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http://www.guardian.co.uk/farright/story/0,11981,841363,00.html

Flirting with Hitler

Gothic is a way of dressing, a taste in music, a style. But in Germany - at the extreme
fringes - it has also become the point at which neo-Nazism and Satanism meet. Report by
John Hooper

John Hooper
Saturday November 16, 2002
The Guardian

The prosecutor called it "a picture of cruelty and depravity such as I have never, ever
seen". He was describing the scene left behind when Daniel and Manuela Ruda fled from
their home in the west German town of Witten in July last year after murdering their 
friend,
Frank Hackert. When police broke in three days later, on July 9, they found a poster of
hanged women in the bathroom and a collection of human skulls in the living room. There
was a coffin in which 23-year-old Manuela sometimes slept. Blood-stained scalpels were
scattered around the house. And then there was Hackert's corpse. He had been stabbed 66
times. A scalpel was lodged in his stomach and a pentagram cut into his skin. Nearby 
was a
list of names. Police believe that they were those of the people the couple intended 
to kill
next.

The Rudas' trial in January provided a stream of outlandish and gruesome details. Much 
of
the focus was on Manuela, who shrank from sunlight and had had two of her teeth 
replaced
with animal fangs to look more like a vampire. She said her initiation into the world 
of
Satanism had taken place at a Gothic club in Islington, London, where she claimed to 
have
met real vampires. "We drank the blood of living people," she told police. On January 
31,
she was sentenced to 13 years in a secure mental facility, while Daniel was sentenced 
to 15
years.

While public attention tended to dwell on the way in which Manuela had given life to 
her
sinister fantasies, a more chilling aspect of the case went largely unnoticed: the 
links
between the Rudas and the neo-Nazi movement, links that hint at a much broader - and
growing - overlap in Germany between the far right and the broad range of occult and
esoteric movements that nowadays go by the generic name of "Gothic" or "Dark Wave".

Among the witnesses at the trial was 28-year-old Frank Lewa. He testified that he had 
first
met Daniel Ruda on the local far right/skinhead scene. Daniel's involvement was more 
than
casual. The regional newspaper, the Rheinische Post, discovered that at the 1998 
general
election campaign in Germany, Daniel had canvassed for the National-Democratic Party of
Germany (NPD), a far right party that the government has since tried to outlaw (the 
matter
is currently before the Constitutional Court).

On the witness stand, Lewa said that after the election Daniel drifted out of the 
skinhead
world and into the Gothic scene. He began listening to "black metal" music, a variant 
of
heavy metal, and at one time played in a band called the Bloodsucking Freaks. It was
through a black metal fanzine, in fact, that he met Manuela, after placing an ad that 
read:
"Black-haired vampire seeks princess of darkness who despises everything and everybody
and has bidden farewell to life."

Daniel, 26, broke contact with Lewa after a row at a party. Lewa told the court that 
he had
received a letter from his erstwhile friend in July, a few days before the Rudas killed
Hackert. In it, Daniel called Lewa a Judas and enclosed a photograph of himself, 
covered in
blood and apparently hanging from hooks in the ceiling. He was pointing two gas 
pistols at
the camera.

When the police finally caught up with Daniel and his wife, on July 12 2001, they were 
in
the east German city of Jena, having previously visited two nearby towns, Sonderhausen
and Apold.

The significance of these details would be lost on most Germans, and it appears not to 
have
been remarked upon at the trial. Nevertheless, it would have meant a very great deal to
anyone who had studied what has become known as "the case of Satan's Children", in
which three schoolboys who lived near Jena were convicted in 1994 of the ritual black
magic killing of a classmate.

One of the boys, 16-year-old Hendrik M�bus from Sonderhausen, formed a band while in a
juvenile detention centre. Among the tracks on a CD they produced was one called Zyklon
B, after the gas used in the Auschwitz gas chambers. Not long after M�bus's release on
probation in 1998, he began violating the terms of his parole, roaring out "Sieg Heil" 
from
among the audience at a concert, and attempting to justify the murder for which he had
been sentenced on political grounds. "I don't know whether, in the Nazi era, one would
have been convicted if one had rendered race vermin harmless," he was quoted as saying.

Germany has legislation making both Holocaust denial and the use of symbols from the
Third Reich criminal offences. In 1999, faced with the prospect of another spell in 
jail for
contravening these laws (and thereby breaking the terms of his parole), M�bus fled to 
the
US, where he applied unsuccessfully for political asylum. He is now back behind bars in
Germany. His brother, who lives in Apold, runs a black metal label, Darker Than Black.

In the days that followed the murder of Frank Hackert, the Rudas embarked on a kind of
pilgrimage to places that in their minds linked the far right and the occult - to Jena,
Sonderhausen and Apold. It is possible they planned to do more than visit: on the 
death list
police discovered in the Rudas' flat was the name of the mother of the boy whom Hendrik
M�bus and his friends had murdered seven years earlier.

Links between Nazism and esoteric and occult movements are nothing new. Hitler, 
rejecting
Christianity, embraced instead the paganism of the early Germanic tribes. Their 
beliefs,
both real and imagined, offered a basis on which any number of sinister concepts could 
be
superimposed. The process reached its apogee at Schloss Wewelsburg, near the town of
Paderborn. Though the present-day castle dates from the late 16th century, records
suggest that there has been a fortress on the site since the days of the Huns, more 
than a
thousand years earlier. The surrounding landscape is wooded, often misty, and
interspersed with giant, weirdly-shaped rocks. The castle and its environs were ideally
suited to the purpose for which Heinrich Himmler rented them in 1934 - that of 
providing
the officers of his elite corps, the SS, with an education in the supposed pagan 
mysteries
underpinning National Socialism.

Though it does not make much of an impact at election time, the far right remains a
disturbing undercurrent in German life: sufficiently disturbing for the federal 
government to
have launched an all-out drive against the neo-Nazi fringe two years ago (including the
attempt to ban the NPD). "The problem with the far right in Germany is not that its
members are particularly numerous, but that they are readier than their counterparts
elsewhere in Europe to resort to violence," said a senior intelligence officer who 
asked not
to be named. That point was driven home by a string of savage attacks in early 2000,
culminating in the beating to death of a Mozambique-born German citizen in Dessau.

The far right is especially pervasive in the formerly communist east where 
unemployment is
high and where, after the war, there was not the same painful reckoning with the past 
as in
the west. Despite - or perhaps because of - the fact that there are fewer immigrants 
in the
former GDR, surveys also show that racist attitudes are more prevalent there than in 
the
cosmopolitan west.

One possible reason why the degree of support for the far right does not show up in
election results is that the most extreme rightwingers will have nothing to do with the
democratic process and abstain. This is particularly true of those connected with the 
so-
called Kameradschaften which form a network of mutually independent, neo-Nazi secret
societies. Each may have no more than 10 or 15 members, but around them is a wider
circle of associates and sympathisers. Indeed, the secretive and hierarchical world of 
the
German far right mirrors that of many occult communities.

On several occasions since the fall of the Third Reich, evidence has surfaced of 
connections
between the far right and Satanism. As in the cases of Hendrik M�bus and Daniel Ruda,
however, they have been limited to individuals or, at most, small groups. But in the 
past five
years, an entirely new phenomenon has developed: a mass youth culture in which neo-Nazi
ideas and symbols have merged with the Gothic scene.

This movement can be traced back to 1993, when Roland Bubik, widely regarded as the
leading thinker of the German extreme right, wrote a seminal article for the magazine
Junge Freiheit. Entitled "Culture as a question of power", it argued that "new 
possibilities
for influencing people are arising in the area of communications networks. In 
particular, the
entertainment industry... has an immense influence that until now has gone unremarked."
Within a couple of years, Bubik's partner, Simone Satzger, was stating as fact, in a
collection of essays edited by Bubik, that the far right's strategy was "to open up
contemporary cultural and political phenomena to use them for our own purposes".

Since the mid-1990s, Germany's neo-Nazis have attempted to penetrate several youth
scenes, including techno, but it is with Goths that they have had their greatest 
success. The
Gothic movement may be on the wane in Britain and many other countries around Europe,
but in Germany, where its adherents are known as Gruftis (from the German word for
"crypt"), they constitute a vast group. It is particularly strong in the former GDR. 
East
Germans are still reeling from the fall of communism, and the young in particular seem 
to
be searching for new values to fill the gap left by a creed that was as much a 
religion as an
ideology.

"The concentration of Goths in Germany is much higher than in other European 
countries,"
says Stephan Tschendal, who edits an online Gothic magazine. He estimates that between
5% and 7% of all young Germans between the ages of 12 and 25 are Goths, an overall
population of at least 650,000. Many of them are doing no more than making a fashion
statement, or registering a protest against the drabness and conformity of modern adult
life. Devil-worshippers exist only on the extremist fringe. But in two specific areas 
of the
Gothic scene - the areas in which the neo-Nazis have had the greatest success in 
infiltrating
their ideas - Germany's intelligence officers believe there is genuine cause for 
concern. One
of these is "neo-folk"; the other is black metal, the dark variant of heavy metal that 
so
appealed to Daniel Ruda.

In a darkened hall in the centre of Leipzig, blue lights play on the smoke billowing 
out from
under a stage where Darkwood, a three-piece neo-folk band, play placid, lilting, 
slightly
weird music. The band's gig forms part of an annual, three-day Gothic festival, which 
this
year attracted some 17,000 people from all over Europe to Leipzig. Churches in the 
city that
had been asked to host concerts refused to do so, citing the risk that Satanists could
assemble on consecrated ground.

About half the crowd at the gig are typical Goths, but the rest look as if they have 
wandered
in from a Nuremberg rally. There are men wearing high, heavy boots and black military-
style shirts and trousers. There are women, also wearing boots, with calf-length 
skirts and
white shirts with a symbol on the right arm that resembles a badge of rank. Everywhere,
there are leather cross-straps, forage caps and 1930s-style shorts.

As its name implies, neo-folk draws on the musical heritage of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and
other protest singers of the 1960s and 1970s. Some German groups dig further back into
the past, updating and reworking traditional folk tunes. The acoustic guitar is 
central to its
music, which also features flutes, cellos and violins. Yet neo-folk is anything but 
folksy. Punk
has had an influence on its evolution and much of the music could be described as
industrial. Unusually extensive percussion sets are typical of the genre. Another
characteristic is that gentle melody-making can all of a sudden give way to something 
much
more visceral: the lead singer of Darkwood seized hold of a pair of heavy drumsticks 
and
beat out an intimidating tattoo on a bass drum. It was like Japanese Kodo drumming, but
with the rhythms of a Prussian parade ground. The drumming rose in a crescendo, then
ended as abruptly as it had begun, prompting the loudest cheers of the night.

The Leipzig festival was launched in 1991, soon after German reunification, and has 
helped
turn the city into the Gothic capital of Europe. Like neo-Nazis, Goths are drawn to its
Volkerschlachtdenkmal, one of the strangest and most intimidating monuments to be found
anywhere in Europe. A vast, stepped pyramid towering over a lake on the wooded fringes
of the city, it resembles a Mayan temple. The Volkerschlachtdenkmal was inaugurated in
1913 to commemorate the defeat of Napoleon at the battle of Leipzig 100 years earlier. 
But
since German reunification, it has become a favoured rallying point for the far right.

The pivotal figure on Leipzig's neo-folk scene is a 29-year-old DJ who goes by the 
name of
Mortanius. He denies that neo-folk has anything to do with extreme-right politics. 
"These
groups use language and symbols both from the Nazi era and the days of the GDR to
provoke people, to get people to think - think about their past," he told me. "People 
from
the far right scene don't feel comfortable in this environment. We never see skinheads 
at
our gigs or in our clubs. On the contrary, we have problems with them. I won't say you
don't see people from the extreme right or that they aren't trying to infiltrate. The 
attempt
is certainly there. But it is doomed to fail because people can think for themselves. 
We have
a generally left-leaning audience."

Less than an hour after meeting Mortanius, I found myself in a shabby room with four
Goths, three young men and a woman, who had agreed to be interviewed on condition of
anonymity. One of the men had a partly shaven head and a pigtail, and was wearing a
black shirt, camouflage trousers, military boots and a symbol dangling on his chest 
that
managed to combine a Celtic cross, a human skull, an eagle's wings, two entwined snakes
and a pentagram. His girlfriend had a spiked collar around her neck and a dog's lead
dangling between her breasts. At one point, we fell to discussing what he called "youth
Satanism". "It starts with the moving glass and then they go on to animal sacrifice," 
he said
nonchalantly, and apparently knowledgeably.

When I read out Mortanius's description of the local neo-folk scene and its lack of
connection to the far right, all four burst into incredulous laughter.

Solveig Prass, the Leipzig social worker who had set up our meeting, asked me if 
Mortanius
had been wearing any badges when I met him; had I noticed that one of them was the so-
called "Black Sun"? A pagan fertility symbol, the Black Sun is known to have been used 
by
the Alemans, a third-century Germanic tribe. Each of its 12 "rays" is the rune meaning
"sun". According to Dr Rudiger Sunner, author of a recent book on Nazism and its use of
myth, the Black Sun is "definitely a sign of the SS". Himmler fashioned the SS emblem 
from
one of the Black Sun's 12 jagged "rays", and a large Black Sun was set into the floor 
of the
Obergruppenf�hrer's Hall in Schloss Wewelsburg, immediately above the crypt.

Mortanius was in fact wearing three badges, including the pagan Black Sun: he argues 
that
"our symbols... don't really have anything to do with the Third Reich".

How close, really, are the links between Gothic - or, specifically, neo-folk - culture 
and the
German far right? Unquestionably, there is an element of sheer, apolitical mischief: 
it is not
easy for the sons and daughters of the generation of 1968 to find a way of shocking 
their
parents, but dressing up in vaguely neo-Nazi garb should do the trick. "I want to 
stand out
from the crowd of normal Dark Wave folk," Mortanius told me. "I don't want to be an
ordinary Goth in the street. I want to provoke people."

The organisation charged with protecting Germany from a Nazi revival is the
Verfassungsschutz, a body roughly equivalent to Britain's MI5. Reinhard Boos is its 
director
in Saxony, the state in which Leipzig lies, and so has a special interest in gauging 
the threat
posed by far right penetration of the Gothic scene. When I visit him in his office in 
a leafy
Dresden suburb, he produces a couple of CD covers and lays them on his desk. One is an
album by the British band Death In June, which shows four dogs' heads arranged at right
angles. Half-close your eyes and they become a swastika. The other CD is by the 
Austrian
band Der Blutharsch. Tip it, and a shiny patch on the inside cover becomes a triangle
containing the jagged ray of... what? The SS symbol? Or the sun rune? Is this merely
provocation, or evidence of a link between extremist politics and neo-folk music?

"I think the truth is in between," says Boos. "The Gothic scene is not to be confused 
with
rightwing extremism. But there are some groups that use symbols which refer to 
rightwing
extremism and they do it mainly for provocation. Very, very few of them do it to 
support
rightwing groups. On the other hand, the rightwing extremists know that there are 
people
who can be useful to them, so some of them try to win them over for their own aims. It 
is
not a plan by a few [people] that is carried out in a clear, structured way. Those who 
think
it is a good idea do so of their own accord."

"Things are not going well for the far right," argues Wolfgang Hund, an educational 
scientist
and the author of several books on the occult. "They are under pressure from all sides 
and
they are looking for allies... They are looking for foot soldiers in the ranks of 
disoriented
youth - human raw material for any Pied Piper who comes along."

One of the young men I met in Leipzig was about as different from the far right 
stereotype
as could be imagined. His jet-black hair was shaved away on one side of his head and 
hung
lank down the other. He was wearing a black velvet tailcoat, a silver pentagram on a 
chain
around his neck, five rings in one ear, and sunglasses. This apparently typical Goth 
was in
the process of trying to free himself from the neo-Nazi scene.

"My first contact was through a member of the NPD," he said. "It was all very low key 
at
first. We went to some concerts [of neo-Nazi bands] and I liked the music they played.
Then I started getting flyers and leaflets. Eventually, I began to help distribute 
them." He
decided to leave after a row over money ended in his being badly beaten.

Such cases notwithstanding, Boos believes that recruitment is not, in fact, the far 
right's
primary aim. The threat posed by the infiltration of the Gothic scene is, he believes, 
subtler.
"We take it seriously because it opens people's heads to extreme rightwing thought."

Solveig Prass and her colleagues in Leipzig, who talk regularly to DJs and others, 
have been
keeping a running estimate of how much of the Goth scene is under the influence of the 
far
right."The link was first noticed in the mid- 1990s. At that time, it was estimated 
that the
overlap was about 5%. Two years ago, we put it at 7-8%. Now, our estimate is 9%." 
Alfred
Schobert, a lecturer at the Duisberg Institute of Language and Social Research, took a
similar view in his 1998 academic investigation into the infiltration of the Gothic 
scene by
the far right. "It is not about recruiting in the short term. It is about [producing] 
an overall
reversal that picks up on and distorts the prevailing mood."

Through the Gothic scene, the far right can obtain access to the minds of hundreds of
thousands of young people throughout Europe. If they can be taught to accept certain
beliefs and symbols as normal, then the extreme right will have made significant 
progress
towards achieving what Schobert argues is a key, medium-term goal: "The removal of the
taboos that attach to Nazi symbols and racist-nationalist ideology".

Additional research by Beate Steinhorst

Guardian Unlimited � Guardian Newspapers Limited 2002

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