There was only one English book aboard: Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham, which he read repeatedly and practically memorized. He supposed he should be grateful, although he attributed his miraculous survival record to his old standby, his absolute conviction that he was born under a lucky star.
He looked back, with some nostalgia, free of remorse. He had been a good Bund member and an exemplary and heroic SS man, a true believer. He had no illusions as to why this battle would be lost. The Jews would win. Despite all the superhuman efforts to eliminate their influence, despite the elaborate killing mechanisms, despite the effort by Hitler to rally the world against this scourge, despite the mass executions by bullets and gas, the Jews were sure to win what, in his mind, was merely the first round.
Perhaps the Nazis, in the end, were not clever enough, not ruthless enough, not single-minded enough, and too soft and weak to accomplish their purpose. Those like himself, who were spared — he was certain — fate had picked to survive, to continue to carry out the mission, or face the prospect of being forever enslaved by the Jew and his twisted agenda.
He felt nothing for the SS men he had murdered in the prison. They deserved their fate. They had not been worthy of the battle. They had buckled, lost their courage. They deserved to bite the dust.
He approved of the mission the Russians had devised for him. It defined why he had made such an effort to survive. His role was to continue the battle. He had a clear view of his real enemy, the enemy of all white people everywhere. The Jews had deliberately set about to corrupt the blood of other peoples, while they kept themselves pure and watched with glee how the blood of the other races created a world of degenerates. They had engineered the bastardization of the human race.
He welcomed the idea of killing anyone who did the Jews’ bidding, especially their leaders, the Jew Roosevelt and his henchmen, Marshall and Eisenhower, and that fat tub of lard, Churchill. The Russians, too, were on his list, manipulated by Jews. Marx was a Jew. Trotsky was a Jew. The Jews invented Communism. The protocols of Zion proved what they wanted: world domination.
He dismissed the apparent loss of the war as merely a phase in the struggle. The mixed races had won temporarily. The Slavic and Mongoloid hordes and the American half-breeds and their allies had been the Jews’ soldiers. He would carry on the battle until it was joined again. His father had understood; a Jew had cheated him out of a job. A hit-and-run driver — certainly a Jew — had killed his mother. He had their number. He had no illusions.
He lived with a pure blue flame of purpose. His hope was that the Soviets would be coldly efficient enough to set him up to kill one of the top kike leaders or surrogates. Not that he had much faith in their skills. Dimitrov was a lackey for his boss, Beria, who ran their secret police and was probably a Jew himself.
After the sub was two weeks without radio contact, it surfaced at an apparently prearranged rendezvous site near a Russian warship that signaled Roosevelt had died. The captain seemed genuinely sad at the news and managed to convey the information to Miller, who turned away quickly. He did not want the captain to see his smile.
Good riddance, he thought, another Jew gone.
Finally, the journey ended. The sub surfaced in the dead of night, and he was put ashore on a barren beach on the coast of Canada, exactly as planned. The sub commander shook his hand and wished him good luck in English, which surprised him.
The sun was just rising when he found the car in the exact place that was designated a two-mile walk from where he had landed. Checking the car carefully, he opened the trunk and found a duffel bag filled with the promised weapons. Beside the duffel was a smaller one in which he found the Canadian and U.S. dollars.
The efficiency of the Russians surprised him. Their superiors had told them that the Reds were a gaggle of ignorant peasants; they were partially right. Dimitrov, though, was one clever bastard. He knew the Americans would be coming for them one day. They were planning ahead and he, Miller, was their advance unit.
Indeed, the Russian spy network was a masterpiece of planning — probably run by Jews for their own sinister purposes. One day they would have their comeuppance. At least in this area, Miller convinced himself he and Dimitrov were both on the right side.
Dimitrov had told him that America was riddled with Russian spies and that he would be under constant surveillance. He doubted that, although it remained to be seen. He would reserve judgment.
The car was a Chevrolet, a late-thirties sedan with District of Columbia license plates. It had a full tank of gas and worked perfectly. He headed south in the direction of Montreal, keeping well within the speed limits. Checking his map, he figured that he would be in Washington in four days.
As he drove, he turned on the radio and flipped the dial until he got a decent signal. Music played he hadn’t heard for years: Bing Crosby, the Andrews Sisters, Kate Smith. He was particularly amused by “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” Despite his cynicism, the songs triggered his memory. Although his mother had died when he was five, he imagined that he could remember the tactile sensation of her embrace, its enveloping warmth, and the scent of her body.
In the depth of his dreams, he often saw her watching him, her lips moving, and her smile broad and loving. Her pictures were in his father’s house, and in his dreams, she seemed accurately portrayed and very much alive. At times in these dreams, she lifted her arms and beckoned him, and he came forward into her embrace. Often, he awoke and found his face wet with tears. He did not have these dreams about his father, whom he respected, revered, and obeyed, but he could not summon the same emotional connection for him as he had with his dead mother. He was surprised that these songs could stir such sentimental thoughts. When he was just about to turn off the radio, an announcer interrupted the music; Berlin had fallen and the Führer had reportedly committed suicide.
His SS training had conditioned him to show no emotion when confronted with defeat. He now used that repression to strengthen his resolve. He had been taught to idolize the Führer and he did in his gut, but he took the news of his death as a signal to redouble his determination. That, he decided, was the message of his reported but as yet unconfirmed suicide. It was an act of victorious self-discipline. He had preserved his honor and avoided humiliation. Miller lifted his arm in salute.
Heil Hitler!
After the news was announced, the voice of the new American president, flat and twangy, came over the air. His name was only vaguely familiar. Miller flicked off the radio. Who needed to hear what he had to say? He knew it would soon be over when he left Russia.
Phase one kaput, he sighed, imagining the Führer’s disappointment at the weakness and resolve of his armies. Probably died in despair. He had the right idea, but he should have waited until he had conquered England before taking on the Russians.
In a small town about thirty miles from his starting point, he found a grocery store and loaded up on food for the journey. He was especially in need of fruit and meat, which had been in short supply on the sub. He bought milk, bread, cold cuts, and cheese to carry him through for the rest of the journey.
He had been instructed to make his first contact call during the first day of his landing in Canada, which he did at a telephone booth at a filling station. He had been provided with numerous packs of coins both Canadian and American. They had thought of every detail. The operator instructed him on the amount, and he obliged. The phone was answered after five rings.