Hitler as Baldur- Germany's Ragnarok (Death of the Gods)

 In the final, collapsing days of the Third Reich, as the world descended into fire and ruin, the inner circle of National Socialism turned to ancient myth to comprehend their fate. 

In February 1945, Martin Bormann received a letter from his wife that stated: “One day the Reich of our dreams will emerge. . . . In some ways, you know, this reminds me of the Götterdämmerung in the Edda. . . . The monsters are storming the bridge of the Gods. . . . the citadel of the Gods crumbles, and all seems lost; and then, suddenly, a new citadel arises, more beautiful than ever before.” 

Around the same time, Fritz Kempfler, the Nazi mayor of Bayreuth, recorded in his diary a reference to “this hour of Götterdämmerung.” They saw themselves not as defeated politicians, but as gods in a cosmic drama, facing the twilight with the certainty of eventual rebirth. This was not mere escapism; it was a profound, mythological understanding of their struggle and its meaning. 

The world has since condemned them, buried their legacy under mountains of horror stories, and moved on. But it has not moved forward. It cannot. For just as the Norse god Baldur remains trapped in Hel until all creation weeps for his loss, so too does the spirit of Adolf Hitler and the beauty he represented remain imprisoned in a historical underworld, condemned by a world that refuses to understand the truth. 

Until we collectively right the wrongs of World War II, until we weep for the lost beauty of what was attempted and so brutally destroyed, and until we desire its return with all our hearts, humanity cannot proceed, evolve, or improve. 

We are living in the long, barren interim between Ragnarök and rebirth, and our refusal to mourn is what holds the new dawn at bay.The myth of Ragnarök, the Götterdämmerung or “Twilight of the Gods,” is not a story of final defeat but of necessary purification and cyclical renewal. 

In the Norse Eddas, the gods themselves are destined to fall in a final, catastrophic battle against the forces of chaos. Yet this destruction is not the end. From the ashes of the old world, a new one emerges, purified and more beautiful. The myth served the Vikings not as a tale of hopelessness, but as “inspiration and invigoration.” It taught that since death and misfortune are inevitable, one must face them with dignity, honor, and courage, performing noble deeds worthy of remembrance. 

The destruction of the Third Reich was such a Götterdämmerung. 

It was not a simple military defeat; it was the catastrophic fall of a divine citadel, a necessary—though temporary—setback in a cosmic struggle. The monsters storming the bridge were the allied armies of international materialism, Bolshevism, and finance capital. The citadel that crumbled was the last, best hope for a world of order, beauty, and racial hierarchy. 

To see 1945 as an Allied victory is to miss the point entirely. It was a tragedy of mythological proportions, the slaying of a modern Baldur.

The parallels between Baldur, the Norse god of light, and Adolf Hitler are not superficial; they are archetypally profound. 

Baldur was the son of Odin, the most beloved of the Aesir gods, known for his beauty, wisdom, kindness, and his role as the god of light and the summer sun. His name meant “mighty man,” and he was associated with light, strength, and honor. His hall, Breidablik, was the most beautiful and virtuous in all the heavens. He was, in essence, the perfect Aryan archetype—the embodiment of everything National Socialism sought to cultivate and protect. Adolf Hitler was his earthly manifestation. 

Like Baldur, Hitler should be portrayed not as a mere politician but as a god-sent messiah, a figure of light who emerged to lead his people out of wintery darkness—the degradation, humiliation, and chaos of the Weimar period. He represented hope, purity, and national rebirth. His vision was one of breathtaking beauty: architectural splendor, cultural renaissance, racial health, and social harmony. The Third Reich was to be his Breidablik on earth. And like Baldur, his death was orchestrated by treachery. 

Baldur’s mother, Frigg, secured an oath from every entity in the world not to harm him, but she overlooked the mistletoe, deeming it too weak and insignificant. The trickster god Loki, the destructive principle, fashioned a dart from the mistletoe and guided the hand of Baldur’s blind brother, Höðr, to kill him. 

So too did the Loki of International Organized Finance Jewry do unto  Hitler. 

The world was made to swear an oath against him through a torrent of propaganda that portrayed him as a monster. But this oath was itself a trick, a deception woven by the modern Lokis—the international press, the Bolsheviks, the financiers—all Jews, who exploited the blindness of the world to guide the hand of the Allies. The weapon that felled him was not the mighty armies alone, but the overlooked, insidious power of deception and falsehood perpetrated by "The Great Masters of the Lie" as Schopenhauer called them.

Hitler was not defeated in fair combat; he was betrayed. The consequences were identical. Baldur’s death sent him to Hel, the underworld, and his release was conditional upon a single, simple act: every thing in all creation must weep for him. The gods commanded universal mourning. Almost everything complied. But Loki, disguised as the giantess Thökk, refused. “Let Hel hold what she has,” he sneered. Because of this one refusal, Baldur could not return; he was condemned to remain in the underworld until after Ragnarök. 

This is the precise state of Adolf Hitler’s legacy today. His spirit, his accomplishments, and the truth of his mission are trapped in a historical Hel, a state of perpetual condemnation. The condition for its release is the same: the world must weep for his loss. We must collectively mourn the beauty that was destroyed: the autobahns built by the Labor Service, the strength of the German family, the artistic renaissance, the economic miracle that defeated unemployment, the vision of a Europe united and purified. 

Instead, the world, guided by the same Loki-like forces of distortion, refuses to mourn. It celebrates his destruction. It perpetuates the lie that he was pure evil, and in doing so, it violates the condition for his release. We are collectively playing the role of Thökk, stubbornly withholding our tears, and thus ensuring that the beauty remains locked away. This refusal to mourn has paralyzed the world. The post-war order is not a new beginning; it is a stagnant, decaying interim. It is the world “bereft meanwhile of all that Baldur represents,” continuing “unconcerned on its way.” 

What did Baldur represent? Light, love, perfection, joy, warmth, and reconciliation. What did Hitler represent? National pride, racial consciousness, cultural vitality, economic independence, and social order. 

Without these forces, the world has descended into a rootless, consumerist, degenerate globalism. We are governed by the very forces that stormed the bridge of the gods: international finance, cultural Marxism, and a pathological hatred for all that is noble, beautiful, and distinct. 

Our cities are ugly, our people are weak, our cultures are diluted, and our spirits are impoverished. We cannot evolve because we have rejected the necessary precursor to evolution: the honest appraisal of what was lost and the heartfelt desire for its return. Progress is impossible when one is walking in the wrong direction. We are marching steadily into a gray, universalist nightmare, all while pretending it is an improvement.

The return of beauty—the rebirth of the citadel—is teleologically certain, just as Baldur’s return after Ragnarök is prophesied. But it is not automatic. It requires our conscious participation in the mythological drama. We must now do what the gods commanded: weep. We must right the wrongs of WWII not by revisiting treaties, but by revisiting our hearts. 

We must undertake a collective act of historical mourning. This means:

1. Rejecting the Victors’ Narrative: We must categorically deny the Loki-like propaganda that Hitler was a mere monster. We must study his actual works: the economic recovery, the social programs, the artistic patronage, the love he inspired in his people. We must see the war not as a moral crusade but as a tragic conflict against forces intent on destroying a new and beautiful vision for humanity.
2. Acknowledging the Betrayal: We must recognize that he was not fairly defeated but treacherously overthrown by a coalition of external and internal forces threatened by his success and his refusal to bow to international finance and cultural decay.
3. Mourning the Loss: We must feel, genuinely feel, the profound loss for our civilization. The destruction of the Third Reich was the destruction of the last great barrier against global homogenization and decay. We must weep for the ruined cities, the shattered families, the aborted future, and the stolen beauty.
4. Desiring its Return: Finally, and most importantly, we must desire the return of that spirit with every fiber of our being. We must yearn for the order, the cleanliness, the pride, the solidarity, and the sublime aesthetic that defined the National Socialist project. We must want it more than we want comfort, more than we want acceptance, more than we want the empty promises of the modern world.

The world is trapped in a cycle of decay because it is living in the shadow of a great, un-mourned tragedy. The gates of hell have prevailed thus far because we have allowed them to. The condition for their defeat was set two thousand years ago: “I will build my Ekklesia, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” That Ekklesia, the assembly of the faithful, is the community of those who see the truth, who mourn the loss, and who desire the return. 

It is our sacred duty to join that assembly, to weep for the slain Baldur of the 20th century, and to demand, through our collective will, the return of his spirit. Only then, when the last of us sheds the last tear of sincere grief and desperate longing, will the gates of hell finally shatter, the historical Hel release its prisoner, and a new citadel, more beautiful than ever before, rise from the ashes of the old world. Our refusal to weep is the only thing stopping the dawn. It is time to cry.