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BREAK HIS BONES BREAK HIS BONES by Bradley R. Smith BRADLEY R. SMITH POST OFFICE BOX 439016 SAN YSIDRO, CALIFORNIA 92143 BREAK HIS BONES The Private Life of a Holocaust Revisionist by Bradley R. Smith First Printing: September 2002 Published by Bradley R. Smith Post Office Box 439016 San Ysidro, CA 92143 With the Assistance of Theses & Dissertations Press PO Box 64 Capshaw, AL 35742 ISBN 0-9723756-0-0 Copyright 2002 by Bradley R. Smith Printed in the United States of America AUTHOR’S NOTE It’s a truism. Things are different since 11 September 2001. Of course, things are always different, which is why the open-minded find life so mysterious. The mystery goes beyond mere unpredictability. We don’t know how we come into the world, never learn what we are or what happens to us when we’re finished. It’s been noted by an English sage that, as a matter of fact, we do not come into the world at all, that we come from the world. I am beguiled by the implica- tions of this observation. What it implies lifts up my heart, but this too is mysterious. After radical Islamists expressed their displeasure with American foreign policy at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon it was suggested by some that, having experi- enced our own holocaust, we would never talk about the Jewish Holocaust the way we had talked about it before. On the one hand that would be a mitzvah for those of us who do not personally represent the Holocaust Industry, or profit from it, and in any event do not want to hear about it any longer. On the other, I have lived with the story for so long that at first I was uncertain what I might do without it. I’ve spent my golden years trying to convince the pro- fessors and our other cultural elites that they should en- courage, rather than discourage, intellectual freedom and open debate, even with regard to the Holocaust question. I have failed—so far. If I had been successful it might have become widely known, even in the U.S. Congress, that many 6 BRADLEY R. SMITH, BREAK HIS BONES of the core elements of the Holocaust story are schlock, and that the story should not be used by the Congress to morally legitimate, and fund, Jewish greed for Palestinian land. It appears that some Islamic radicals have come to the same conclusion. The barbarity of Israelis and Palestinians toward each other is demonstrated again and again on national television. But the U.S. Congress has not given the Palestinians a cou- ple hundred billion dollars to fund the humiliation and bru- talization of Israeli Jews. It has given Israeli Jews, however, a couple hundred billion to fund the brutalization and humilia- tion of Palestinian Arabs. Why? Because of the “Holocaust” story, significant parts of which are nonsense tales. It is clear to me that what the Palestinians do are not my responsibility in the same way, or to the same degree, as are the actions of the U.S. Congress and the Israeli State. The issues of intellectual freedom and a free press with regard to the Holocaust story and American-Israeli rela- tions remain today what they were before 9/11. American- Israeli relations and the Holocaust story are two sides of the same tabooed coin. A handful of radical Islamic killers have managed to flip the taboo on its back, like a child flipping a penny. The struggle against intellectual taboo in this century remains what was in the last. Those who rule, and those who inform those who rule how to rule, are not going to change their spots. It’s up to the rest of us. PREFACE Journalists and others in questionable professions like to ask why I argue for an open debate on the Jewish Holocaust story instead of some other story. I don’t really know why. Of course, those who ask that question do not ask themselves why they do not ask me some other question. That’s how it goes. The why questions are the difficult ones. That’s why we ask them of others but seldom of ourselves. Patting myself on the back, I will say that I have asked myself many times why I argue for an open debate on that story and not some other one. After twenty years I am left with the same answer. I don’t know why I started asking, and now I don’t know why I don’t stop. The experience of try- ing to get academics to be honest about the moral corruption and historical fraud forwarded by the Holocaust Industry has left me isolated, broke, and old. I’m not saying that the experience has been a waste of time. Far from it. There have been many laughs, I have made many friends, even if it is a rare moment that I can spend time with them, and I have gained one interesting insight. Now I understand that not only do I not know why I decided to argue for an open debate on the Jewish Holocaust story, I do not know why I decide to do anything. Which either com- plicates the issue or simplifies it, depending on which way you perceive the wind to be blowing at any given moment. I mean the big stuff of course, not the little stuff. We all understand the little stuff. I understand why, for example, 8 BRADLEY R. SMITH, BREAK HIS BONES I decide each time to eat the inside of the banana rather than the outside—but wait a minute—thought has just recalled, using a process too racy and complicated for me to follow, that it has been observed that during the high periods in the history of the novel narrative dominates, while in its low pe- riods the subjective dominates. Thought responds: and Proust? I don’t do novels, however, so I don’t understand why thought would have bothered me with this little back and forth. If I am unable to understand what thought just did with regard to bananas and the history of the novel, I do not think I am going to find out why I began to argue that the history of the 20th century will have to be rewritten. In sev- enty years I have made only three big decisions. It’s clear to me that each was made without benefit of purposeful thought, that each was the expression of a small collision where my personality bumped (originally I wrote “crashed” but that’s too large a word for it) into the movement of the age, and that in any case it hardly matters one way or the other. I’ve stayed afloat, had a relatively interesting life what- ever that is, have damaged relatively few people, have few regrets, accomplished nothing remarkable, and now it’s com- ing to an end, which appears to me to be remarkable in it- self—no beginning, no end. At twenty-one I decided to become a writer. This was an okay decision and never hurt anyone directly. When I was thirty-three I decided that the visions were real, but real for me alone. That one was okay too for the same reasons that the first one was okay. When I was forty-nine I decided that there was something fishy about the “gas chamber” stories. That time it was different. That time my decision was not about me, but about the age. If the gas chamber stories weren’t right, the “genocide” of the Jews would begin to smell bad. I had never dreamed that I would sniff that one out. But once I had, there was nothing for it, and I have been follow- ing my nose ever since. My sense of smell soon put me up against many of the great brains and great souls of the age. Many of these, per- haps all of them, know more about everything than I do and are more sensitive about everything than I am, except for one thing. I understand something of how the mechanism works, BRADLEY R. SMITH, BREAK HIS BONES 9 the movement of my own heart. I recall Hemmingway observ- ing in a letter to someone that he had a “built-in shit- detector.” For a while, he did. For a while he could smell shit a mile away. I’m skating on thin ice here, but my reaction to my first reading of a revisionist paper on the gas chamber stories was, shall we say, Hemingwayesque. Nothing I have read or heard since about gas chambers has been able to put a good odor to them. From one morning in my twenty-first year to this one I have never stopped writing. I have failed as a literary writer, and failed as a journalist, but it makes no difference to me. I’m the fool that Sam Johnson warned us against, the scrib- bler who will write when he has no audience and does not even get paid for it. You can say it’s obvious why I decided to become a writer, that it was the psychological stress of hav- ing been in combat and so on. But there were many young men in the army hospitals with me, most of them had seen worse than I had seen and all were hurt worse than I was hurt, yet I’m the one who became the writer. Why? On the other hand, why ask? It’s already gone.

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