[12] We are suffering and our blood is being spilled. But it is nothing. Future generations will pay dearly for the shame and infamy the German nation has brought upon itself. Every German will blush at the thought of the twentieth century. For this madness must come to an end. The blindfold that this band of criminals has put over the nation’s eyes will inevitably fall, and then a single resounding, sustained cry will come from the mouths of 80 million people, one that will last for centuries:
“Führer, Sieger des Judenkrieg,10 account for what you have done! Why have you fooled us? Why have you lied, oppressed, and murdered us? Why have you brought the leprosy of dishonesty and inhumanity upon us? Be condemned, be damned forever as a criminal and murderer! Die and vanish like a festering sore that has left an ugly mark on a healthy body!”
The day will come when an anguished mankind will cry out:
“Hitler! Stand trial! Explain yourself, and your deeds! Why do you keep silent? You, the author of the fascist ideology of blood, torture, and the fist—why do you keep silent? Away, murderer!” This cry will break the criminal. It will crush, trample, and torment this non-human, this creator with the likeness of a human, but [13] made exclusively of murder and rage. He will disappear forever, never to be mentioned again.
Rain. An unpleasant autumn drizzle taps at the window panes, patters on the window sills, and sobs. The clock has come to its aid [. . .] with its monotonous, incessant ticking. The bust of Voltaire11 on the bookcase, ever the same and smiling mysteriously, seems to be content. Like a malevolent satyr it enjoys the misery of the world. It seems to give orders to the rain from the height of the bookcase in the small, distant room. And the rain obeys. It patters and sobs. No wonder. The long-expected foul autumn weather has come. The soaked, rain-drenched city dissolves in the fog outside the window. It is nothing like the same, yet already so distant, world—that of last summer. So recent, but so distant. The light from the street lamp mixes with the shadows to form violet streaks and reflections in the dark room I know so well, but which seems so novel. It is already dark. Pitch black. And yet not every night
