Irving in Chicago a full report
Heinrich
presentation
David Irving - Nov 23, 2009
WE drive up to Irving Park Road in northern Chicago, after shopping in
Michigan Avenue for presents for Jessica and Bente. We are at the Edelweiss
restaurant around five pm. The manageress, a formidable lady dressed in a
green frock, is not helpful, and J. soon crosses swords with the Eastern
European - not German - waitress, a really nasty, waitress-from-Hell type.
We have slated the dinner to begin at seven pm. There are no Internet signs
of impending trouble, but we have learned to be cautious. I reconnoitre the
back dining area first: there is a steel emergency exit which appears to
have been welded and padlocked shut; probably illegal, but good in the
circumstances. Next to that is a little storeroom, with a door that can be
locked from the inside. Even better. Our fortress, if worse comes to worst.
I try pushing broom handles through the handles of the two swing doors
leading back into to the restaurant; they fit, and this will delay any enemy
invasion for a few minutes.
J. calls my attention to a face with glasses peering in through the window,
and murmurs straight away: "That's them!" She has a gut instinct. Shortly,
when she is at the car, she sees one nudge the other and point at her, and
that certainly suggests she is right, but nothing happens.
Another burly man is present at the bar, having had a few drinks; he
saunters over to look at the book table that J. has set up.
J. suggests I flush him out, and I sit three seats away from him, order a
beer, and chat. He turns out to be John -, of Montana, his best friend is
Rainier G., a millionaire expert on WW2, he says. He phones G. and connects
us, and I realise that G. is Brian Fisher's friend in Las Vegas with whom I
had lunch in May 1999. His wife is a daughter of Parteirichter Walter Buch,
i.e. a sister of Gerda Bormann. It's a small, small world.
Paul B. arrives; he tells J. of two suspicious types lurking outside in the
shadows. Sounds ominous. Several people phone to learn the location, all
trustworthy, and I tell them: 7650 Irving Park Road.
A call seemingly from a "California" number comes through. I pick up the
Verizon phone: I can hear loud voices coming from the instrument before I
press any button - a man, then a shrill female, then the female saying: "I
can't hear you. Are you there? Cough if you can hear me."
Not exactly a normal phone conversation, more like an overheard snatch of
walkie-talkie - but very loud, as though it is right nearby. Bloody Verizon.
J. decides, against my advice, to call the local (Norridge) police and ask
them to look in immediately. Easy-going as ever, I think the evidence is
thin. But I go out, and move the car two blocks away, and walk back
clutching the [****] in my right hand, finger on the [****], in case they
jump me. This side of the street, Norridge, the weapon is legal; the other
side is Chicago, and it is not. Strange world, the United States: but it is
the home of free speech.
Our guests are seated, and have begun ordering meals. Going outside again,
to welcome our arriving guests, I see a man sauntering in the parking lot,
looking into cars and speaking into a phone - or is it a walkie talkie? I
tell Green Frock, and she goes out to look, taking a man from the bar who
appears not to be there just by chance. "He's one of our customers," she
announces, smirking. False alarm, perhaps.
David Irving with courageous assistant J.
I am about to go outside again, with J., for a final look when she stops and
says urgently: "They're here. Quick. Go."
I say, "Are you sure?" I glimpse only a string of heads bobbing in through
the door. "Yes," she snaps urgently. "They're wearing masks. Get back," -
and she grabs my arm to steer me back. We hear shouting and turmoil. "I've
left our valuables out," she realises. Too late. Too bad about our book
table. "Your life matters more to me," she says. She has her [****] at the
ready. She knows what we are up against: she saw these thugs at close range
in Manhattan.
With her free left hand, J. has flipped her phone open, and hits the police
number: "We have that problem. Right now!" she snaps, sotto voce. Language a
tad vague to me, but I hear the dispatcher calmly reply, "The police are
already there."
Thanks to J.'s early warning, that is: it has turned into an ambush for the
thugs. This is going to be good. They are ransacking and searching the
restaurant, but can't find us. There are violent bangs as somebody starts
kicking our door; J. shouts through the door that she is armed and to stand
back from the door. But now it is the management banging, shrieking
hysterically at us to get out. That's nice.
The fat Czech or Polish waitress starts screaming at J., calling her a
******* blonde bitch, but the restaurant is crowded with uniformed police
who motion the waitress to get back. Great. The thugs have poured paint over
the tables and restaurant staff, but somehow missed most of our stuff. That's
what their bosses have told them to do, to inflict maximum loss on me, but
the police got in first.
Some of our guests offer J. extra for the few riot-damaged books, and ask me
to autograph them. The thugs have left their big canister of paint left
behind; the police take it away for analysis and fingerprinting. One of our
guests has got the license tag of one car that the thugs have used: Illinois
plate G189 059.
Our guests have defended the restaurant brilliantly. One says that having
sat through September 17, 2000 and the Stefani's episode, this time he
decided he was going to fight back, and picked up chairs and beer mugs to
fling at the attackers. Another says he barred the street exit as the thugs
tried to escape, and snatched the mask off one scrawny girl attacker. She
screamed obscenities at him and punched him in the chest. "That didn't
hurt!" he said with a smile, which unleashed another string of foul
language.
Our new friend John, who has sat in to hear my talk, has been savagely
attacked, and blood is streaming from a wound on his forehead (it takes
twelve stitches at the hospital). Shortly we hear that the police have all
the attackers under arrest. Even better. One has Colorado ID, most of the
others are refusing to talk.
It is one-thirty a.m. before we can start heading south across Illinois.
There is heavy fog and drizzle. I drive the whole way while J. sleeps. She
has done brilliantly again. Her instinct was right, and mine wrong. Eight
thugs in custody, helping Chicago police with their inquiries, and they have
not yet laid a finger on me. Fifty cities this year. Fifty to nil for Real
History, a reasonable half-time score.
I'll Always Be 29/11/09
<7nege0F...@mid.individual.net>,
"Heinrich" <Hein...@Ruhrgasnet.de>
wrote:
Yet another unattributed "story". As
would be expected
American Eagle
Que? You are an unattributed entity yourself. Why are in posting in our
NG's anyway?
Heinrich
"I'll Always Be 29/11/09" <aussie...@invalid.invalid> schreef in bericht
news:aussies_suck-2CDB...@aries.ka.weretis.net...
the scum got a good beating and that is what they deserved.you on the other
hand are a whinoingold goat whonever contributes anythingof substance to a
discussion
Heinrich
"American Eagle" <A...@USA.com> schreef in bericht
news:7nen7rF...@mid.individual.net...
he posts only to stirr trouble. he never contributes anything of substance
to a discussion
I'll Always Be 29/11/09
<7ner9aF...@mid.individual.net>,
"Heinrich" <Hein...@Ruhrgasnet.de>
wrote:
It never happened.
I'll Always Be 29/11/09
<7nen7rF...@mid.individual.net>,
American Eagle <A...@USA.com> wrote:
> I'll Always Be 29/11/09 wrote:
> > In article
> > <7nege0F...@mid.individual.net>,
> > "Heinrich" <Hein...@Ruhrgasnet.de>
> > wrote:
> >
> > Yet another unattributed "story". As
> > would be expected
>
> Que? You are an unattributed entity yourself.
I may be an unattributed entity, just as
you are, but I don't post unattributed
articles.
Why are in posting in our
> NG's anyway?
Oh, I'm sorry, just send me the
paperwork so I can apply for your
permission