Leemtrecht, Hartstad, Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss
"...yes, brothers and sisters, we can do no else, we must unify as Snefaldians abroad, build our movement, and return to overthrow our oppressors! the fight for Snefaldian independence will begin here, with we Snefaldians living out of the homeland, those of us who have been forced from our homes. The Popular Front of Overseas Snefaldians cannot do it alone, though. We require your aid, your assistance. Any contribution, whether it is monetary, in kind, or in labor will aid our struggle to liberate our fellow Snefaldians. We do it for the homeland, the struggle begins today!"
The rented auditorium was filled with applause, much of it energetic, as yet another speaker concluded a fiery speech in defense of Snefaldian freedom and liberty. The whole room was filled with expatriate and refugee Snefaldians, those who had been forced to flee (or at least simply prevented from returning) in the aftermath of the military coup in 2014. Nearly two years later, the Field Marshal was dead, but they were unable to go home; a new neoconservative bloc had taken firmer control of the reigns of government, mixing the Marshal's rhetoric of a national revival with the older messages of the Aatem Nal era and a new narrative of economic and social development: only under the Supreme Council and the system they championed could Snefaldian prosper and remain stable.
The Popular Front was one of those groups that tend to spring up whenever dissidents are forced to flee overseas to organize; they wanted to carry on a fight they had lost on their home soil, print the newspapers that had been banned, spread the ideology that was cause for imprisonment, and attempt to gain the support of other expatriates and refugees by hosting community events and feeding the hungry. In Knootoss it seemed, as long as you weren't advocating socialism and The Revolution, or any flavor or Redness for that matter, it was acceptable for slightly suspect foreigners to organize these kinds of mutual aid and advocacy societies.
Åntor Thiłvem was the local district organizer for this branch of the Popular Front; the national organization had sent a few of the bigwigs over for the monthly fundraising event, one of the big soup kitchen-type shindigs that they periodically ran. Thiłvem was watching as the Municipal President, a stocky Sringi expatriate called Zimna Sannádi, gave a rousing speech urging Snefaldians to contribute to the relief efforts for the deadly explosion in Dwalmdam, since it was the duty of all Snefaldians to show gratitude for the nation that had given them shelter.
Thiłvem was one of those who had been forced to flee the country after Hantili's coup. His father had been a prominent local member of the Snefaldian Nationalist Party, whose national chairman had been one of the first to be imprisoned. Thiłvem had by now become accustomed to using "had" when thinking about his family. It didn't matter which party you'd supported, really, because the military targeted such a wide range of individuals for such nebulous crimes as "provoking quarrels" or "disturbing public order" that no one had really known what their crimes were. Thiłvem's father and mother feared what was coming, though, and put their son on a place to Knootoss, where a distant uncle ran a textiles concern.
He was sure the story was the same for many of the faces in the room around him, even the expatriates who had been in Knootoss for years. They had little to go on but bland reports in state-controlled newspapers; X was imprisoned for Crime A, Y was executed for Crime B on such-and-such a date. He'd spent weeks scanning the papers for those reports, which seemed to take up the lion's share of the pages. Phone calls went unanswered, or it was obvious the line was being monitored. Sometimes, unfamiliar voices picked up and pretended to know nothing. His father's name had shown up in a report one day, months ago. Guilty, of course, and sentence carried out. Of mother nothing. Other families were not so lucky.
He was jerked out of his reverie when the event was ending, and he went up to the podium to give a few words of encouragement, reminding the attendees of the events they had planned during the month: Dutch language sessions, job fairs, and self-defense training for the Youth Wing. Zinma Sannádi was waiting for him, along with his uncle, Marïk Thiłvem, and the Communications Director, a wispy Neeri woman in her mid-40s named Zarívêne Nârvimeldë. The fat Sringi shook his hand first.
"Excellent work, my boy. Excellent indeed. Every day we move closer with events like these, and people like you." he burbled.
"That is our goal, Mr. Sannádi. I can't help but feel, however, that we are farther away than ever."
"It's natural." Nârvimeldë chimed in in low tones. She always spoke in a whisper; it was rumored she had been tortured in Antarctic Snefaldia; she'd been a translator in some government office there. She'd never spoken about it, so sometimes he wondered how the rumors began. "But all movements take time." she finished, "Your father knew that; he was an organizer himself."
Thiłvem seemed a bit suprised, and Nârvimeldë noticed, saying quickly. "I'm sorry, your uncle told me.... We have all lost people. But everything the Popular Front is doing is a chance to honor those that suffered, and suffer still."
Thiłvem nodded, feeling the resolve rise in his heart. "Uncle Marïk, thank you for coming. I didn't know you knew our esteemed Municipal President." His uncle nodded, his brush-like moustache rippling into a smile. "I know Mr. Sannádi through the business community. He encourage me to help in whatever way I could... some of us still have secure links to the homeland. I do what I can to pass information along."
Sannádi smiled. "Indeed, my boy. If you'll excuse us, Ms. Nârvilmeldë and I have some strategy to discuss. I wanted to ask your uncle for his opinion on some matters relating to our impact on trade. And, I think you have someone waiting for you..." he pointed, indicating a young brunette waiting at the entrance to the mostly empty auditorium. Åntor smiled, thanking them for their time, and went to greet the woman waiting for him at the door.
"My my, what a dashing figure, the young revolutionary." she said playfully as he approached. "Don't joke now!" he responded with a laugh, putting his arm around her as they walked into the warm night air, turning onto the street. "This isn't revolt; it's reclamation. We're helping those who need it, and in the process we'll help our homeland. I didn't expect to see you tonight, Marie."
Marie Kuipers-Taygâttis smiled widely. Her nose was a little too large for her face, Åntor thought, but he loved her just the same. "Mrs. de Kock closed up early. Wasn't that your uncle there?" she pointed back to the auditorium, the lights going off as the caretaker mopped up. "Yes, it was. Apaprently he knows our Municipal Chairman."
"The fat one with the combover? I thought he was an important banker or something. His name is in the business section of the Free Herald a lot." Marie sniffed as they walked toward the public transit. "He is," Åntor responded, "but he's one of the expatriates that has taken the risk to support the Popular Front."
They chatted on further, moving from politics to events, and then to love, and to cooking. Marie promised to cook vëkiš orgêt for him tomorrow, if she could get the fresh mustard greens and venison. "But it won't taste very good, mom always cooked Knootian dishes for my dad, so all I have is a Dayan recipe book I bought online."
"It'll be delicious anyhow." He smiled. It was nearing 10:30 at night now, and he suddenly smacked himself in the forehead. "Good gods! I left my satchel at the auditorium." Marie frowned, pouting. "Oh darling, just go get it tomorrow. I have something waiting for you at home..." She smiled coquettishly, and he smiled in return. "I can't, there's letters that must be posted first thing for the Front in it. If I don't get them off in the morning..."
"Well hurry on then, and we can get it off tonight, AND in the morning. Don't just do it for the homeland, do it for me" Marie laughed, and Åntor gave her a wolfish kiss. "Head on home, Marie dear. I'll take a taxi." he said.
"I'll be ready and waiting for my handsome revolutionary." She laughed brightly. "And here's the bus anyway! So hurry on then!"
Åntor hurried back down the street, not quite running, but walking with the jaunt of someone who must complete a mundane task in order to achieve a reward far in excess of the labor required. It was a good fifteen minutes before he got back to the auditorium, and he cursed as he found the doors locked, the janitors having gone. He looked into the alley, seeing a light on at the rear service door where to the kitchen facilities; maybe one of the volunteers was still cleaning up from the Front's soup kitchen.
He tried the heavy door and found it ajar, leading into the rear dishwashing area. The lights were off, and a few pans were sitting on the heavy slanted metal washing table. One of the two doors led to the main kitchen area, with its big central prep table and rows of wholesale grilltops where the catering groups and volunteers of any half-dozen civic groups that rented this auditorium. As he neared the door to open it, though, he heard voices through the thin veneer wood, and stopped.
The voices were familiar, and he went to open the door with a smile, stopping dead a few inches from the handle when the voices became clear. A mixture of confusion and shock washed over him... what was he hearing? It had to be a trick, it couldn't actually be their voices... but if it was true, he needed to hear more. This betrayal, this utter perfidy, meant that...
The words were cut short in his head as he stepped closer to the wall to hear better, dislodging one of the heavy stockpans drying on the table. His hand reached out to steady it, but it was too late, and it tumbled to the ground, the din of metal on brick echoing through the kitchen. Åntor was off like a shot, rushing out of the kitchen into the alley. He didn't want to wait; anyone in the next room would have heard. He rushed out of the alley, hoping he hadn't been seen.
He didn't stop running for a full ten minutes, trying to twist down different alleys and streets in case anyone might follow him. His heart pounded, partly with fear, and partly with the thundering horror at what he'd heard. He had to tell someone. He pressed his back against the wall of the shop entrance he'd found refuge in, hoping the steps would go the other way. His heartbeat was in his throat; the few seconds were stretching into whole hours as he waited; the footsteps were gone.
He breathed in deeply, and stepped out into the street. He'd made a clean break of it. He had to get back to Marie, tell her what he'd heard and figure out what to do. He hailed the next taxi he saw, jumping in and telling the South Epheronian driver his destination. He settled back, letting the city fade into mist.
* * *
In the morning, Peter Bouwmeester was starting work skimming recycling from the canals in Leegkerk; he was on the 5:00 shift for a contracting company that collected, cleaned, and re-supplied Pink Bunny Cola cans to one of the various third-party suppliers the soda conglomerate used to produce their incredibly popular beverage (Now in Bubblegum Blast™ and Cotton Candy Craze™!). Bouwmeester scratched at his respirator; he wasn't used to wearing it, but his line manager had insisted that everyone had to wear them as long as the "threat" of gas clouds was about. He of course had said nothing about the noxious fumes the canal generated, but Bouwmeester wasn't paid to grumble.
He lifted a few cans out of the water, scooting along the concrete edge of the canal slope, and stuck his net back in, hitting something hard and buoyant, covered in scum and netting. Probably a stryrofoam crate, maybe one of those ones the restaurants used to dump their empty cola cans. He grabbed his long gaffer and dragged it in, turning it over carefully.
It was probably the respirator that kept Peter Bouwmeester from throwing up at what he saw next. He wouldn't know it until the police arrived later, but the black, bloated face staring back at him belonged to 25-year-old Åntor Thiłvem, part-time factory worker and district organizer for the Popular Front of Overseas Snefaldia.
