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When the music was over, a man in a sweater picturing a swimming
lion took the group to a festive meeting in a room behind a hall
showing porn videos. Oddly, in the midst of all the throbbing
pink some men were quietly playing chess. Frank watched the
screens for a moment, fascinated yet repelled. The video machines
must have been about the last of their kind outside the Institute
for the Study of Western Decadence: Frank de Regt had worked the
elevator there for a while, daily shuttling hundreds of joyless,
severe men from their studies to prayer and back again. The
Institute was housed in the former Welfare Department: poetic
justice would have assigned this building to the Diwaan,
the office for the distribution of revenues among the warriors,
but in the real world the military's prestige had netted them the
lush former State Department.
For a moment the sad events came to mind that had driven him
underground on a day like this, when he should have been at home
playing with his children, enjoying a nice meal, a lighted
Christmas tree. He remembered, almost heard Darlene Love sing,
wildly: `The grass is green, the orange and palm trees sway
... There's never been such a day in old L.A.'
On a quiet Easter morning a new Armada had landed thousands upon
thousands of young men with no future in their own part of the
world, their fifth column ready and waiting on the beaches and in
the streets. Promised the girls and comforts either of paradise
or of the lands to be occupied they methodically and ruthlessly
plunged the country into chaos, priests and ministers were shot
at services for sheer terror, within a few days most cabinet
members and other politicians had been murdered, the young king a
prisoner, his car collection abducted, the queen disappeared. The
country was spinning out of control, faster and faster until no
one was left standing in the middle, the center emptied:
moderates from both sides disappeared or slid to the fringes, and
in the civil war victory was for the merciless. Make war
upon them until they pay the tribute readily, being brought low.
Xenocracy.
Escape hatches and the presence of armed guards made Frank
realize that some important people must be present at the
banquet, and indeed underground leader Klaas Burgers rose and
spoke of happier days. Before the invasion he had stood up for
refugees and he had been an advocate for illegal immigrants'
rights, but still the new rulers had taken his wife and all he
owned, and he had been taken in chains to the enemy capital,
where one of his eyes had been removed and his brother killed.
"Once we were a great nation," he spoke, "Draining the bogs
and reclaiming the land, shovels for arms, levees our armor! With
the involvement of the common people in the water boards we
pioneered democracy in the West. Our shipping cheap with small
crews and windmills sawing boards, we became the greatest trading
nation in the world, the highest Gross National Product per
capita from 1550 to 1750. We threw out the bloody Inquisition and
licked the mighty Spanish Empire in our war of liberation, even
if it took eighty years. We were the first to salute the
revolutionary United States --- though the English revenge nearly
finished us off. Unfair trade practices banned our ships and the
English and French professional navies got the upper hand. We
were only a small nation, our warships were refitted merchantmen
that still had to earn their keep. But remember when Piet Hein
(his name is short) hit the jackpot, capturing the Spanish Silver
Fleet off Cuba: that year the West India Company paid 75%
dividend. And our famous tolerance! We were known all over the
world for our tolerance! The lion is struggling, but it will rise
again!"
"A toast to our great nation!" Harry Pekel shouted. Muscular,
young, with very short blond hair, the former pig farmer was the
wild man of the resistance. "We captured this liquor in a raid
on El Kameh's yacht, the supposedly invincible Alamut." He spat
the name out triumphantly. "But the governor was spending the
night with a lady friend on shore, or we would have had him here
tonight too, roasting with the pig on the barbecue!" he snorted
contemptuously.
"You're all dreamers and barbarians! Those days are over,"
someone said quietly, and all heads turned to the fat yet
distinguished-looking Jan Engerman. Frank remembered a newspaper
picture of him talking to the governor. "We have lost, these
people are here to stay. We can't help ourselves and no one is
going to deliver us. It's not a law of nature that victory goes
to the Good. The Nazis lost because Hitler was so foolish as to
attack Russia and to declare war on the U.S.A.. Had he not done that
they would still be here and our country would be part of Germany
now." Engerman rose from his seat. "We will have to make the
best of a bad situation. If we accept their supremacy they'll
grant us certain rights, as their law prescribes. By giving in to
their demands we may be able to save something. If we stop the
raids and our resistance they may relax and we might have a life
again. El Kameh said that if we drop the House of Orange we can
have some hours of our own language in the schools. I think we
can do without the king." Chairs being pushed back screeched and
a crowd gathered around Engerman, shouting, arguing heatedly.
With chairs flying and bottles crashing around him Frank went out to the video room and watched the seemingly willing flesh again. Unhappy he left to walk the dark streets of the old city. On a bridge over a canal he rested his head on his arms, then put his forehead to the cold handrail. There seemed to be no decent future above ground, nor in the catacombs; and the underground thing was bound to collapse or be penetrated someday anyway; soon, impotent hate would be all that was left. Furry animals swam and played in the smelly water under the bridge. A curfew patrol might have picked him up for all he cared: maybe mindless, hard labor would take his mind off the emptiness inside.
Mercifully, a light snow began to fall, as if to cover the
ugliness. For the moment the snow melted on touching the earth,
but as Frank noticed it was getting colder he realized he had to
make haste if he wanted to get anywhere without making clear
tracks. He hurried over the old cobblestones to the cracked
asphalt of the outskirts, moving in the shadows of the houses.
All over town white towers had been erected for the call to
prayer that sounded five times dayly; because the country was
taken by force the criers were armed, and some of them were quite
good shots.
The brick midrises from the fifties stood like a breached
medieval city wall, then fields stretched to the forest on the
horizon. The shortest way to the old ceremonial hill would have
been through the neighborhood where he was born, but only the new
rulers and their servants were allowed to go there now. He
crossed the beltway and ran into the fields. With the new taxes
much of the land was left fallow, and more than once Frank heard
animals scurry for cover from his path.
"Was gangith thar?" the soft challenge from the forest
felt like a courteous welcome.
"Frijonds," he answered.
"You're just in time."
In a clearing at the top of a sunken road a group of twenty or so
was gathered around a boy in a white robe who was sprinkling
something from a small bottle on a straw-wrapped wheel. It was
put upright, a match struck and burning the wheel was rolled down
the sunken road. It bumped a few times, sparks flying high, but
it didn't swerve or fall, its flames disappearing on a straight
course. The crowd muttered, nonplussed. "Something unexpected
will happen," said an unpleasant voice.
As the priest took off the robe Frank realized it was a woman.
She was very pretty and had a wonderful figure, but her short
hair and boyish air must have made her escape the occupiers'
attentions. Her magical dance left the worshippers greatly
strengthened.
She came up to Frank. "I hear you're crossing over tonight? Let
me give you something for the journey." She picked up a small
stepladder and took him to an old oak tree.
"You can't really see it very well, this time of the year," she
said, pointing a long finger at a fork in the tree, "But those
twigs are from a parasite. Being not of the earth makes it
special." She produced a plastic cutter from the folds of her
robe and handed Frank a piece of fabric. Standing very close to
him, she suddenly snapped: "Hey --- it's not mistletoe ---" It
sounded as if she was going to add `pal,' but she didn't.
"Sorry," she said, touching his elbow. "One gets so coarse up
here."
Quickly she climbed the ladder. "It's a charm to keep you on
your way. Please catch it on the sheet," she called, "It's not
supposed to touch the earth."
"Remember, when you're out there," she lectured Frank from the
top of the ladder, "The old Germanic culture came not only from
the aggressive Indo-European herdsmen and warriors, but from a
fusion with a more settled, possibly matriarchal farmer
society."
Once down, she put a finger to his lips, pressing a little too
hard. "Be careful," she said. A heavy sadness for the way of
life gone forever settled over him, a paralyzing despair. For a
moment neither of them moved, then the priestess shook her head
as if to derail a misdirected train of thought.
She pressed his arm and repeated, "Be careful." Softly she
chanted: "Jah ni bringais uns in fraistubnai," don't lead
us into temptation.
"But I don't know where to go," he said.
"Don't worry, you'll find a way," she said. "Follow the
wheel." From the dark someone called her name. "Please go
now," she ordered the hesitating Frank. From the dark the
unpleasant voice called her name. Impatient voices called for her
again.
"Please go," she said, "Maybe we'll meet again when it's all
over."
"I'm not so sure."
"Quickly, now," she said, "Please remember me like this."
Patting him on the back she set him on his way.
Slipping and sliding Frank plodded doggedly through the mud and
dirt. He halted as shots and explosions sounded from a cleared
strip. Hearing movement close by he went up cautiously, but as
the man looked vaguely familiar and did not have a gun or radio
he went up to him.
"Knauen tag", he said.
"Ah - raihtis," the man said.
"By the way," Frank said, "Raihtis doesn't mean `right',
although it sounds like that in English; it means `already' --- ah
well, never mind."
"Yes, yes," the man said. "You look familiar - you must be one
of the Gothic people. Great stunt to make the Religious Council
believe that the Arianism of the Goths was closer to their
monotheism than the usual Christian trinity; it gave us a
breathing space and a cover to organize under. Well --- I hope we
can make a new start on the other side and leave all that stuff
behind us." He sighed. "Did you bring something to eat? We'll
have to wait for the dark to cross to the tunnel. We may be glad
the people from the other side come out every night to wreck the
automatic firing machines." Frank gave him an apple. They dozed
through most of the day, till the firing got worse again at
twilight.
Frank's companion woke up in a bad mood and got himself going
with a bitter tirade. "To think that we allowed these people to
preach at our community centers ... we simply didn't know
what went on at those so-called `prayer' meetings. It is of
course none of our business if someone wants to worship, dress or
diet in his own way, but for them the spread of their beliefs by
arms is a religious duty. Cleverly they exploited the Western
fear of being intolerant and narrow, and their leaders knew that
crass imperialism would simply be incredible to Western public
opinion, in the same way that the Nazis were able to discount
reports of the death camps as horror propaganda. Cynically, they
used the Multiculturalism they themselves did not respect, for
they are supremacists. Have you seen what their book says about
the Jews? `Wretchedness and baseness were stamped upon them
... devouring people's wealth by false pretenses ... you
will discover treachery from all save a few of them ...' It is
not much different from Mein Kampf.
"While we were concerned about Neonazi rioting in Germany these
people killed hundreds of Christians in Egypt; while we worried
about Bosnia they led a holy war that emptied the Sudan of
unbelievers, a cleansing on a much larger scale. `Those who deny
freedom to others do not deserve it themselves ...' Didn't
Abraham Lincoln say that?
"Proudly, arrogantly they deny Christ's divinity and portray His
crucifixion as a mirage, but this poor Indian who made a few
jokes about their prophet had to die." Excited, he got to
his feet, shaking a fist. "We let in a wolf in sheep's clothing
... waiting in vain for a Luther who would restrict the
ideology to the spiritual and personal ---" A sharp, painful
whistle and a heavy explosion close by stopped the speaker short.
Dazed, Frank de Regt saw blood on his left hand; he burned his
fingers when he picked out a small shell fragment. Blood pulsed
from the back of the man who a moment earlier had been speaking
sensibly and eloquently. When Frank turned him over the wounds
looked hopeless. "Hammer," the man murmured, "A hammer." In
his companion's agony Frank finally recognized the official who
had greeted Governor El Kameh at his installation with a barked
Allah Akbar and the Hitler salute. When the moaning
stopped, Frank threw some soil over him and ran.
"You look awful, man," was the greeting when Frank emerged from
the tunnel. "Have you ever seen one this dirty?" Squinting
against the light Frank saw a very big man in rags, his thinning,
long blond hair dirty, a few smaller men around him. "We'll have
to clean you first," he said with a chuckle and hosed him down
with water that mercifully wasn't too cold.
"Welcome," he said, and slapped Frank on the back, so hard he
had to cough. "I am Karel Spijker, holding the line. Ah --- the
pretty priestess." He touched the twig still in Frank's
mouth. "Hope we can welcome her here someday, so far we only
know her from her songs. Hey --- take a shower and put on some dry
clothes."
On the Line small windmills silently generated electricity or
drove various machines directly, exercise machines powered TV
sets. A large boat went by, propelled by one man pushing pedals
like an old bicycle. The man called out to him. "Aren't you
Frank de Regt? You were with the conservatives when we were
students? Hadn't expected you to come up here." He sat down for
lunch at a table with several people he had known before and who
all looked puzzled by his presence. Invariably, they exclaimed
they had never dreamed to see him there.
The messroom emptied out after the meal. Frank shivered, the
clothes they had given him were not very warm. He said goodbye to
Spijker and moved on. Looking back, nothing made the Line stand
out from the empty landscape and soon his clothes were as dirty
as before.
Occasionally, a no-fly-zone patrol flew over leisurely, some
planes doing rolls and loops. At nightfall he saw the glow of
campfires at the horizon and after a few hours under a waning
moon he stumbled into a settlement. There were a few wooden
houses, a couple of tents and some turf huts, but, hard to
believe, most of the inhabitants were living in dugouts. The
streets were unpaved, though a few had wooden boards for a
sidewalk. The dogs' barking brought out a guard who escorted
Frank to a barracks at the side of the village. A freshly painted
shield stood next to the door.
"Someone just came in, Sir," the guard said to a man who looked
very much in charge of things. When he looked up from his dinner,
Frank recognized Harry Pekel.
"You were there when we silenced Engerman, weren't you? A good
day for our nation. But you must be hungry. Grab a bite." He cut
off a piece from the chunk of meat on the table and poured Frank
some beer. "Give this man some potatoes!" he shouted.
As Frank took a bite of the meat, Pekel said: "It's from a horse
we sacrificed in the morning."
"Horse sacrifice!" Frank cried. The server almost dropped the
bowl of potatoes. "Humoring a beautiful priestess is one thing,
but killing a horse for no reason is disgusting. You'll have
human sacrifice next."
"We thought of that but the people won't accept it," Pekel
said. "You know, we have to create a ritual and mythology for
the people to rally to. We're no longer in the twentieth
century."
"Are you also checking newborns for defects?"
"The one we'll show tomorrow is perfect." Pekel said.
Showing a baby? They certainly dealt in mixed images, Frank
thought.
"Take your time," Pekel said, kindly. "I wish it was
different, I'd rather work my farm, watching TV at night, but
they leave us no choice. Peaceful coexistence has been proven
impossible, you have seen where tolerance has got us. We gotta
throw them out. Fight fire with fire."
A few minutes later he added: "Please join us soon. Someday
you'll have to act: you can't stay on the sidelines forever."
As the barracks was filling up Frank found a back seat. Someone
made a long, dull speech about the past national glory, and
another speaker said a few words about meetings with the French
resistance. Their entertainment standards obviously low and their
minds blunted by the copious flow of beer, the audience sat
obediently through a presentation by a fuzzy, burly academic that
was meant to show Harry Pekel's descent from an old Germanic
royal family. Frank thought it all highly questionable, but the
crowd roared at the conclusion: "As I have proven without a
doubt that our beloved leader Harry Pekel is of noble birth, all
obstacles to his being elected War Leader have been removed!"
Frank woke up at early dawn. Festive lights had been kindled all
over the settlement. A group of women ran around, shouting: "The
virgin has brought forth --- the light is waxing --- the sun is
reborn." One of them held a baby that was shown to everyone they
came across. Frank doubted that it would work.
In the afternoon the fat professor repeated dim highlights from
his talk on Harry Pekel's lineage, and with a lot of shouting
Pekel was duly elected War Leader. There seemed to be no other
candidates. He was raised on the painted shield and paraded
through the settlement.
"My name-of-war is Harm!" he shouted, exhilarated. He drank
beer from a skull and passed it around. "We need more skulls!
Bring me more skulls!"
Frank de Regt left the group at the smoking campfire and walked
off. But where to go? And what for? "Lausei uns af
thamma ubilin," he muttered angrily, deliver us from evil.
The next stop was at the foot of the mountains.
"A cup of tea,
Sir?" the lone attendant at the checkpoint asked. "Please write
a book before you leave. I'll clear a desk for you." But Frank
declined politely and walked straight on.
Last Christmas in Siberia
Pulp (Going to Pieces)
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