I was elated. The shop manager of Britain’s largest retail newsagents placed an order for 20 copies of my poetry anthologies. Eyeing holocaust fiction on the nearby shelving I suggested she might be interested in stocking copies of Did Six Million Really Die? “It discredits most of this fiction,” I smiled.
The poor girl was taken aback not because I disbelieved the holocaust mantra but because I was destroying her illusions. As we discussed lurid holocaust titles I realised she was getting off on telling me of what she claimed the Germans did. I would have got a similar reaction had I told her that Dracula was not the fiend he’s made out to be and Frankenstein was a fictional character. You try telling a six-year old that Santa isn’t real and you get the picture.
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