Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho

Walt Disney

It’s almost morning. I can just make out the colors of the three pencils on my desk—red, green, and blue.

I can see the trees and the big house emerging from the night like chalk on black paper; hear the birds stirring, my sister screaming. Another morning for her. A new age for me.

I live in a little house and my sister lives in the big farmhouse where the kitchen and bathroom are. I have my studio downstairs, sleeping loft upstairs. This little house used to be a summer kitchen. It was, really, a giant oven. My sister lets me stay here rent-free. I fixed it up. Well, her husband and me. Ex-husband, I should say. A scourge, divorce. My sister is a bad cook.

She also cries very much, so the screaming this morning does not sound so bad to me. I like it; it is comforting. Like the screams of Stukas. I wonder will she make me spaghetti for lunch as she usually does on Saturdays.

I am an artist My expenses are low. My sister makes me pay for one-half the utilities, and of course I must put gasoline in my ’78 Chevy. My brother worked for the railroad until he was laid off. He is mechanically inclined and repairs my car for free, or almost, a case of Stroh’s. I myself do not consume alcohol. Or meat. It is a desecration. The Fuhrer felt the same way. He was a vegetarian, and respected all healthy life forms.

To make money for books and supplies, I do courtroom drawings for the Allentown Morning Call, and sketch animals and mountains and lakes for the small greeting card shop downtown. Downtown Allentown is very sad. No one goes there anymore, everyone is in the mall. Downtown is choked with retarded people and mud people, niggers and Puerto Ricans. It must be cleansed.

Last week Jimmy at the card shop looked at my latest card sketch for a long time. He said, “There’s something disturbing about this.” I said, “Disturbing? Horses in a corral?”

He didn’t say anything. Then he said, “It’s the sort of thing Goebbels would have in his office.”

I have seen photographs of Goebbels in his Reich office, sleek and alert behind the dark oak, and knew Goebbels would never hang up a sketch of horses. Hitler, yes. The Fuhrer loved animals and children and they loved him.

But I said nothing. I took the money and shook his hand and left. He was not smiling. He was still looking at the horses.

I had used my green pencil to draw the horses. Red for the corral. Hitler from his Vienna student days followed this plan: Red for an enemy. Green for a friend. Blue, when he was uncertain.

Later that week I sketched a defendant for the Morning Call. He was accused of torturing, raping then killing his daughter, shotgunning his wife, small son, and mother. I used the red pencil. He had no lawyer. He defended himself. He said that he discovered his wife was not racially pure and that she consorted with mud people. So he had to sanitize his blood line to prevent further mongrelization of the white race.

He denied raping his daughter, only sparing her and his son the agony of life as mongrels. His wife was racial trash. He said that killing his mother had been an accident. “Mutti,” he wept. “Mutti.”

He had eyes of blazing blue, shuffling in the courtroom in ankle chains and orange jump suit with nervous deputies in brown shirts at his sides. He was proud and unbowed as a wild stallion.

He sat still, so he was easy to draw. Some defendants cannot sit still and squirm around which makes them difficult to draw. He had good features, a lofty forehead, a strong chin, those blue eyes. The case had generated a lot of publicity, and the editor was very pleased with my sketches, so I was in the courtroom every day. I knew he was posing for posterity.

Everyone thought he would be remanded to the state insane asylum but the judge sentenced him to life without parole. The man looked up and , smiled. “Thank you judge,” he said. “You’re welcome, said the judge.”

When he hobbled out of the courtroom, his eyes locked on mine. He said something curious. “Disney,” he said. “Study Disney.”

I had been thinking about Walt Disney. I looked down at my sketchpad. To sketch the walls and background during the sentencing I used the green pencil.

That night I took down my Disney books and began looking. I saw things I had never seen before. Pinocchio the pure, the innocent, betrayed by lesser beings but sacrificing himself gladly to save his bloodline. Heralded by all nature, a cricket, a pure white dove. Cinderella the pure Rhine-maiden, trampled underfoot by her filth stepsisters but recognizable by subtle signs—the curve of her instep, her innate grace—as racially pure by the Aryan prince.

Always the Aryan prince, the man of steel perilously exposing his breast to rescue the maiden. Snow White. Sleeping Beauty. Penetrating the Siegfried wall of thorns, bypassing the lesser beings, the dwarves whose number was seven—the prime number of Zionism.

Then, Carol. My Sleeping Beauty. She was a clerk in a copy shop downtown where I was copying some sketches to send to a filth Jew art director in Jew York. She had long tangled blonde hair, as if fresh from the hunt. She had clear blue eyes. She had a good bust and wide hips, the true child-bearing Aryan woman. She had acne, but to me this only made her more appealing.

We talked. Both her parents were German, her grandparents still alive in Nuremberg, the most holy of German cities. She said she liked the way things ran over there.

Then some filth Puerto Rican with a red bandanna came in and began making self-service copies. We ignored him. But the machine stuck and he wanted her to fix it. She said she could not, did not know how and he became irate, yelling, “Hey baby, hey chocha, mira, you better not give me shit.” I walked over and kicked his kneecap and when he went down took his greasy Spic head in both hands and smashed his face on my knee then dumped the filth on the sidewalk before he could bleed on me.

I asked Carol out. She looked at the small crowd forming on the sidewalk. Then she looked at me. Then she said yes. She didn’t live so far from my sister’s house.

We went out. It is no mockery of her purity to say she appealed to me, as a True Woman; even that she kissed well. My sister began teasing me about leaving the Nazi Party and joining the rest of the world.

One night after we had been going out for about three months Carol, seemed restless, disturbed—first distant, then snugly. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “I don’t want to go home just yet. Can we go to your place?”

We went into my little house and sat down on my small couch downstairs, in the studio. Carol said, “Do you like me?”

I said, “Carol, you know I do. You are my angel.”

She said, “I don’t want to be your angel. I want to be your lover.” She took my hand, put it on her breast, and leaned over, mouth open obscenely to kiss. I was excited, but also repelled.

“Stop that!” I said, my hand accidentally spasming on her breast before I yanked it away. It felt firm, and soft, at the same time. I am 27, and had never felt a woman’s breast.

“Why?” she said, and began peeling off her sweater. “Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?”

“Yes—but—” I said, “your purity!”

“Fuck my purity. Fuck me,” and she raised her green sweater, the heavy fabric brushing against her large nipples. She wore no bra. It was like the curtain going up to a play.

I threw her off and ran into the sheltering woods. When I returned, I insisted she go home.

“Is it MTV? Madonna?” I asked, driving her home. “Why do you act this way when you know I love you?”

She said nothing. I leaned to kiss her good night by the dashboard light but she was already out the door. The red warning light stayed on until I properly shut her door.

She was never there when I called. I thought she had forgotten about the Halloween costume party, but then she called me the night before and said, “Are we still going?”

That night I wept. My angel, my pure one, had come back to me.

When she came down the steps, I was breathless. She was Snow White. In the car, I told her to take off the black wig and comb her long blonde hair down and put on the armband. I was in my black SS uniform. She was Snow White and I her Aryan prince. The vampires, the werewolves, the politicians and gangsters, all of them stared when we walked in. We were myth incarnate on the parquet floor. My SS dagger gleamed red in the disco light.

Afterward I took her back to my little oven house Then in the back, in the woods. Then I woke up my sister and told her of my act of love — for Carol, for my sister, for the entire Aryan race, It is not enough to believe, I told my sister; one must sacrifice that which one holds most dear.

My sister started screaming and locked the door. Through the blinds, I saw her pick up the phone. I went back to my drawing board to complete the sketch. The thick forest, the clearing, the maiden on the altar, SS dagger in her chest. The Master, Disney, would have been proud.

It is lighter. I can see the big house clearly now. All the shades are drawn. Through the bird song—yes, faintly—now more clearly—I hear the frantic sirens, see the red lamps flashing, comical bullhorn voices shouting. Dwarves. They are as dwarves to me. Some day they will join me to march all the impure and mongrelized into my oven.

I must put my pencil down now.

Heigh-ho. Heigh-ho.

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