Omega Minor

Omega Minor

Language: English

Pages: 691

ISBN: 1564784770

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Berlin, Spring of 1995. While a group of neo-Nazis are preparing an anniversary bash of disastrous proportions, an old physics professor returns to Potsdam to atone for his sins, an Italian postdoc designs an experiment that will determine the fate of the universe, and, in a room at Le Charit?, a Holocaust survivor tells his tale to the willing ear of a young psychologist. Who is that talking cat, why do ghosts of SS soldiers roam the city, and what is Speer's favorite actress up to?

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Hitler and the Nazi Cult of Celebrity

Reich Of The Black Sun: Nazi Secret Weapons & The Cold War Allied Legend

Nietzsche, God and the Jews: His Critique of Judeo-Christianity in Relation to the Nazi Myth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing more than the final avatar of WLADIMIR’s Schiksal? “You smell, Jew. You need to be washed.” He puts the washbasin between his feet and forces my head down until my nose touches the water’s filthy surface. I hear him clear his throat. A vile glob of phlegm runs to the corner of his mouth and then I feel it dripping down my neck. It coats my skull. The SS-man shaves his face, his foot in my neck, and the soapy foam and the sharp grit of his beard anoint my head, soothing and scratching.

The moonlight the windows in the gatehouse gleam dull and mysterious, a shield of lead to keep the radiance of the world outside. A cloud of dust and steam dances around the train; the first careful silver of the breaking dawn is punctured brutally by the probing fingers of the floodlights. Behind those lights smolders a less explicable flickering orange glow. We inch closer, at a snail’s pace, to a big platform of concrete. I hear familiar sounds: dogs barking, officers shouting orders. The.

Wings in the process—buried alive under the collapsing ceilings of improvised tunnels, drowned when their rubber boats were shot to pieces, their bodies ripped apart by dogs, or simply bleeding to death in the sand with a bullet in their backs, no more than an arm’s length from those other Germans, distant citizens of a different and forbidden country—and that nothing could be done about it—nothing but wait. Am I guilty? Am I guilty of having the same youthful impatience that filled my.

Man spoke. It doesn’t matter; he is dead and I survived. A poet on the battlefield. A poet trained in Bad Stolz. A miniature poodle jumping through the hoop of fire called history, scorching his fur. Here sprout faces without necks, arms unattached to shoulders, and eyes rolling around looking for their sockets. The first man you kill. Time staggers. Your eyes scan the landscape. The rhythm of your hurried breath. Everything is in order. Your legs still carry you. The skull that holds your.

He shakes his head, he doesn’t want to do this. Snot pours out of his nose. “Doch,” she says. “Doch!” And with her knee she kicks him hard in the groin. Grüneberg doubles over. Two men fold his hands around the torch. Then they throw their victim, flames and all, into the store. The dry carpet—g*d only knows how often it has been cleaned with g*d knows what kind of inflammable chemicals—ignites with a mighty sucking sound. Grüneberg has just enough energy to crawl to the exit, coughing, retching,.

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