoners to their death.

Born in lower Saxony in 1893, Freisler saw action in the German Army throughout the First World War, receiving the Iron Cross first class. Captured by the Russians on the Eastern Front, Freisler used his time in captivity to learn Russian and cultivate an intellectual interest in Marxism, and some doubt exists as to whether he actually became an ideological sympathiser by way of a dubious associations with Russian military forces. Following his return to Germany in 1920 Freisler resumed his legal studies at the University of Jena. He received his doctorate in 1922, which was eventually published as Schriften des Instituts für Wirtschaftsrecht (Fundamentals of Business Organization). A respectable career in the legal profession followed, in which Freisler distinguished himself as both ruthless and articulate.  Freisler’s biographer Helmut Ortner describes the young lawyer as being “extremely competent in his field and a skilled public speaker,” as well as being a master of “stalling tactics and the art of the probing question”[1]-skills Freisler would use to great effect in coming years.

During this period Freisler involved himself in the National Socialist German Workers Party (NSDAP) via a role on the Kassel city council. A skilled political strategist, Freisler was able to steadily increase his profile within the Nazi party and when Hitler made Chancellor in 1933 Freisler was rewarded with a post as the Director of the Prussian Ministry for Justice. Freisler functioned as a fanatical advocate for the Nazification of Nazi law and helped institute legal changes that would reflect the ideology of Nazism- many of which related to so-called ‘inferior races.’[2] In terms of historical memory, however, Freisler’s lasting legacy is as the noxious president of the Volksgerichtshof– the People’s Court. It was the People’s Court which hosted the infamous Nazi show trials, which are known to history as the stuff of dubious legend.

imagesThe Nazi show trials were nothing more than exercises in party propaganda. Film recordings of these events[3] depict a lonely, crestfallen defendant who had been condemned to death from the moment of arrest. Facing a panel of Nazi-appointed judges and legal staff, the accused were berated, screamed at and mocked in what appears to be little more than an exercise in inflicting humiliation and shame. Behind the defendant lie the courtroom audience and press- many of whom gathered for the purposes of obtaining enjoyment through watching the condemned receive Nazi justice. When called upon to present their defence, the accused faced the intimidating task of facing Freisler disdainful glare. Surrounded by antagonism, many of the defendants were reduced meek whimpering in the face of Freisler verbal ferocity. Appeals to reason, lack of evidence or clemency were utterly in vain, as the proceedings inexorably hurled toward their pre-determined outcome. Many of the accused were at pains to express their loyalty toward ‘Volk und Vaterland,’ and many could appeal to their military service during the Great War as a sign of sacrifice for the nation. That this meant nothing in Freisler’s ‘People’s Court’ merely reflected that the trials were not about prosecuting specific crimes but were instead oriented toward condemning the failure of individuals to reflect Nazi ideology in a sufficiently fanatical and zealous manner.

It is the public nature of these trials which attest to the essentially voyeuristic nature of law and punishment. The punishment being meted out to these alleged ‘criminals’ was in actuality an exercise in entertainment and sadism- twin elements of Nazi justice in which the public was also complicit through their willingness to inform on their friends and family at the slightest misdemeanour. In the Nazi ‘courts’ it was not enough for the prisoner to receive their inevitable sentence swiftly and with minimum of fanfare. Rather, what was essential was that the accused be stripped of their dignity and credibility in the most public way possible- the legal equivalent of the guillotine in the village square. For Freisler, the true crime of the accused was not simply their arrestable offence but related instead to a broader failure to conform to the type of individual required by the Nazi dictatorship. And of course, I use the word ‘individual’ loosely here, as the ideal ‘individual’ for the Nazis was one who did not think critically or independently, but instead unquestioningly submitted themselves to the Führerprinzip.

In his study of the history of the prison, Discipline and Punish, the French philosopher Michel Foucault gives expression to the idea that justice primarily functions as societal revenge toward an individual who dares to defy the moral conventions of the time. The reflections raised by Foucault remain pertinent in our own time of pervasive outrage and mercilessness:

The judges of normality are present everywhere. We are in the society of the teacher-judge, the doctor-judge, the educator-judge, the social-worker judge; it is on them that the universal reign of the normative is based; and each individual, wherever he may find himself, subjects to it his body, his gestures, his behaviour, his aptitudes, his achievements. [4]

According to Foucault, the criminal is judged both officially (according to the law) and the members of the society in which the ‘crime occurred.’ This dual dynamic can be observed in the show trials, as the filming and public spectacle allowed for the maximisation of shame and degradation- and all for the most trivial of misdemeanours (where they did occur at all). The goal was the non-existence of the accused- both literally and symbolically. In the process of condemnation, they became a persona non grata– one without a history or a future. This all had the additional benefit of acting as a fairly effective deterrent to others who might contemplate acting on their rebellious convictions.

The question now becomes: far have we evolved from the era of Nazi show trials? The answer is perhaps not as clear-cut as we might think. Any response to this question must give primacy to the role of technology in our society. The possibilities for self-expression inherent in the age of social media, for example, have also brought with it the curse of superficial moral condemnation, in which the failings of an individual are broadcast to great swathes of people ready to pounce on the accused. What has emerged is a ‘people’s court’ of our own making- one which runs parallel to the state legal system. The new court of public condemnation functions as a space for mass humiliation and degradation, in which those who have failed to meet the moral expectations of a particular group fall prey to humanities lust for blood. Today’s accused remain immortalized in digital memory- broadcast around the world to suffer a condemnation perhaps far worse than any fate that could be meted out by Freisler’s court. And if the reality of this seems overwhelmingly bleak, we can perhaps take small comfort in the manner of Freisler’s death. The Nazi parties toughest and most fanatical Judge died during a bombing raid as he was trying a case in court- a somewhat satisfying end for a truly obnoxious individual. Apparently, no-one mourned his passing.[5]

 

Notes:

[1] Helmut Ortner, Hitler’s Executioner: Roland Freisler, President of the Nazi People’s Court (Yorkshire: Frontline, 2018),

[2] In these effort Freisler found inspiration United States racial segregation laws. See James Whitman, Hitler’s American Model: The United States and the Making of Nazi Race Law (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017), 103–6.

[3] For an assessment of the role of film in the administration of Nazi justice see Peter Drexler, “The German Courtroom Film During the Nazi Period: Ideology, Aesthetics, Historical Context,” Journal of Law and Society, Vol. 8 No. 1 (2001): 64–78.

[4] Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (London: Penguin, 1977), 304.

[5] Granberg, Jerje, “Berlin, Nerves Racked by Air Raids, Fears Russian Army Most,” Oakland Tribune, 23 February 1945, p. 1.

 

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