 Words at War presents a colossal mystery story which sprang from a graveyard and staggered the world. Ho-do, ho-do, mumbo-jumbo. Who are we and where have we come to? Stir the cauldron and keep it hot. The elders of Zion have come to plot. To plot, to plot, to plot, to plot. At midnight dark in a graveyard spot. Forgive our murder. You see, we plan to dominate the earth. Thirteen all told in the devil at night, sitting on the tombstones. Tombstones white, forged out of fantasy, born of limbo. Ho-do, ho-do, mumbo-jumbo. The words you have just heard are of course sheer nonsense. You are listening will laugh at them naturally and with good reason. But for many years there were many idiots who actually believed them. Because they did. Poland became a charnel house, reeking with a smell of death. Blood ran in the gutters of Lidia, Sir, Rotterdam, Belgrade, Smolensk. Sixteen million human beings were slaughtered in Russia. By rope, by fire, by gun and sword. All the old millions of Jews and Christians perished against bullet-pucked walls in gas chambers by starvation and pestilence. And one man, an Austrian house painter, almost conquered the world. Words at War. The national broadcasting company in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime brings you an adaptation of a portion of Conrad Haydn's Book of the Month choice, Der Führer. An hour word of caution. Tonight's script written by Max Ehrlich does not concern itself with the life of Hitler. That has been done before. Instead... This is the expose of a great lie. The men who conceived it and used it to serve their own ends. This is the expose of a colossal forgery written in the blood of the butchered. This is the incredible but true story of the false protocols of the wise men of Zion. France, 1864. Napoleon III. Pirate and autocrat rules his groaning masses with an iron hand. The story begins with a little man, an obscure man, a lawyer by profession, one Maurice Jolie. Maurice Jolie, who at the moment has just entered the shop of the printer Bouchier. Well, it's you Bouchier. Have you decided to publish my little manuscript? I would not print it for Miller France, Mr. Jolie. You will oblige me by getting out of my shop and taking it with you. But my dear Bouchier, there's nothing in it that may become true. Come on, you. You take me for a fool. I have eyes and I can read. Dialogue in hell between Machiavelli and Montesquieu. A ponderous title, my friend, for transparent. Your manuscript is Trison. A seditious attack against the emperor. I do not mention the emperor. But you do not have to. This demon from hell you scribble off. This Machiavelli is the emperor. Very well then. He is the emperor. But Mr. Bouchier, this time that France knew how Napoleon tyrannizes and crushes his people, you would be performing a public service. I am interested only in keeping my head on my shoulders. This manuscript of yours, mon ami, is an invitation to Guillotine. I'll take it and get out. No French printer would touch Jolie's manuscript. Finally, in desperation, he took it to Belgium, where it was published as an illegal propaganda pamphlet. Very few read it and for 30 years it languished in oblivion. For the record, Napoleon III shuffled off his mortal coil of victim of gallstone. And Maurice Jolie died a suicide. But mark you well, Jolie's pamphlet. Dialogue in hell. Put it aside, digress for a moment, but do not forget it. For it was the beginning, the first step of the great lie. The second step, 1868, Germany. A certain Hermann Gotzsche, a minor official in the Prussian Postal Service, fancied himself as a writer of fiction. Under the English name of Sir John Redcliffe, he wrote a novel called Bayeritz. And in this novel, there was a chapter entitled, In the Jewish Cemetery in Prague, and a remarkable piece of fiction it was. Let's see if we can reenact it for you as radio will permit. It was the last day of the Feast of Tabernacles, and the clock was approaching midnight. The sinister graveyard in Prague, serried with row upon row of white tombstones, stood bathed in the eerie moonlight, waiting. Then one by one pale figures crept into the graveyard, 13 in all, among them the representatives of the 10 lost tribes of Israel. Silently they gathered in a ghostly group around one of the graves, and then spoke the Prince of Manasseh, where it was indeed he. Brethren of Zion, you have gathered here the tomb of Simeon Ben-Yehuda. Blessed be he. Blessed be he. He have come from the poor corners of the earth, armed with the dreadful secrets of the Kabbalah. Shall we now proceed, O Prince of Manasseh? No, wait. There is yet another of us who must appear. Which one is that, O Prince? He shall be nameless, but he will come from the tomb. Ghostly figures wait silently, fearfully, and then from the tomb of Simeon Ben-Yehuda, we greet you, O son of the occasion. With the business at hand, for the clock strikes twelve. Speak, O Prince of Manasseh. Brethren, for eighteen hundred years we have fought our war. Everywhere we have been downtrodden, persecuted, oppressed, but we are not conquered. Once every hundred years, as it is ordained, we meet to discuss our plans for conquest. What secrets have we now, my brethren? One by one, the kneeling figures answer. There is no greater power than gold, hard yellow gold, to bribe princes and king the literature of the world. These are the keys to kingdoms. What people read, people believe. The courts and parliaments, political bodies, these must be influenced. The youth, let us whisper in the ears of the young. And so it went down the line until the very end. And finally, when the last elder had spoken, the Prince of Manasseh rose. Brethren, go now and execute these plans. We shall meet again in a hundred years. In solemn conclave then, as now, go and work thy will. At you, O accursed one. There were brethren. The nameless one disappeared on the tomb, a flash of blue light, and one by one the thirteen ghostly figures crept away. And there was not left but darkness and silence. This was the mumbo-jumbo that Hermann Godshe, alias Sir John Ratcliffe the Younger, cooked up in a spare time. Pretty childish nonsense, you'll admit. Not very well done and meant for primitive minds. Among other things, for instance, Hermann never explained where he found the ten lost tribes of Israel, which had been lost for two thousand years. He never explained either why the elders met in a cold and uncomfortable graveyard, instead of a nice, warm back room with refreshments all around. Anyway, let's get back on the trail of the great lie. Hermann Godshe's gorgeous ghost story was published in pamphlet form, and lo and behold was marked authentic. A few professional antisemites tried to pedal it, but without much success. As Godshe wrote it, it was too much even for congenital idiots to swallow. And then it came into the hands of the ochrana, secret police of the Tsar of all the Russians. Oh, an interesting pamphlet this, Sergei. Yes, General Oryevsky. Written by an Englishman, eh? Sir John Ratcliffe the Younger. No, Excellency. The name Ratcliffe is a blind. The real author is an obscure German novelist, one Hermann Godshe. Interesting, very. I didn't think a German could have that much imagination. Of course, Sergei, this graveyard story is sheer rubbish. Of course. Still, I think we can use it. Use it? But how, Excellency? Sergei, the people are showing revolutionary tendencies. They're beginning to murmur against the Tsar. We must use harsh measures, suppress them. Yes, but this pamphlet, I don't see how... The usual technique, Sergei, give the peasants something to hate while we make them serve us. They'll be so busy hating that they won't notice what we're doing until it is too late. Ah. Now, a small minority would be very convenient for the people to attack. A certain small minority. The Jews, Excellency? Exactly, the Jews. Have this pamphlet printed in Russian, Sergei. See that it is distributed among the people. It ought to do wonders. Excellency, with your permission, this graveyard story may be a little far-fetched even for our ignorant peasants. Hmm, quite so, Sergei, quite so. Perhaps we should rewrite it. Perhaps in the form of protocols? Yes, yes, protocols. That would give this fable the appearance of truth. The protocols of Zion. Not bad, Excellency, not bad. Thank you, Sergei. General Oryevsky, may I suggest the man to convert the pamphlet? By all means, do. General Rachkovsky. Rachkovsky? Yes, yes, of course. The fellow has a genius for this sort of thing. Get in touch with him at once, Sergei. This was the third step in the series of fateful events. Now remember the pamphlet of Maurice Jolie, the French lawyer that we put aside for a while? Well, General Rachkovsky of the Tsarist Secret Police founded at this time and read it and was struck with an inspiration. General Oryevsky, we have only to put Machiavelli's words into the mouth of the mythical Jewish elders in the Prague graveyard. You mean combine the Jolie pamphlet with the graveyard story? Yes. Then we shall have something that will frighten the wits out of not only the people, but the Tsar himself. Excellent, Rachkovsky. Excellent. I trust this French lawyer. What's the fellow's name? Maurice Jolie? Was a Jew. No, Excellency. He was not a Jew. Oh, dear. Are you sure? Unfortunately, yes, Excellency. These baptismal papers are a matter of public record at the Church of Saint Desiree. Well, it does not matter. We are not dealing with the truth here. Proceed with your task. Prepare the protocols of Zion. It will be interesting to see what effect they have on our dear people. And what effect did they have? Here is the answer taken straight from history. It is the town of Orsha, population 14,000. It is a day of national festivity, a day when the peasants have swept the bitter thoughts of poverty and oppression from their minds, a day when Jews and Christians alike dance in the streets. But suddenly and mysteriously, the music trails away, the dancing is ended. Into the square come the agents of the Russian secret police. They are distributing pamphlets to the people, shoving them at one and all. And an agent climbs on a car. Today you dance, you sing, you laugh. You've forgotten your misery for the moment. Well, now is the time to remember these pamphlets. Read these pamphlets. If you cannot read, let others read them to you. You will see who is responsible for your hunger and poverty. The pamphlets tell all. They are printed. They are the truth. The body is flat. The Jew is flat. It is true. This is true. See, it is printed. Here in this book it is printed. Mayhem, diluting, murder. Thousands of peasants, hitherto good-natured human beings, came in from the countryside armed with axes and knives and clubs and guns. Passion and hatred were whipped to white heat by the secret police and the first murder's followers. Finally, on the 23rd of October, the vice-governor of the province spoke to the mob. Peasant, people, the people of Warsaw, listen to me. Now, children, it is enough. You have had three days of fun. Now go home and sing. God save the dark. A pogrom by definition is simply a massacre. You don't hear the word much lately. Nowadays, it's called purge or liquidation. But to get on, in the one month of October 1905, there were no fewer than 690 pogroms staged in all of Russia. 690 times the Kabul streets were drenched with the blood of an innocent minority due to the perpetration of the greatest fraud in history. But please don't fret about it. The pogroms nearly always ended on a nice note. Come, come, children. It is enough. You have had your fun. Now go home and sing. God save the dark. If this were fiction instead of truthful history, right there is where the story would end. But history is a perverse thing. Our story continues. A summer day in 1917. On this day, a student was reading in his room in Moscow when someone knocked at his door. Come in. Alfred Rosenberg? Yes. I'd like to leave this book with you. Just a minute. Who are you? It doesn't matter. Just read the book. I don't understand. What? You will when you read the book. Goodbye, Herr Rosenberg. The protocols of device, man, or siren? A mysterious occurrence, which doesn't make sense. But Alfred Rosenberg, who later became the official philosopher of the Nazi party, swears that it happened. However, Alfred Rosenberg read the protocols from cover to cover and was deeply impressed. I believe it. I believe every word of it. Yoda, this book has brought forth your innermost thoughts. Something will come of this. Thus spoke the student Alfred Rosenberg, son of a German shoemaker born in Estonia. Thus spoke this young mystic, this seer, this soothayer and prophet in the year 1917. As to the identity of the stranger who brought him the protocols, no one knows. It could have been the devil, if you believe in devils. The thing to remember is that the great lie had found its way into the right hands at last. To review, there had been... ...Maurice Shorley, Frenchman... ...Pennan Gacca, A.S.A. John McCliff, the younger... ...German... ...Murievsky and Skobsky, Russians... ...and now Alfred Rosenberg, Estonian Aryan. Mark this man, Rosenberg, and mark him well. As the onrushing Bolshevist armies rolled westward, Alfred Rosenberg flees before them, first to the Baltic, then Berlin, finally to Munich. While Lenin calls the world a revolution, holding aloft the Communist Manifesto, the refugee Alfred Rosenberg carries the textbook of world dominion in his battered suitcase to Germany. But this Germany is a new Germany, an ugly breeding place of conspirators plotting for power. And in Munich, Rosenberg, with his printed dream, found certain kindred spirits. Among them a young officer named Rudolf Hess, another called Ernst Röhn. We need a leader. A strong man and a ruthless man. A leader is not an R-Hess. This dumbed-down Russian revolution sweeping towards us is the support of the masses. We, too, must have the support of ours to counter it. Here in your book, right. But, above all, you need a plan. Well, how many Rosenbergs speak up? What have you in mind? First, the masses must be softened, split among themselves from within. We must create chaos in society, keep the people so busy hating something or someone that they'll be disorganized. One easy prey for us. You talk like a university professor. I'm a simple man. If you have a plan, Rosenberg, you'll see. Easy, Röhn, easy. What we need is a scapegoat to divert the attention of the masses. A scapegoat, huh? What kind of scapegoat? Well, my dear Hess, how about the Jews? Oh, the Jews. Of course. The Jews. How can we inflame the people against the Jews? This little book rhyme. Everything we need is in this little book. Book? You cannot win power in Germany with a book, Rosenberg. My dear Röhn, that is where you're wrong. In this little book is the secret of the domination of Germany. He aren't even more than that. The world. Let me see it, Rosenberg. Hmm. The protocols of the wise men of Zion. Three men and a little book and a disgruntled nation bowed low under the Treaty of Versailles. Three men and a little book and a nation smarting under the Treaty of Versailles. And when the sweet voice of reason tried to prevail and there were reasonable men in Germany, but people, why? Why? What have the Jews done? The answer was the same as in days of old. What have they done? You hear that, Germans? Yes, what the Jews have done. Here's what they've done. Breathe for yourself. The protocols of Zion drawn up in a Prague graveyard. It's written right here. It's printed. It's the truth. But I write about the little book. Yeah, Rosenberg. It's almost incredible. My storm troopers. The people have all gone mad with hate. The blood of Jews flows in the streets. Amazing people are Germans. The thing that they could be taken in by this ridiculous graveyard here. It is not ridiculous. Yes, it is the truth. Oh, very well, my dear Rosenberg. It is the truth. The people are blinded. They cannot see. We can't do anything we like. Now is the time to strike. Yes, but first we need a leader. That's right, yes. We need a leader. A strong man, a man without pity, a man who can sway the masses, a man facile enough to shoot any occasion. You talk, and it is, Rosenberg. Do I? Why, it's very simple, my dear Reum. You have only to read the protocols. We can use it not only as a weapon to divide peoples and therefore control them, but a textbook for ourselves. It tells us, for instance, that the leader must be nationalist or socialist, pacifist or warmonger, democrat or tyrant, whatever, is politically convenient at the time. Continue, Rosenberg. Continue. He must be pure by virtue of bayonets and the power of propaganda. And finally, the stupid masses whom he has politically raped will even applaud him. Oh, and Rosenberg, you speak like a professor. You don't understand, Reum. Everything we need is so simple. Everything is in the little book. Yeah, perhaps. What's this leader? Where are we going to find such a man? I think I've already found him, Reum. Yeah? Who? Who is this genius, Ace? He was recently a corporal in the army. Now he's an informer here in Munich. His name is, the name of the feudal. Adolf Hitler. Yes, that just about brings us to the conclusion most people are familiar with. But our story would be incomplete. We did not cover one more angle. The Führer once wrote a book. It was called Mein Kampf and it made him a fortune. With it, he proved that if a lie is big enough and bold enough and repeated often enough, some people will finally believe it. Yes, he's proud of that book. For in it, he says he reviews clever and original ideas on how to conquer the world. But the Führer flatters himself. He cribbed, lifted, stole from the heinous literary fraud known as the Protocols of Zion. Yes, to the Führer's many crimes can now be added plagiarism. Listen. We Germans shall create unrest, hatred and struggle in Europe and afterwards in other countries. You will find this in Mein Kampf? Also in the Protocols. The words are a little different. That is all. We shall divide the people in every state by envy and hatred, by struggle and warfare, even by spreading hunger and pestance. We shall force all people to bow to our will. You will find this in Mein Kampf? Also in the Protocols. The words are a little different. That is all. We shall paralyze and seduce the youth. We shall use bribery, treason, hypocrisy, treachery. We end justify the means. Anything for Germany to rule the world. You will find this in Mein Kampf? Also in the Protocols. The words are a little different. That is all. We Germans are the chosen. We are the supermen. If any state dares resist a... Let's turn it off. Proof is proof. Quaderat demonstrandem. Well, there it is. These are the true facts about the garbled graveyard story, the fantastic forgery whose propagation has caused untold misery to millions. This is the true story of the Great Lie and its final use as deaf ear as personal Bible and guide, his weapon with which to attack one minority and eventually every minority. This is the macabre comedy of fantasy, forgery, and tragedy that we allow to be played upon the stage of the world. May heaven and our children forgive us. Voodoo voodoo mumbo jumbo. Who are we and where have we come to? Stir the cold and keep it hot. The elders of Zion have come to plot. The graveyard spot. Forgive us our murders. You see, we planned to dominate the earth. Thirteen are told in the devil at night, sitting on the tombstones. Tombstones white, forged out of fantasy, born of limbo, mumbo. You have been listening to the 41st offering of Words at War, a radio play based on a portion of the new book of the month choice, Der Führer by Conrad Haydn. Tonight's adaptation was written by Max Ehrlich and the players included Gregory Morton, Junius Matthews, Martin Wolfson, Norman Lloyd, Daniel Occo, Barry Kroger, Sid Cassell, Boris Marshalloff, Ed Jerome, Kermit Murdoch, and Liesl Falka. The music was selected and played by William Meader and the entire production was under the direction of Anton M. Leeder. Next week, Words at War will present John Hersey's A Bell for a Donald. Words at War is brought to you in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime by the National Broadcasting Company and its affiliated independent stations. This is the National Broadcasting Company.