Action Report masthead

No.14, July 20, 1998


FOR THIRTY-FIVE years author David Irving has kept a private diary. It has proven useful in countless actions. For the information of his many supporters he publishes an edited text in his irregular newsletter ACTION REPORT.




wE LOAD UP and set out at about 10:30 a.m., and leave for California, driving all day until 8:30 p.m., a five-hundred mile journey. For me however life goes on even after I halt for the night: paperwork, writing, and preparations for more. The local restaurant closes at 9 p.m. just as I get there. Supper off a packet of corn chips, and a cup of tea therefore. I work until three a.m. on the Website.

Getting tired. I have difficulty today remembering the last two digits of my own phone number! Drive on south, down to Stanford where I spend a happy hour in the Macintosh shop, and buy more manuals. Perfectionist, moi! Brief supper at Fisherman's Wharf, then resume the long drive south at nine p.m.

From closing file-times recorded on my computer, it seems I worked until 4:30 a.m. I go on line and find some interesting mail from the BBC, who have [certain] plans.

I'll fit in with your plans. You can reach me by e-mail ... I am in the USA: West Coast today, Denver tomorrow, East Coast from Thursday.

On an afterthought I then add:

Please bear in mind that no travel arrangements made for Poland can involve stop overs by me on German territory. Unless BBCtv wishes to support Benté and my child for the next five or six years!

Then off again. I phone C-Span, but R. is not at her desk. Another long day's drive, down US. 101, facing an endless high-speed cataract of dazzling headlights and brake-lights. Most nerve-racking. Check into a hotel at Costa Mesa [south of Los Angeles] at eleven p.m.

Then three hours' work repacking the boxes for tomorrow's onward Odyssey across the United States. Bed around two a.m. Must get sleep!

Set off for airport at eleven a.m. Flight leaves at 1:25 p.m., arrive at Denver at 4:30 p.m. local time. Drive to my favourite little bookstore in Littleton. About thirty or forty people come. Early start tomorrow for Atlanta; flight leaves at 10:25 a.m. Here we find an excellent, all-male dinner. It is the people who are the fun. Stay up talking with them until one a.m., then work on the Website until 3:30 a.m.

United Airlines flight to Washington 4:30 p.m. One and a half hours standing in line at the Hertz office to rent the Ford Taurus car. Very heavy traffic jams all the way into the capital along I-66, and through Georgetown. At the Cosmos Club, A. has left a message: C-Span will televise my lunchtime talk tomorrow.

Work until three a.m. Up at 8:30 a.m. (after the clock radio starts with a shout at 5:30 a.m. and again after ten minutes, after I hit its stop switch in the dark).

At twelve midday at Polo India club. C-Span television crew already there, setting up. Good function, excellent speech for the cameras, though inhibited, and good questions. Work until three a.m. again. Umph.

A. talks to me at length about Gregory Douglas, admits that Douglas and Peter Birch are one and the same, as Douglas himself says. As police records show, this identifies Douglas also as Peter Stahl. He says Douglas is now sixty-six (which fits the man I knew as Stahl), and lives currently in Freeport, Illinois. Stahl is said to be helping (!) the Swiss authorities in their fight against the Bronfman suits, providing them with documents. Oi! Douglas is also associated with the Hitler Diaries forger, Konrad Kujau. Small world indeed. All my protests to A. that he should have nothing to do with the man evince nothing. Surely there is some element of truth in the files, he suggests? I say: Stahl/Douglas has shown nobody anything original, whatever, whenever. No films, no documents. Just promises upon promises for decades. A true thief and forger.

Set out for New York at three p.m., in gradually mounting downpour. Three hundred mile drive up to New Jersey, arrived at the -- Hotel at 9:50 p.m. A day's rest here. And more work.

We set off back south at 12:30 a.m.; we arrive at Arlington, Virginia, at 6:30 p.m. Good audience, not a seat to spare at the dinner (Nikolaides Club), including an Australian nonagenarian who last saw me at Melbourne and now enters behind me in a wheelchair with her minder, making much clatter. Have to restart my talk three times. The Idi Amin medal saves me.

Very weary, we set out back to New Jersey at 10:30 p.m. I drive the whole way. Gas tank "empty" warning lamp is blinking as we arrived back at 3:33 a.m., three minutes after my projected arrival.

I send this fax to a bookseller friend:

C-Span had two people (a crew) tape the whole of Sunday's event, which went very well. The meat of the talk was Free Speech and its enemies. They might not like that however. I think it 50/50 that they will air the tape.

2. Be cautious about --. He is very inquisitive, always asking questions, and on Sunday we both got the impression he might be wearing a tape-recorder microphone, from the depth and impertinence of his questions. If he's with the nice guys, I don't care; but the odds are, he's not... -- David Irving

Slept poorly on the plane. Arrived back at Heathrow morning. I put the box containing the doll's china tea set, which I bought for her weeks ago in Myrtle Creek, Oregon, in the drawing room for Jessica to find.

4:30 p.m. a blank phone call. "Caller withheld their number" (lawyers, process servers etc.?)


aNDREW rings urgently, he has today been furnished with a copy of a letter from [millionaire] Trevor Chinn to [millionaire] Octav Botnar, former chief of Datsun Motors who fled to Switzerland to escape prosecution for UK tax fraud, appealing for funds to help Lipstadt defend her case against the "Holocaust denier" David Irving. They say specifically that they want to be able to afford the very best [attorney], namely Anthony Julius [of Mishcon de Reya law firm], to put an end to me once and for all. The letter indicates that Julius has himself contacted Chinn.

A Web-search yields the following snippet: "KPMG's Murray points out that in its prosecution of Octav Botnar, former head of car manufacturer Nissan's UK operations, the Inland Revenue worked closely with the Norwegian, Dutch and Austrian tax authorities."

I draft the following modestly phrased announcement for the Website.

Latest news on the Libel Action against Deborah Lipstadt

Her lawyer Anthony Julius pleads to the Underworld for Cash

Frightened that dirty tricks alone will not get Lipstadt off the hook which she has herself wrought, with her recklessly libellous book Denying the Holocaust, Lipstadt's defence lawyers Mishcon de Reya [link] are frantically appealing, through the Board of Deputies of British Jews and other Jewish organisations around the world, for massive funds to pay star lawyer the (already indecently wealthy) Anthony Julius the fees he intends to charge.

In the first days of May 1998, according to word from members of his staff, Julius sent out shoals of letters to the traditional bankrollers of these lies, including Trevor Chinn--who held slush-fund the Labour Party and Tony Blair--and through Chinn even to wanted criminal Octav Botnar, the former head of car manufacturer Nissan's UK operations, whom the Inland Revenue prosecuted for tax fraud working closely with the Norwegian, Dutch and Austrian tax authorities, and who has taken refuge in Switzerland, appealing for money to help destroy the "Holocaust denier" (as they infamously describe the historian) David Irving.

Odd bed-fellows Lipstadt has chosen for herself--or perhaps not so odd after all.


Bartek Z., my Polish translator, e-mails me this query:

The editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Przeglod "Po tytulem" which, I believe, you have, already received, asked me whether I could ask you for telling them about the book of your life. ... If you can think of some book of your life, a novel, short story, a historical memoir, a collection of verses etc which made an extraordinary impression on you, that would be just fine.

I send this immediate response to Z.:

Two books have helped to shape my life, for better or for worse. When I was about ten I read [Failure of a Mission] the memoirs of Sir Nevile Henderson, the pre-war British ambassador in Berlin, who died during the war. In this he described his vain attempts to prevent the madness of war breaking out, and he revealed how much he personally blamed the hatreds generated by the British Press ("Fleet Street") for the onset of the war in 1939. Then about two or three years later I read a copy of the book Hitler's Table Talk. This was edited by Hugh Trevor-Roper, and published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson. It consists of almost-verbatim notes on Hitler's remarks during his meals from 1941 to 1944. The notes were written by Heinrich Heim, Martin Bormann's adjutant, whom I later got to know very well. I was struck by the evident depth and breadth of knowledge, whether erroneous or accurate, professed by Hitler. I used to read a little of this book each night, and I still find myself quoting some of his sayings. This book gives a far better insight into Hitler's thinking than Mein Kampf, which had a mixture of authors. When writing my book Hitler's War I was able to use the original German texts, which were kept in the custody of François Genoud, a Swiss friend of the Bormann descendants. Other historians were not allowed to see these German texts for many years, which resulted in them accusing me of "manipulating" the English texts, and "distortions". In fact only I had the originals. C'est la vie! DAVID IRVING

2 p.m. to Davenport Lyons to read their client's Discovery. Nothing really shocking, very anodyne compared with the vicious stuff that Mishcon had pulled together.

At six p.m. however a courier delivers a massive box with twelve inches of files and documents -- annexes to an affidavit sworn by one Anthony Julius, of Mishcon, seeking to have my Discovery set aside. Fair enough, but the date set down for hearing is in mid-July, which is awkward. I may have to make a round trip back by air from Key West, costly.

I spend all evening reading the affidavit, then posting its supporting affidavit on the Website, and asking friends in Washington state and Oregon for information on the people named in it, who are almost all unknown to me.

Ah, the Internet! Material on Anthony Julius's deponee pal Jonathon Mozzochi [chief of the Oregon based ADL-front organisation "Coalition for Human Dignity"] floods in during the night. He and his friends have a criminal record (arson, violence, murder); bet Julius did not know that!

Lamonte Westmoreland, a Los Angeles TV producer, phones, to arrange filming of the Göring interview in Chicago for the A & E Channel on Thursday.

Down to High Court at two p.m. for hearing of my application for postponement of Mishcon's proposed July 6 hearing. Mishcon comes with three people -- including Harriet Benson [... who ...] declines to shake hands, etc. I make my application to Master Trench briefly, he nods benevolently, listens with mounting impatience as Harriet puts her wordy and verbose case, reading from a script. Harriet makes much of my Website, that I am putting everything, affidavits, summons, the lot on it within hours of being served. Yes, these people don't like the fierce heat of exposure to the public gaze one little bit.

I am about to respond, when Trench shuffles his papers together and announces flatly that he is granting my application as it is quite reasonable.

The Mishcon lawyers are staggered, their faces a picture: speechless with rage.

bED FOR two hours' sleep, the taxi driver rings the bell at 7:35 a.m. to take me to Heathrow. Plane takes off at 10:30 a.m. Sir Winston (that is, his life-sized Focal Point poster) is waved aboard and gets stowed behind some seats.

Arrive at Chicago O'Hare airport at about one p.m., a few minutes early. At eight a.m. we set off to Ohio. We stop at Indianapolis for an hour for coffee. Then on to Cincinnati, arriving there at three p.m. (which, somewhat later, we recall is an hour later, local time). Mad dash to get over to St George's Church hall, an august, baroque, polished-mahogany monastery-style kind of building. I speak upstairs in the library to a private meeting of around 15 to 20 souls.


E-mails bring word that back in London Mishcon's are up to monkey-business of some sort. Have requested a further hearing before Master Trench, in an endeavour to overturn his decision. I work on the Website until just before 9 a.m., inserting the photo of a rather unattractive Mozzochi, the witness relied upon by Julius.

No time for breakfast. All day in the militaria show, then to The Monk's Room, where I speak at 7:30 p.m. for a couple of hours. Good crowd, and excellent book sales. David P. has put up a good show.

Wakened at 7:30 a.m. by phone call from Katina of the Channel Four television production company making the film on Hitler's Women. She picks my brains for half an hour. Into the militaria show at 9 a.m., no time for breakfast again.

Set out for Chicago next day at three p.m., arrive soon after nine, supper at a downtown restaurant. At the apartment around eleven p.m., and send this e-mail to Benté:

Chicago, 26.5.98, 12:15 AM. Got back from Cincinnati to Chicago at 10 p.m. today. 800 mile round trip. Saw quite a weird thing on the way in off the freeway, in State Street, on the outskirts of this city, in a very run down Black suburb: a shop advertising "funeral headstones engraved while you wait". Some people wait all their lives for that moment, I suppose.

Benté sends message from Lovell White Durrant, who are acting for The Observer and Gitta Sereny.

We have noted that you have now removed from your website the reproductions of the contents of the [Macmillan Ltd.] documents which were disclosed by our clients to you and which we referred in our letter dated 14 May 1998.

However, you have not removed the index which describes these documents, nor have you removed the final paragraph of the article "A British Publisher's Betrayal of their Author" which summarises their contents. ... We must insist that you remove forthwith the index and paragraph referred to, and make no further reference on your web site to the documents concerned.

7 p.m. dinner with W. at the Brauhaus restaurant on Lincoln Avenue. I already saw him last year at Cleveland, and he told me then of his Paula Hitler and Reinhard Heydrich collections. Last time before that was in about 1982, at Ed Schaefer's flat in Crystal City: I today found the note I wrote, for Radical's Diary in Focal Point:

TAKES ALL sorts to make an American law officer. At a friend's home in Crystal City, across the Potomac from Georgetown, I met ex-policeman W., a seemingly wealthy collector of the crankier Nazi memorabilia. He owns an extensive correspondence between Paula Hitler and her famous brother; alas, we do not know what it contains, as W. cannot read German. His fingers were heavy with unsightly gold rings purported to be of the period. Around his neck he wore on a brass chain necklace a hotel key-knob for room No. 106 embossed "Dreesen Bad Godesberg." He had bought this for a several thousand dollars from the hotel manager, it being Hitler's bedroom number. He may have made that innkeeper a very happy man, because it looked quite a modern knob to me. W. pulled out of his back trouser pocket an inch-thick wallet of photographs of his trinkets and relics -- Goering's daggers, Napoleon's sword, etc. The photos were well thumbed, the frayed edges trimmed off again and again until some of them were cameo sized.

American collectors are the bane of European historians. They trade the records of the Third Reich and other empires for their autograph value, like cigarette cards or vintage cars, without being able to read a line of their content. In 1946 a former American Counter-Intelligence Corps agent, Robert G., filched the entire correspondence exchanged between Hitler and Eva Braun as well as her private diaries. This stolen material has vanished from view, and he is not saying who now has it. Perhaps he no longer knows. He explained when I pounced on him in New Mexico, "I have no interest in publishing anything that may make That Man seem more human."

W. has a grip like steel, one glass eye, brain damage from a police car accident in the 1970s, and a steamroller conversational manner that flattens all attempts to reply. He wears a gold ring with a face somewhat larger and heavier than the Krugerrand; he apologises that he dropped it on the cement a few days ago, I ask: "Did it do much damage to the concrete!" He demands yodelling from the two Bavarian brothers manning the electric accordion and guitar on the stage; he throws out loud howls himself in chorus with them. His brain wanders this way and that, but more than once throws up highly useful facts.

Heydrichprof1932After two hours he finally opens his attaché cases and out comes the Heydrich collection: photos and postcards provided by Lina Heydrich to an American woman writing her late husband's biography -- it was never written -- the items were sold to a Chicago antique dealer, from whom W. bought them. Fantastic photos of Heydrich as a steel-helmeted fifteen-year-old in Freikorps uniform; with his Aryan blond children, fondly playing with a little blonde girl (his daughter?), etc. And with Himmler. I arrange to see him again tomorrow one p.m. for lunch and to spend all day Tuesday at Holly, Michigan with him.

The Paula Hitler stuff, which I have not yet seen, seems more problematical: she has signed each page Paula Hitler Wolf; why -- are they interrogation reports, or what? He is vague about how much there is.

I didn't get the name Truffelschwein for nothing.

Back to the apartment, drained and écrasé, at 11:16 PM and resume work on the Website.

Up at six a.m. First day of BookExpo America show.

bAt the FPP stand, our big pictures are real crowd stoppers. Around 2:30 Michael Dorr of Da Capo Press Inc. shuffles across to us, shakes hands, and explains in broad terms why he has had to cancel his interest in the Rommel biography, although it was a huge best seller in the 1980s and he has personally pressed for its purchase. He says the final decision was taken by a panel of twelve, most of whom now hate me. I do not inquire their names.

I thank him for coming over and telling me personally. "You are a bigger man for doing so," I tell the five-foot-nothing Dorr. He winces, and says that he has taken pleasure in saying all this to my face. He repeats that no publisher in New York is now willing to touch me, out of sheer gibbering fear of the ADL. Still, it was nice of him to come.



i SEND THIS e-mail to [a correspondent], who's getting loathsome with his trivial queries:

Dear Mr. A. -- I am a frightfully busy and overworked person. I worked until 3:30 a.m. this morning, and was working again at 6:45 a.m. this morning. I have been at the BookExpo all day. I am exhausted. I face a four hundred mile drive in a car tomorrow, and a major speech the next day. It is not rudeness on my part, I just do not have the time to answer questions all the time.

Up at six a.m.; pack the car, at Lakeside cafe at 9:05 a.m. to meet S. and his father. He shows us a 1940 Himmler album of the 1940 French campaign. More important, about sixty letters from Himmler to Hedwig Potthast, dated 1938 to 1944, some 150 pages all told, in handwriting, all except one of the letters being in ink. Sends her gifts of wine, and press clippings about Der Olle for her to save for the little boy (their illegitimate son).

In July 1942 he writes that he is just off to Auschwitz and Lublin. On January 20, 1943 he writes about the cares he has -- he knows he must do many harsh things and make many Einzelpersonen unhappy, but it is all for Germany's sake. The items are genuine beyond doubt, and with ninety-percent certainty come from the same source as the visiting card in B.'s possession, namely the Nuremberg IMT files. No explicit references to the Jews, shootings, etc.

On May 30, 1944 he writes that she should use the soap and things he is sending her without worry, as he will keep topping them up bis Kriegsende, which word he underlines and adds three exclamation marks, reflecting the general mood of exuberance prevailing just before D-day. The collection also includes three or four photos, for example of Himmler seated in a motor car (vanity licence tag: "SS-1").

Set out at twelve noon from Chicago for Michigan, to see W's collection. He has advised us to come along the Ohio Turnpike, but a glance at the map -- too late -- shows that this is a detour of over 100 miles. He explains later this is to spare us driving through one Black neighbourhood. Aaargh! As it is, we drive all afternoon and evening and it is nearly 9 p.m. before we reach his house.

I scan his best photographs, until five or six a.m., scanning fifty or a hundred of the most horrifying candid photos of scenes in concentration camps, etc. I stretch out on his sofa, two feet too short for me, for an hour.

In the morning there is already an E-mail from South Africa about the Heydrich collection. I write a response, with W. at my side:

The owner (who is sitting next to me at this moment) does not want to split the collection. I have seen all the (fifty (50)) original photos, and he has given me unfortunately only a sniff (last night, at midnight) at the documents, mostly letters from Lina Heydrich to a third party written around 1950, about Heydrich, Himmler, the SS and Nazi party; these appeared to me to be about 100 sheets of paper, cards, envelopes, mostly typed but some handwritten (by Lina); Reinhard Heydrich material includes wartime postcards signed Reini, a naval document (from his naval period) with the navy ensign on it. My friend wants US $50,000 for the whole collection. If you have a serious customer, he will be prepared to show it, but he is very cagey about letting anything out of his hands. I am not happy about being the middle agent in what is largely a blind deal, but there it is. The material is authentic, of that there is no doubt. If the customer has NS items to trade, my friend is willing to do a part exchange. It's the way he does business.

On-line again at 1:40 p.m., further exchanges with Channel Four's Katina.

Arrive at Cleveland at six p.m. after a 330-mile drive; meeting due to start at 7:30 p.m. A great fun evening all round. Leave Cleveland at eleven a.m. to head south. Drive all day down Interstate 77 covering about six hundred miles, until around 9 p.m. when we stop at a motel at Mount Airy. Go on line at 9:29 PM.

Up at seven a.m. Awful breakfast at cafe. Melted foam butter, etc. I protest to the waitress about these artificial products.

She says, "Everybody eats them."

I observe, "That's why you're all so fat."

"I ain't fat." "Yes you is."

She brings a brown plastic tub of something else, marked Country Crock, a "spread," offering, "This is what we put on the baked potatoes." The label reads: "Fifty percent vegetable oil," and gives no indication whatever of what the other half is, apart from a tiny U in a circle. So it will evidently pass muster by the more chosen, but less, choosier of us.



wE ARRIVE at the Ramada Inn, Charleston, South Carolina, at 4:33 p.m., three minutes after our predicted ETA. But it seems that nobody knows that I am scheduled to speak. We go downtown -- I was last here in 1976 with Carla Venchiarutti, researching Rommel at The Citadel's archives, and then again in 1980 to interview György Heltai for Uprising -- and I sit alone in a cafe for two hours in the sun, listening to a Black band and a large, vibrating, female singer.

The organisers say that Of Course I can speak if I want to (and quite a lot of people have turned up expecting me to). I refuse on principle. If my name is not listed as a speaker, I am not a speaker, and I am not going to step into a deadbeat's vacant slot to speak, I say. I sit in the foyer and sulk, and people occasionally come out and bring me books to sign from the table which A. and S. have set up outside the meeting. A two-day, 1,100 mile drive here from Cleveland, for nothing. Not pleased at all.

We drive on in a livid mood at eleven p.m.; heading down Route 17 to Georgia. Find a Best Western motel still open at 1:30 a.m. after a 150-mile drive. Not a good day at all.

Onward into Florida. At 9:45 a.m. I send this e-mail to Benté:-

Wonder where the software got to. It was sent priority mail. You'll need it.

It is swelteringly hot here. Unfortunately Interstate 95 was blocked by a forest fire south of Jacksonville, so police turned all traffic off it onto US. 1, which caused immense delays and after waiting for hours on the Interstate I decided to drive past a police block onto a side road toward the coast and I have spent the night here at Flagler on the Atlantic, a very nice seafront motel, two bedrooms, a drawing room and kitchen for $50. I shall return here in future. A beautiful little seaside town like Peacehaven, with dunes like the beach at South Africa, and a very gentle sea. It would be a nice place to come back sometime with Jessica;

As soon as I am fixed in one location, I shall get a lot of letters out. The first thing: a major fund raising appeal, to knock out the Mishcon threat.


We arrive at Fort Lauderdale around six p.m.; the meeting begins at seven p.m. About seventy present, and reasonable book sales. Some lunatic skinheads here, with suspiciously new-looking T-shirts reading HATE-WATCH, so I can expect references to that in future attacks on me. Wonder who hired them!

Up at nine a.m. The usual slew of unpleasant e-mails. Mishcon's have written:

Deborah Lipstadt. We refer to the two Supplemental Lists of Documents you served dated the 19 and 20 May respectively. We would now like to inspect the documents disclosed on these Lists. Please let us know when convenient.

These are ten linear feet of my press-clipping files. I respond:

I have arrived last night at the southern point of my United States tour. It has been a 5,000 mile drive to this point, and I drive a further 12,000 miles before returning to the U.K. in August....

These records are available for inspection in the same room as before or the adjoining rooms. Please telephone my London staff to arrange a suitable date. Since you have not yet paid our invoice no. 11853 dated 20 May 1998, which we submitted under the agreed rules for reasonable copying charges, ... we shall not feel obliged to extend the courtesy of providing Xerox copies to this supplemental Discovery. There is of course no objection to your making handwritten copies of any of the documents.

Hart, aber ungerecht, as Field Marshal Erhard Milch's nephew Ministerialdirigent Dr M. once said to me.

In Key West at last. Draft an appeal letter to my inner circle of supporters, without which I cannot survive for the next months and see through publication of Churchill's War, vol. ii to completion.

Good and helpful e-mail message from M. in Moscow, initial probings in the Moscow archives on Himmler.

Back to the rented house at nine p.m. after unsuccessful attempts to find a cheap eatery. Everything moving up-market, even the Banana Cafe. I go out, heading for the Turtle Kraals, when after fifty yards disaster strikes. I trip over a paving slab in the darkness, which a tree root has raised two inches, and with my hands in my pockets I fall flat on my face.

I go down with a horrible crack and black out so badly that I just lie on the concrete with blood streaming from my broken nose until I came to with passers-by bending over me.

BruisedfrontWow, it was some crack. There is a dent in my forehead and chin, and my eyes swell up and close completely during the evening. I look a terrible sight. Passers-by said I should sue the City of Key West for thousands, but, alas I am English and we don't do that (do we?)

Up late, at ten a.m., as the pain has kept me awake much of the night. A look in the mirror through my fast closing right eye (my left is totally blacked out) is shocking, I look uglier than the Hunchback of Notre Dame, except that my hump is on my face. I dig the Virgin Airways eye-mask out of my case, and find it covers much of the damage.

The morning's e-mail brings a remarkable letter from an Israeli journalist offering me Himmler's papers stolen from the Russian archives. I reply cautiously. The proper course of action will be to alert the German government archives, but this will no doubt bar my access to them. I do so, nonetheless.

Rude letter from Lovell White Durrant about my publishing their "copyright" letter on my Website. How they squeal.

I return the Ford rental car to Hertz at the little local airport, a few hundred yards from the southernmost point of the United States. It has brought us here from Chicago. Glad to be rid of it, as always. We have been on US soil again for exactly four weeks. What a pleasure. I cycle back along the Atlantic as huge storm clouds gather. A water funnel hits the island's other side. I cycled home in the torrential rain, which blinds both my eyes even more badly. Can't see properly, and nearly crash into parked cars.

I find e-mails from the BBC, finally firming up a visit to Poland for mid August. I slink into my downstairs bedroom feeling once more like the Hunchback of N.D. Everywhere I have been today, people have done a double-take and shrunk away. What rotten luck with this accident.

An appalling meal at the Marriott Casa Marina. "You want tap water, Sir?," said by the waitress with a scathing tone of voice. Rock-hard bread, stringy, cheap-cut steak, indifferent service. I tell them so.

E-mail to H., with instructions for her research in the Moscow archives; I would have been happier if I had a different publisher behind me. I send a long fax to Wolf Jobst Siedler, asking him to write a letter of introduction for her. I don't think he will do it. They are all cowards now.


[IN FACT Siedler, whom David Irving has known for thirty years, rises to the occasion and proves him quite wrong].
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