Nationalist Book Review

 33. Luther in the Midwest “Weil aber der Mensch ge-fa-gefa-alen-ist." The twelve-year-old began to stutter, and the teacher became angry: "Setz dich, Fritz! Karl, lies du weiter!“ (“Sit down, Fritz! Karl, you read on!”) Karl was evidently the light of the class. Swiftly and jabbing, as if he were chopping the words syllable by syllable from the sentence, it came from his lips: "Weil — aber — der — Mensch — gefallen ist —, steht er — unter — dem — Zorn— des — heiligen — Gottes und — bedarf des Erlösers.” (Because - but - man - is - fallen -, he - is - under - the - wrath - of - the - holy - God and - needs - the Savior.") „Sehr gut, Karl! Was heißt das, Lieschen, der Mensch bedarf eines Erlösers?“ ("Very good, Karl! What does that mean, Lieschen, man needs a redeemer?") Two stiffly twisted pigtails, between which a little face stunned with astonishment had been staring at the strange visitors on the last bench, wheeled around startled, but then Lieschen re

 32. The Dream of a German America In the large mansion of suburban Chicago, a wooden ox yoke hung over the fireplace.  The lady of the house followed my questioning gaze: "That came from my grandfather. He had moved across the prairie to Missouri in a covered wagon." Then she moved closer to the fire and told the story: "My mother's father was the pastor Georg Münch in Homburg an der Ohm. His superior was the grand ducal chief stable master, who told him every week what he had to preach on Sunday. He himself, however, was not a great speaker before the Lord, and when he once had to give a speech at a banquet, he began to stutter. My grandfather was understandably not very pleased that a chief stable master prescribed his sermons to him every Sunday, and so he could not refrain from making the mocking remark over the blackboard: "Our chief stable master has become a chief sound master!” Thereupon, of course, there was no more preaching. He had to take his leave

  31. The Development of No Man's Land "Before I die, I'd like one time to go through it after all!" The old Tennessee farmer pointed with his chin to the great forests. Endlessly they stretched across the mountains to the horizon. The meadows and fields of the farms were like a small lost clearing carved into the immensity of the virgin forest. Before I had come here to the Great Smoky Mountains, I would not have believed that there could still be this ocean of trees in the United States. "There are still bears in there, panthers," the white-haired man continued, "trees that nobody knows about, and medicinal plants, wonderful medicinal plants, but nobody has ever come all the way through there, not a paleface or a redskin." I felt as if the old man was talking out of his mind, as if he were conjuring up an America of the Leatherstockings that had long since sunk. But he was not deterred: "It will take at least eight days, it can also be fourt