Johann von Leers: Out of the Way! Part 1/3 [Der Weg 1951-08]
An original translation of "Aus dem Wege!"
Title: Out of the Way! [de: Aus dem Wege!]
Author(s): Johann Jakob von Leers as “Gordon Fitzstuart”
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 5, Issue 08 (August 1951)
Page(s): 560-564
Dan Rouse’s Note(s):
Der Weg - El Sendero is a German and Spanish language magazine published by Dürer-Verlag in Buenos-Aires, Argentina by Germans with connections to the defeated Third Reich.
Der Weg ran monthly issues from 1947 to 1957, with official sanction from Juan Perón’s Government until his overthrow in September 1955.
I want to express my deep gratitude to “wilhelm25” for his high quality scans and curation of both the magazine Der Weg and further related works. To crib his notes from Forces Behind Roosevelt, published by von Leers in 1941, he draws a direct line to the current article published in 1951. Citing Dieter Vollmer, an Editor for Der Weg, in his 1993 autobiography (p.172):
"Prof. von Leers, under the pseudonym Gordon Fitzstuart, penned three continuations drawn from his own profound understanding of these connections. He had access to a wealth of sources otherwise scarcely available.”
And to further quote Vollmer (p.161-162):
“Leers had endured the years of internment in a camp run by the occupying powers with tolerable health and emerged brimming with vigor. His knowledge spanned an extraordinary range of fields—he was as much at ease with ancient history as with the present day and commanded six or seven languages, including traces of Indo-European and Arabic. His contributions to our editorial team were beyond price. [...] The two years I had the privilege of working side by side with him, drawing from this ever-flowing wellspring of wisdom, were a gift.”
Again using wilhelm25’s work, the following quotes from Forces Behind Roosevelt shed light on its contents:
Then suddenly we encounter the words of the American historian Lecky: “Hebrew mortar has cemented the foundations of American democracy.” (p.8)
…thus Heinrich Heine’s phrase fit them well: “Puritanism was simply a Judaism that eats pork.” (p.8)
It is evident that this foundational stance of American democracy was bound to yield an aggressive and proclamatory nature—not only against the King of England, from whom it broke free, but also against every other ruler, and indeed against the archetype of the great popular leader. (p.9-10)
When the Dutch liberated themselves from Spain, they opened their land to Spanish and Portuguese Jews, who promptly abandoned the forced baptisms imposed there. (p.11)
As ever in world history, within a vast but loosely knit mass, a resolute minority that knows its aims will ultimately seize leadership. (p.21)
Though inwardly riven by petty jealousies, Judaism outwardly forms a unity, acting in concert, albeit often by varied paths. (p.57)
This is one reason why, in states where Jews can serve as judges, non-Jews so often inexplicably lose to Jews before Jewish magistrates. This stems not merely from Jewish solidarity but from Jewish law itself. (p.61)
The judiciary of New York City lies largely in Jewish hands—so much so that other ethnic groups in New York voice their outrage. (p.66)
The paper does not mention that Louis Buchalter, alias Lepke, is a Jew, just as Jack Diamond (Jeckuf Diamant) and Al Capone (Aisik Schacher) were also Jews. (p.74)
The comparison of the Leader with the Persian minister Haman, slain according to the Jewish Book of Esther, is plainly articulated. (p.78)
Regarding his conduct in office during the World War, the Jewish writer Bernard Lazare wrote in his book Antisemitism: “The Jews achieved the only conquest for which they were equipped—the economic conquest, for which they had prepared over many years.” (p.87)
…it emerged that the owners of these wage-shark companies were 80 percent Jewish. Equally telling, not a single Jew was found among the victims. (p.127)
Yet the Jewish newspaper The Jewish Sentinel of October 8, 1936, published McFadden’s picture with this caption: “Make Way—Louis T. McFadden, former Congressman from Pennsylvania and arch-anti-Semite, who sought the backing of a ‘National Christian-Gentile Committee’ for a presidential bid, died last week.” (p.153)
Murder is an ancient Jewish weapon. Since time immemorial, Jews have slain their political foes to pave the way for world domination. The dictum “The best of the goyim should be killed” is not merely the furious outburst of a lone rabbi, but a political tenet. (p.158)
Source Documents:
[LINK] Der Weg 1951 German Scans
[LINK] Forces Behind Roosevelt (1941) [de: Kräfte hinter Roosevelt]
[LINK] Dieter Vollmer: Taking Stock of the First Half of Life
It is the morning of May 7, 1935. Bright sunlight already spills across the forest clearing, where a faint wisp of white smoke still rises. Strewn chaotically among the firs lie fragments of metal, rods, and wire; the air carries the sharp scent of gasoline and charred wood. Eight men—farmers and lumberjacks—comb through the site. In the night, they had glimpsed an eerie glow in the sky and heard a muffled thud and crash. For hours, they debated whether a meteor might have plummeted from the heavens or some novel projectile had streaked above their tranquil valley. Now, standing amid the wreckage of a plane crash, the mystery unravels before them.
Some distance from the debris, old Mr. Walker’s dog still barks insistently. The men draw near the sound and discover, stretched out in the grass, the body of an elderly man. His frame is sturdy, his clothing fine, the flames having only grazed him lightly. The sheriff is called. As he inspects the corpse and examines the dead man’s papers, the group stands in awe. The body belongs to a United States Senator—Bronson Cutting of New Mexico.
A strange case indeed—where are the remains of the pilot? Where is the flight mechanic’s body? They are nowhere to be found. A perfectly ordinary commercial plane falls from the sky, yet only this prominent passenger is discovered lifeless. Silence settles over the men. Only the grizzled Scotsman McGregor mutters,
“Politics is a damned hot iron, I reckon. Plenty have crossed the river sudden-like.”
The rest hold their tongues. The newspapers print a brief note, claiming Senator Bronson Cutting met a sudden end in an accident.
In the bustling heart of New York City, at 461 Fourth Avenue, stands a quiet building—unassuming, like so many that shelter law offices or brokerage firms. Its staircase bears the wear of time. Visitors seldom climb it to ring the bell at a door marked only with a simple, discreet sign:
“Information and Service Association.”
The tenants know little beyond the fact that this outfit once called Madison Avenue home.
An older man, bearded and clad in a round hat, shuffles up the steps and rings. The door creaks open—slowly, only after an eye peers through a slit—and he mumbles,
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Sachs.”
Wordlessly, he’s let inside. Such figures from the Bronx, East Side regulars living off petty trades, have drifted through this place before. Mr. Israel Sachs accepts a wrapped scrap of paper from the man.
“I found a slip of paper—think it’s a treasure!”
the old fellow murmurs, pocketing a small coin with thanks before shuffling off. Sachs studies the note closely and carries it to the next room, where Mr. Sidney Wallach and Mr. Frank Prince wait. Prince, the true head of this operation, appears only now and then—collecting messages, issuing orders, then vanishing again. His paths lead to allies like Federal Judge Louis D. Brandeis, District Attorney W. E. Geoghan, and trusted contacts in the FBI. Few know him, yet many doors swing wide at his approach.
The three men pore over the mimeographed sheet.
“It’s come to this—they’re mimeographing and spreading Bronson Cutting’s speeches,”
Sachs growls darkly.
“Something must be done.”
He steps to a massive filing cabinet and pulls out a card:
“Bronson Cutting, born June 23, 1886, in Oakdale… elected Senator in 1928, re-elected, term ended March 3, 1935…”
“And his life’s clock stopped on May 7, 1935, just before he could spew more venom,”
another of the men adds pointedly. A hush falls over the room—a room where that towering cabinet holds the names of over 10,000 American men and women deemed “potentially dangerous.”
An inquiry begins, but the crash defies explanation. Why were parachutes aboard for the pilot and mechanic? Why did other passengers abruptly cancel, leaving Senator Bronson Cutting to fly alone? And why—against all rules—was there no parachute for the passenger, allowing the crew to escape while the Senator soared onward, alone, into eternity? Naturally, the “Information and Service Association” claims no knowledge of the cause. No one even asks them. The investigation fizzles out. The press mentions the incident fleetingly and never revisits it.
Young flight student Robert Rowland sprawls on his couch, reading a clipping from the Highland Post of Ulster County, New York, dated February 6, 1936. It reads:
“Bronson Cutting, a schoolmate of our ‘neighbor’ in Harvard, stepped onto the platform in Lamy, New Mexico, and cast his vote for Franklin Delano Roosevelt as presidential candidate. He later learned he’d aided a man to America’s highest office—a man steered by secret advisors, a sinister sect bent on destruction. Opposition was all that remained for him. Senator Bronson Cutting met a sudden death in a plane crash.”
The piece is signed
“Squire of Krum Elbow,”
said to be a Roosevelt in-law who mockingly dubs the President
“our neighbor.”
The young man broods. Something uncanny has crept into his country. It feels as though he’s aboard a plane guided by unseen hands toward an invisible course. Strange, how swiftly politicians can perish after being branded “hostile to progress” in the press. Another clipping, older, lies in his hands, passed along by a friend. Its headline blares:
“The Strange End of Kingfish Huey Long.”
Senator Huey Pierce Long, born August 30, 1893, Louisiana’s Senator since 1931, dubbed the “Kingfish”—a magnetic figure rises from obscurity, a spellbinding orator and master of the masses. At university, he earned a law license in nine months instead of four years. He ascended Louisiana’s political ladder with a rallying cry:
“Every man a king!”
This vision to preserve and grow a robust middle class sparked a reform movement that rippled beyond his state. Relentlessly, he drilled into the crowds that America’s vast wealth was unjustly divided. On March 17, 1935, his voice boomed over every U.S. radio station:
“One percent of the population holds 59% of the nation’s wealth… Sober statisticians estimate 75% of Americans own nothing—not even enough to clear their debts—while 4%, perhaps less, clutch 85 to 90% of the riches. Recall 1916, when a middle class, 33% of the people, held 35% of the wealth. That’s gone now, shoved down among the poor. The suffering masses below, the few financial lords above—that’s what remains.”
No surprise, then, that those lords despised him. Unions loathed him too, for since he crowned himself Louisiana’s uncrowned king, jobs abounded, and unrest faded. With broad, paved roads, he linked remote farm districts. With a wink, he boasted of highways sprouting in Louisiana. When pressed to denounce Hitler abroad, he brushed it off—democracy, he said, meant caring for America’s workers, not meddling overseas. Vast, idle lands he bought cheap, parceling them out with homes and tools to the landless on long-term payments. The common folk cheered. His “propaganda minister,” ex-preacher G. K. L. Smith, banged the drum of his fame. Already, the “Kingfish” loomed as a presidential contender—a man who, beneath the election fanfare and political theater, bore a genuine heart for the people, no mere “baby kisser.” Already, Roosevelt was warned of his rising threat.
Huey P. Long had foes. Twice, impeachment loomed; twice, he outtalked it brilliantly. Then came the first mail bombs.
Now, young Robert Rowland recalls his uncle’s tale of that day in Baton Rouge when the “Kingfish” bled out.
“Well, my boy, it happened damn quick. I’d spoken with Huey P. Long about my business just an hour before, marveling, as ever, at how he recalled every detail and took charge. I left him in the Capitol building in Baton Rouge and visited some folks there. As I stepped from a side hall into the main corridor, I saw him heading out with his entourage and bodyguards. Then a man stepped up and fired. His guards shot back in an instant. It was over in a flash—the assassin, riddled with bullets, dropped dead. It was Judge Pavy’s son-in-law, Dr. Carl Weiss, an eye-ear-nose specialist, a Jew, who’d long opposed him. Later, they found hints he was part of a secret society, chosen by lot to kill. Huey P. Long lingered till the next day. The shooting was September 9, 1935; by September 10, the ‘Kingfish’ was gone—a bullet through his gut. Blood transfusions couldn’t save him. On September 13, he was buried. Twelve hundred wreaths adorned his grave. The people mourned him like a true king—he’d brought free schoolbooks to their kids, built tens of thousands of miles of roads, founded settlements, launched a vast push against illiteracy. And they likely knew who’d orchestrated it. In some districts, martial law was declared—the crowd wanted the masterminds’ blood. You know who I mean.”
The probe into Huey Pierce Long’s violent end soon faded. The press lost interest. Young Rowland reads again from the Highland Post:
“Senator Huey P. Long stood against our neighbor. A murderer’s hand brought him sudden death in Baton Rouge.”
An icy wind sweeps over Minnesota. The cemetery throngs with people. Outside, cars line up—farmers’ vehicles from far-flung corners, driven to Minneapolis. Names like Schulz, Svensson, Breuer, and Andersson pepper the crowd; in whole swaths of Minnesota, farmhouses hum with more Swedish and German than English. These are steadfast folk, not transients who farm a spell, sell, and move on. Deep down, they’re much like their kin back in Holstein or Västergötland, Calenberg or Svealand. The man they now escort to his rest, days before Christmas 1935, was their champion.
Senator Thomas D. Schall, born June 4, 1877, in Reed City, a Republican, blind since 1907, yet diligent in his dual roles as lawyer and senator. There was a gravitas to this loyal leader; his German thoroughness and earnestness echoed a bygone era. Minnesota’s farmers never forgot how fiercely he’d shielded them from grain speculators, mortgage sharks, and a government they grasped less each year. After the final hymn, they gather in coffee shops and taverns. There, old farmer Göra Andersson recounts,
“I spoke with old Thomas D. Schall—God rest his soul, we must say now—just before he died. Never saw him so troubled. He said there’s no hope for farmers under Agriculture Secretary Henry Wallace, especially with that economic advisor, Mordecai Ezekiel, claiming average farms aren’t progressive enough. Their latest notion? Plow under wheat and barley to prop up prices. I’ve been here forty years, but plowing under good grain cuts against my old Swedish heart. Old Mr. Schall was horrified too. He must’ve seen dark things in Washington—he showed me a poem he meant to publish, begging God to free the States from Roosevelt. Then came his sudden death.”
Another farmer speaks slowly,
“And that death’s the deepest riddle. The old blind man steps out on December 11 evening for a short walk where he lives—no cars ever pass there. Then, out of nowhere, a car speeds in, runs him down—almost skillfully—and vanishes. Right by his house! When his family tries the police, the phone’s dead. Nothing’s been heard of that car since. Wonder if the investigation’ll turn up anything.”
It turned up nothing.
(To be continued in the next issue.)