by Eric Thomson

"But Rabbi, a goy is a goy is a goy!" Israel shook his untidy head, causing his frizzy Afro hairdo to gyrate like tiny coiled springs.

The Elder raised his hand to still the outburst. "Enough of your chutzpah. I should not have to tell you that our tribe depends for its survival on information. We must be informed always and in advance of the goyims' intentions."

"Yes," interjected another member of the hook-nosed company. "What you tell us of this shiksa's activities is most interesting. You say she is behaving like a missionary, talking of a 'Great Awakening'!"

The Elders, being Jews, were in the habit of interrupting others' conversations, and the fat rabbi was no exception. "Nach! But most important, you say she does not speak of these things with all the students, just the Whites!"

"Most unusual at a university. By such time a goy should be thoroughly bent to our teaching," mused the first Elder as he scratched his nose.

A chill of windswept snow entered the chamber, causing the candles to flicker upon the seven-stemmed candelabra, for a moment dispelling the rank odor of kosher bodies.

"Shut the door, schmuck. You vant ve should freeze our asses off?" shouted the fat Elder. "Oh, it's you, Rabbi Kitzel. Excuse me for saying it, but good you don't look."

The melting snow still dripped from the rabbi's proboscis as he flung a sodden leaflet upon the gold-inlaid kaballistic symbols which decorated the top of the Council Table. "Good I don't feel. Look at that!" He pointed a claw-like finger at the leaflet.

Responding to the heat of the stuffy room or to the command of some Higher Power, the leaflet unfolded, blossoming like a flower of purity in the midst of the vampiric assembly. Defiantly emblazoned upon the single sheet of white paper were the bold letters forming the slogan "BUY ARYAN!" But it was the proud, invincible Aryan Cross standing guard at each corner of the page which brought on a chorus of frenzied ululation.



"Ki-yi-yi-yi-yill goy-yoi-yoi-yoi-yim!"

After the paroxysm of talmudic hatred had subsided, Rabbi Kitzel resumed the discussion. "Second time this week the neighborhood's been plastered with these. I can tell you, it's bad for business. Some of the goyim are shopping at the Jones Butcheries instead of mine. I've noticed a definite downturn in sales at most of my other shops as well. It's only a blessing the stupid goyim don't know I own the Jones shops too."

"Stupid, stupid goyim," ughed the others, rubbing their hands together.

"Don't feel so bad, Hymie, my son," admonished the eldest rabbi, whose breath stank of ill-digested raw salmon "Our informers will surely lead us to the culprit who is distributing these leaflets. Then you will have more hamburger on the next Feast of Purim, may that happy occasion be not long delayed."

"Amen", said the fat rabbi, audibly smacking his blubbery lips.

"Amen!" said all assembled. "Yahweh be praised!"

The first Elder nudged the youth with his elbow. "You see, Israel, my boy, how we must not relax our vigilance for an instant. So we sponsor a thousand churches and phoney political groups to befuddle the goyim, and for the most part we succeed in deluding them. But there are always the few who see through our smoke screen and divine our real purpose of Zionist World Conquest. These we must weed out and destroy, for although our plans have nearly been fulfilled, there is still a great danger of their being upset by the unforeseen. That is why there must be NO unforeseen. Do you now grasp the importance of your work, Izzey? Even though it may not lead to the discovery of anything important in this case, you must not slacken.

"Remember, the best of the goyim must be killed. It is so written in the Talmud," said the Elder as he thrust the leaflet into the candle flame.

"I understand, Rabbi. I'll let you know what I find out. Shalom." Israel rose from his place amid the obscene gathering and left the chamber accompanied by raucous shouts of "Shalom!", "Next year in Jerusalem!", and "Shut the door, schmuck!"

Buttoning his expensive carcoat, he strode arrogantly down the icy, darkened street to his waiting Jaguar sportscar.

It was good, he felt, to be an adept of the Lodge wherein no gentile could enter, although no Jew could be stayed from entering the most sacred of the goyisch inner sanctums as the law forbade such discrimination. Yes, he could truly thank Yahweh for making him one of his Chosen People. The trusting, slow-witted goyim were sheep for the slaughter, placidly unaware that their chosen shepherds were in league with the ravening wolves and that the wolves shared the very sheepfold! Yes, stupid, stupid goyim.

The image of a naked blond Nordic girl (or boy, for that matter), heavily chained and subject entirely to his will filled him with a sudden burst of lust. Panting, he played with his twisted sexual fantasy as he waited for the engine to warm up, his prominent nostrils twitching in appreciation of the fresh leather aroma of the sumptuous upholstery.

"It smells like money," he thought, causing the powerful engine to roar into life.

Returning his thoughts to the fantasy of the Nordic body, he realized that chains were unnecessary. He could satisfy his every whim with money alone. Those little dollar signs, dancing to the tune of his people, were heavier than all the metal chains in the world and they were created out of nothing, mere chicken scratches upon a ledger page. How stupid the goyim were!

These thoughts so inflamed Israel's potbellied physique that he kept his foot pressed down upon the accelerator as he jammed the automatic transmission into gear. The rear wheels spun upon the ice until they gripped dry pavement, whereupon the Jaguar catapulted forward. Israel lost control of the steering as the tires skidded over another patch of ice. The fire plug approached as if in slow motion, and Israel's eyes fixed upon the inevitable in horrified fascination. What would his mother say?

The Jaguar spun around and hit the hydrant broadside, demolishing the rear fender as the car bounced over the curb. He felt the car ride up, onto the gushing, jagged stem of the broken hydrant, and heard the fan blades shriek as they chewed into the radiator. The broken fire hydrant had lifted the madly racing engine from its mounting and the hood burst open to spew out a geyser of water haloed with a cloud of smoke and steam from the damaged engine. If this were not enough, the violent impact had caused a short in the electrical wiring and the car was now on fire.

In a fever of panic, Israel wrenched at the door handle. The door on the driver's side was jammed. Like a pilot desperately trying to bale out of a stricken aircraft, he clawed at his safetybelt and fought to pull himself out of the cramped confines of the bucket seat. His legs tangled in the voluminous folds of his expensive bellbottom trousers, and his high, platform shoes impeded his frenzied efforts to escape, like leaden divers' boots. A voice, not quite human (his own) dinned in his ears as the sealed cockpit filled with blinding, noxious smoke.

"...reckless driving, creating a public nuisance, insulting an officer of the law..." The pencil moved implacably over the page of the little notebook as the policeman recited the charges.

As the fire sirens approAched in the distance, Israel fumed and bit his lips. The young, White policeman's quiet voice and polite manner had prompted him into an arrogant tantrum, despite the officer's fortunate appearance on the otherwise deserted street and his prompt rescue of the irate Jew from the now blazing wreck of the car. He hated the handsome, regular features and the calm, businesslike demeanor of the young policeman. Oh, how he would love to see him cringe, begging for mercy, as he thrust in the sacrificial knife. That happy day would come, he promised himself, so it would be wise to keep silent. Besides, it was too cold to stand around.

With feigned contrition, he accepted the ticket and took a taxi home.

He missed two of his morning classes in psychodrama, but he was well in time for Professor Shapstein's sensitivity-training seminar. He was rarely absent from these classes, as he loved to fondle the breasts of trusting young White girls and feel their gentle, uncertain hands on the lower portions of his anatomy. The negroes were also punctual in their attendance, as fragrant White flesh was very much to their liking.

Following this hour of strenuous intellectual discipline, Israel went over to the Student Cafeteria for his accustomed coffee break. As he left the cashier's stand, he saw, sitting at a windowside table, the young blond object of his mission. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail which accentuated her high forehead and classic features.

Straightaway he changed course and made for her table, jostling others who chanced to be in his path. He knew just how much he could impose upon the good nature and politeness of the Whites, whose manners he dismissed as stupidity and weakness. By behaving rudely and getting away with it, he was able to still the nagging fear in his mind that they knew all about him and were waiting...

"S---!" He brusquely tried to shake off the disquieting thought with a gutter expletive. "If they haven't wakened in 6000 years, why should they wake up now? Wakening... The 'Great Awakening'...!" The thought reminded him of his mission and snapped him back into the reality of his surroundings.

There was a young White couple sitting opposite the blond girl, apparently involved in earnest discussion with her. The conversation ceased as they saw him approach and, since he was going to sit at their table, despite the abundance of places at other tables, the couple gathered up their books and took their leave.

"Hi ya, I'm Izzey," he said raucously as he slumped into the recently vacated seat in front of her.

She regarded the Afroed apparition coolly, and with a twinkle of mischief in her ice-blue eyes said, "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it curable?" Her well-enunciated English sounded foreign to him.

"Hey, like don't put me down, man!" Unconsciously he aped the dialect of dope addicts and negroes. "Where ya from?"

The reddening of her cheeks showed that she wore no makeup and her eyebrows, as blond as her hair, arched in mild annoyance. "Unless your 'Izzeyness' has afflicted your sight, you must be able to see that I am not a man. As for your question, I come from the North. May I ask where you come from? It was my understanding that most of those who lived in this region spoke English."

"Oh, wow! You come on too strong." He drank a mouthful of coffee and smacked his lips. "Hey, like this is a free country. You got no right to put me down."

"I'm sorry, but I am still unused to the local customs. I did not realize that 'freedom' entitled you to intrude upon my privacy, but does not allow me to defend myself against intrusion. Thank you for the lesson." She smiled wistfully.

Israel's thoughts of lust, the girl's exotic manner, his duty to discover her purpose, and his own incorrigible self-centeredness were proof against her sarcasm. "Whatcha studying?" He took a bite of chocolate donut, smacking his lips as he chewed.

The girl's gaze was distant, her eyes focussed as if they saw through him. "Biology." Her voice was gentle, just audible over the incessant clash of dishes and the boisterous voices of the black students. Her thoughts were obviously far away.

"A drug freak," thought Izzey, "Wonder what she's on."

Incapable of subtlety, he burst out, "So what's this 'Great Awakening' you're turned on to?"

"Oh, that," she laughed, "That's the slogan of a new encounter group."

He opened his lips in mid-smack, "Not some kind of Jesus-freak scene, is it?"

His Jewish impudence seemed to be having the right effect. "It never fails," he thought, "these goyisch bitches are spoiled and really want to be bossed around by a big black stud or the nearest substitute." Izzey tried to make up for his lack of physique by his volume of noise output, often successfully.

The girl sipped her coffee as she considered her reply. "No, we're not Christians, if that's what you mean. It's more like..."

"...anything goes!" he interrupted.

The girl agreed. "Yes, that is a good description."

He lit a cigarette without asking her permission. "You dig, I'm really into the encounter grope, uh, group scene. Funny I never heard about your 'Great Awakening' crowd." He blew the acrid smoke across her saucer.

She twitched her nose and frowned at his effrontery. "I hope my eating does not bother your smoking."

"Naw, go right ahead." Izzey felt in a generous, expansive mood. Yahweh was on his throne and all was going splendidly. Maybe the White girl would be a good lay, he thought. Action followed thought as he reached under the table and put his hand on her knee.

"Ouch! Mutha f---!" He stared at the back of his hand in disbelief. A small, deep cut stung furiously, and blood oozed into a large, dark glob which suddenly broke and ran onto his expensive bell bottoms. "Ya bitch! Whyja do that?"

"Please control yourself," she said, giving her sharp fingernails a casual appraisal. "Your eagerness is appreciated, however. You may come to our encounter group this evening. Meet me at the University Subway Station tonight at 11:30."

"Thanks a lot for the invite, bitch. Ow!" He sucked at his wound.

"Excuse me, I must go now." With graceful swiftness she collected her books, rose from the table, and vanished in the milling crowd.

Izzey stared after her, a trickle of blood and spittle running down his pimply chin. "I'll getcha, goyisch bitch!" His hatred like a dagger aimed at her smooth, white throat.

It was 11:45.

"Keep her waiting," he chuckled, "Izzey doesn't beg favors from goyisch bitches."

Clearly, Izzey's hand was not the only thing pricked by the 'ice princess', as he nicknamed her.

He turned his father's Cadillac onto the street which went past the subway station, and saw her standing at the entrance, a pale, upright figure, only the mist of her breath to show that she was not a statue. He stamped on the brake pedal and lurched to a halt, but she seemed not to see him.

He pressed the electric control button and lowered the window on the passenger side. "Well, c'mon, get in!"

She shook her head and beckoned to him, a slow, graceful motion made as if she were swimming at a great depth. It would have struck him as distinctly eerie, had she not looked so beautiful, nor the streetlights so bright. "Besides," he thought, "she must be on something which has blown her mind. Great! Just the way I want her. She won't know what's happening."

With this predatory presumption, he got out of the car and approached her. He drew within six feet of her, close enough to see her red cheeks and the movement of the fur fringe upon her white cape as a slight breath of wind stirred the chill air. She was looking in his direction again, not at him, but through him, as if he were not there. Strangely, her implacable gaze reassured him. "She's high on something, that's for sure," he smiled to himself.

"Well," he reached for her arm, "come on, what're you freezing me out here for?"

"My name is Gudrun," she said matter-of-factly, "I was waiting for you and you are late."

"So what?" He motioned toward his car. "Get in and tell me where this encounter group meets."

She did not move. "No, you will come with me." With a sudden push, she opened the door to the station and strode swiftly toward the turnstile.

"Goddamn it, you crazy or something?" He pushed in after her.

Already she was through the turnstile and hurrying down the dimly-lighted stairs. As there was no one else in the station, Israel climbed over the turnstile and raced after her, their footsteps echoing among the deserted corridors. In his pursuit of the fleeting white figure, Izzey was only vaguely aware of the metallic voice intoning at intervals, "Attention, subway patrons, the University section of the subway is now closed... now closed... now closed..."

Panting from the unaccustomed exertion, Izzey overtook her on the darkened platform. "What the f---ya tryna do?"

She smiled at him radiantly. "I knew you would come."

Still trying to catch his breath, he shouted between puffs, "Ya crazy bitch. There ain't no trains... at... this..."

The rumble was unmistakable. Soon the headlamps beamed upon them and the train screeched to a halt at the platform.

"Well, I, uh..." he stammered.

This time she took hold of him arm led him through the open doors. "You almost made us miss the last train. Come, sit here, beside me."

"But I left my car up there with the engine running!" He tried to pull away, but gave up when the doors closed and the train sped onwards.

In numb fascination he watched station after station flash by. His racial paranoia began to fill him with dread as he noticed that no other passengers rode the wildly hurtling train. Still, he was with a mere girl against whom he could certainly defend himself. Thus comforted, he began to occupy himself by watching the swiftly passing scenery, for now they rode upon a surface line which took them through some old-fashioned suburbs and into a seemingly endless forest. Feeling an incessant pain in his ribs, he turned toward the girl.

"Cut that out, will ya?" he snarled, showing his yellowed, rat-like teeth.

She withdrew her elbow and smiled with her peculiar blend of innocence tinged with mischief. "But you weren't listening. You must pay attention when I tell you about the princess who lived east of the sun and west of the moon."

"Lay off with the fairy tales!" He shivered involuntarily.

"Oh well, you won't have to hear it now. We're almost there." She gave a low-pitched chuckle.

"Stop it. Stop it, I tell ya!" He shook her by the shoulder. "Come on, you gotta tell me what you're on!"

She looked deep into his eyes with an expression of bland incomprehension. "On? Why I, you, are on this train. When it stops, we shall get off. Is that unusual?"

"Look, I don't wanna hear..." He jerked his head toward the window.

The train was slowing down. A signpost flashed by, but the driven snow had covered the name of the station. Soon, they stopped in a forest clearing filled with the mist of powdery snow blown from the surrounding fir trees. The doors opened and the girl got up to leave. She looked down at Izzey, the unspoken question in her eyes.

"Don't worry about me," he said, a defensive edge to his voice. "Nothing's getting me off this train."

"As you wish. The coroner will take you off in the morning. This is the last stop. There is no heat, no current to close the doors, and there is frost in the air. Good night!" She stepped out into the snow.

"So what, meshuga, I'll be warmer in here then out there, with a cold bitch like you!" He hunched his shoulders and pulled his carcoat tighter about him.

The minutes crept by.

"She's right," he thought. "It's getting colder."

He huddled onto the seat and tried to sleep, but the cold was too deep, too penetrating to ignore. Soon, he had to stand up and stamp his feet, slapping his arms about him to gain warmth from increased circulation. It was damnable, he thought, to be so sleepy and yet unable to sleep. He sniffed the cold air. Was he imagining, or did he smell woodsmoke? He sniffed again. No doubt about it, there was woodsmoke in the air. Someone had a warm fire nearby.

Unable to face the cold any longer, Izzey decided to leave the train. His first step caused him to fall into a deep snow drift which had concealed the gap between the train and the rough-hewn platform. He fought his way out, cursing the sudden chill, and reached firmer footing. As he stood rubbing the snow out of his eyes, he heard the surge of current in the traction motors, the hiss of escaping air and the rumble of the train as it got underway.

"Wait!" he screamed. "Wait, ya bastid, ya gotta let me on!" He floundered in the snow and tripped over one of the platform logs. Impotently, he called after the fast-receding train, reviling it with all the filth-ridden curses of the Talmud which came to mind. Soon he was alone, with only the whisper of the wind playing in the fir branches overhead. The cold froze his tantrum in short order and it became imperative for him to find the source of the smoke or die of exposure. Clumsily he regained his feet and lurched in the direction in which he had seen the girl go. It was not easy to follow her footprints, as the snow was drifting into the hollows and the faint impressions were hard to see in the dark, but soon the smell of smoke grew stronger and not far ahead he saw the rustic outlines of a large, well-lighted hunting lodge, the only building in the vicinity. As he slogged his way forward he began to discern the sounds of loud revelry which one might associate with a monumental beer bust.

"Jeez," he muttered with frosted breath. "All this work to discover some whacked-out fraternity house. Sheeeeeit!"

He climbed a broad flight of log steps and crossed the freshly-swept veranda. The lodge's oaken door was massive, and he wondered how many shekels it had cost the management. After a fruitless search for a bell or buzzer, he discovered that the huge, antlered deer skull which hung from the door served as a knocker. Using both hands and much effort, he raised the skull and let it crash against the door.

Soon, the door swung open, wide enough to allow a bearded, ruddy face to protrude.

"Is Gudrun in there? I'm her guest." He hurriedly wiped his streaming nose upon his coatsleeve.

"Gudrun?" queried the ruddy face in a thick foreign accent. "Gudrun!"

A woman's voice answered, followed by a peal of laughter.

"Some party," thought Izzey. "Wonder if I could turn them onto some smack. After all, business is pleasure."

"Come in," said Gudrun. "You will catch cold out there." She held the door open for him.

Slowly he entered the smokey hall, his limbs stiff with cold. As he became warmer he warily looked about him. The interior of the lodge was enormous. Despite the great height, there was only one room and the smoke from large fires rose to vanish amid the blackened rafters far above. The floors were covered with rushes, and the revellers sat on benches beside trestle tables well laden with food and drink. Although Izzey thought the manager was stupid for switching off the electric lights, he could see by the flickering torchlight that the walls were decorated with spears, shields and hunting trophies. His panic subsided when he caught sight of the many long-haired 'freaks' who wore far-out clothes, some of which looked like animal skins. What a commune this was! Still, there weren't enough blacks to make the scene swing. In fact, he saw not one. Moreover, the desultory outbursts of singing were nothing compared to a rock band which had obviously not yet made its appearance.

Izzey felt dwarfed by most of the male members of the company, and by most of the females, for that matter, although they were barefoot while he still wore his platform shoes. The majority of the guests were blond, with a mere sprinkle of brunettes and redheads. None of them looked Jewish, so it appeared that he, Izzey Zilchstein, had invaded this lily-white bastion all on his lonesome. The Elders would be pleased with him, he thought.

"You have had nothing to eat or drink" said Gudrun, proffering a clay bowl brimming with a frothy, golden liquid.

She wore a simple garment of white cloth, bound at the waist with a golden chain which supported an ornate sword and scabbard. The ensemble did full justice to her firm, lithe figure and revealed much of her healthy complexion.

Forgetting his previous misadventure, he would have grasped the luscious goddess before him, but he needed both his hands to hold the heavy drinking bowl.

"Skol." Gudrun raised a horn goblet and poured out a libation upon the floor. The remainder she drank.

"Shalom," said Izzey, cautiously sipping the golden beverage which tasted of honey. "Hey, whose pad is this?"

"You will soon meet the host." Gudrun smiled.

As if in answer, there came the ring of sword upon shield and the squall of brazen war trumpets. The door of the hall crashed open, and all stood silent in expectation.

"What happens now?" Izzey stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the shoulders of the towering assembly.

"Silence," hissed Gudrun. "The ceremony has begun."

Into the hall marched a short-haired, well-muscled young man, naked but for the heavy sledgehammer which he carried easily in his right hand. The throng parted to make way for him, forming a broad aisle running the length of the hall. Izzey recognized him as the policeman who had rescued him the previous night. "Wait 'til I tell his Chief," chuckled Izzey. "He'll be only too glad to drop the charges."

The hammer-bearer strode past the clad assembly with an air of dignity which no kingly robes could confer. At last he reached the end of the hall and turned to face the vast company.

Gudrun unsheathed her sword and jabbed one of Izzey's well-padded buttocks. "Go now. It is your turn."

"Ow, hey, you can't..."

With surprising strength she grasped his arm and twisted it behind his back, thus steering him up the aisle toward the squat stone altar and the stern-visaged hammer-bearer.

Izzey was too dumbfounded to raise a last raucous protest as other maidens grasped his limbs and held him spread-eagled upon the cold stone surface of the altar. With merciful swiftness, the priest raised the sacred hammer and brought it crashing down upon the head of the speechless Israel, whose blood, bones and brains were scattered to the four winds in that instant.



There are a great many goddesses whose duty it is to serve in Valhalla, to bear in the drink and take care of the drinking-horns and whatever belongs to the table. They are named in Grimnismal, and are called Valkyries. Odin sends them to every field of battle, to make choice of those who are to be slain, and to sway the victory. Gudur, Rota, and the youngest of the Norns, Skuld, also ride forth to choose the slain and turn the combat. Jord (earth), the mother of Thor, and Rinda, the mother of Vali, are also reckoned amongst the goddesses.

The first of the goddesses is Frigga, the second, Saga, the third, Eir, the fourth, Gefjon, the fifth, Fulla, the sixth, Freyja (who is ranked next to Frigga), the seventh, Sjofna, the eighth, Lofna, the ninth, Vora, the tenth, Syn, the eleventh, Hlina, the twelfth, Snotra, the thirteenth, Gna, the fourteenth, Sol, and the fifteenth, Bil. 


We ask, did our ancestors practice ritual killing? Archeology presents undeniable evidence of such "ritual murders", by both Odinists and Druids. The questions remain: how were victims selected out, and is there ever justification for such killings?

The ancient Semites practiced ritual murder of children and adults for their god or gods. Indeed, there are whispers that it continues into our own day, as referred to in The Awakening. They chose their victims on the basis of their innocence from sin, the idea being that the innocent blood of the offering washes away the sin of the person making the sacrifice. One example from the Bible tells of Abraham preparing to sacrifice his only child until an angel gets him to use a lamb instead. Carried further, in Judaeo-Christianity the sinless Christ is offered up for the sins of all. Compare this to Odin's sacrifice of Himself to Himself to gain wisdom which He can use in His struggle against evil. The runes He gains knowledge of are of direct benefit to the Aryan People. Odin made the choice for Himself. He was always in charge of His own fate.

Our ancestors had totally different methods of selecting victims from Semites. The Druids executed condemned criminals under the authority of the Gods, as was the case in Odinism, where criminals were first hanged, then cast into bogs. There is not a whisper that a person is not responsible for his own actions and can murder a child to evade responsibility. As in The Awakening, active enemies of the folk-community were executed under the authority of the Gods. Clearly, "Izzey" is a violent anti-White fanatic and suffers his just deserts from the Hammer of Thor acting under the authority of Odin.

Should such actions move beyond the pages of a fictional story? Odinists have not officially practiced ritual killing of human beings (homo sapiens) for centuries, but Aryan religiosity endures to our own day. Aryans in the American South have been practicing the traditional method of sacrifice in their traditional "lynching ceremony", which is the object of hysterical persecution by anti-White elements. 

There seems to be one law for Loki, and one for Thor.

"From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, O Lord!": A Christian Prayer.

By the same author: THE CHOSEN ONE; describes Odinist-style conquest of a South American country.