First they came for… it doesn’t matter. We know the story by memory. When we change the meaning of words, instead of changing laws. When our personal ideology becomes the means to turn the nation into an instrument to satisfy our most base impulses. When our minds are busy with irrelevant theories or distracted by endless fantasy and our private manias are public spectacles. When there is no pathway from working, earning, and struggling, towards freedom. When disagreement is treason, when opposition is conflict, when existence is crime. When the dead are worth killing for and we admire what we do but despise who we are. When the blood of martyrs and of those who said ‘no more’ mix as it circles the drain in the street. When we willingly trade our highest rights for our lowest desires. When we only want, when we only need, When we only take, when we only have. When we beat our ploughshares into swords and break all bonds just to better pretend that tyranny is liberation. When lies are told in love, and when truths are told in hate. It was not inevitable when fascism came, but we cannot say it came as a surprise.
—
“I know he’ll do what we say. He told me he’s been practising all week. We should just let him do it Daphne.” Said Ronan. “He works hard, and it will be only friends tonight. It’s just a recital. He doesn’t have to be a genius, and it will be good for his confidence I think.”
“I know he does what he can. It’s not just Harold I’m worried about.” Replied Daphne. “You know that. It’s not just him we promised to help.”
She had left the door open. They went quiet and Daphne closed her eyes and pursed her lips when Harold entered the office suddenly, looking at his feet. “Harry, I didn’t mean… I mean I’m not worried about…” Daphne began before Harold looked up from the floor.
“I sp– sp– I knocked over th– the mop.” He began with a stutter. He closed his eyes with determination, Daphne and Ronan let him finish. “I spilled the mop b– buck– bucket.”
“It’s okay Harry.” Daphne said, looking at Ronan. “Let’s go clean it up.” Daphne rose out of her chair and walked out of the office into their bakery’s shop. Harold lingered for a moment and looked at his feet again.
“Th– th– thanks Ronan.” He managed to say before turning around and walking out. Ronan watched him go slowly, limping as he had his whole life. Harold had never talked much but the stutter came later after Ronan had found him behind the school, beaten by two bigger boys in his grade. Ronan didn’t remember why they had done it, he never cared to, but he remembered the fight in the classroom when he had attacked them both the next day. They had to learn. Harold had to learn too, but different lessons. He sighed to think about it, and returned his attention to the bakery’s accounts. Daphne, his elder sister, himself in the middle, and Harold, his younger brother, together they had run a bakery on the edge of a nice neighbourhood. They still owned the bakery, but there were no nice neighbourhoods anymore.
—
“Next up is Estan.” Said Daphne. The recital was going well. It began with a singer who sang a few stories of their homeland in low tones. She was followed by a guitar player who plucked two dulcet, nameless melodies. She, Ronan, and Harold had arranged some chairs so that family friends, regulars at the bakery, people with homes nearby, and anyone interested could sit facing the performers. It was a small gathering to keep spirits up, about thirty people. Ronan scanned the audience and recognized almost every face. Daphne would know the others. She looked at Ronan and he nodded, letting her know that everything was going alright.
Ronan heard the faint sound of hard boots on the pavement outside, and was looking at the door when it opened. The few people who first turned to look stared for a moment, and as a murmur spread through the group, everyone turned to look. The air left the room, and the bakery fell completely silent. He stood in the door in a crisp, clean uniform, with sharp, parted hair, and no expression on his severe face. When everyone had seen him he walked to a chair and sat down. His boots clicked loudly on the floor in the silence that gripped the bakery.
“Continue.” He said. Ronan looked at Daphne. They had no choice.
“Our next performance will be from Estan. I believe he has a poem?” Daphne said uneasily. Estan stood up from his chair and strode forward. When he turned to face the audience, they saw that he was angry.
“This is a poem from an old fight. An old war.” He said, composed himself, and began. He said the words with a clean, steady, and loud voice, and looked directly at the man in uniform as he recited it.
Do not call me home father,
Do not wish me back.
Do not look for me father,
Do not seek me.
We are on a course uncharted,
Fire and blood erase our tracks.
On we fly on wings of thunder,
Never more to sheath our swords.
All of us in battle fallen,
Never more brought back by words.
I know not if we will meet again.
All there is, all I know, is to fight.
It was short, but aggressive to the last word and immensely powerful. Ronan and Daphne were both moved despite the situation. Nobody applauded, nobody breathed, but their hearts swelled in their chests with defiance at the tone of the poem. They shot glances at the man in uniform who remained seated, as completely without expression as he was when he entered the bakery. Estan continued to stare at him for what seemed like an hour with his fists clenched and his jaw set. Estan was ready to fight, and was daring him. The moment passed and Estan turned to his chair sharply, walked over and sat down. There was a shuffle of chairs and small exhales of breath.
Harold stood up. He knew it was his turn, he had been waiting all week, and was oblivious to what was happening. Ronan quickly tried to meet Daphne’s eyes from the other side of the room, and saw that she was already moving towards Harold, who was limping forward.
“I… I… have a p– p– poem too.” He said. “My favour– favourite. I know it by–” Daphne grabbed his arm.
“Not now Harry.” She whispered fiercely, trying to hide him by standing in front of him. He continued to limp forward. “Harold, I’m telling you that you’re not allowed.” She said to him quietly but almost savagely. He pulled his arm away with a strength that surprised her and looked at her with an intensity that was new to her. They were in front of everyone. Daphne relented, stood back, and looked powerlessly at Ronan.
“It’s j– j– just an old poem.” He said. “I’ve kn– known it my wh– wh– whole life.”
The room was quiet and Harold closed his eyes with focus, breathed in, and began.
And thus in anguish Beren paid
For that great doom upon–
He got through the first line and a half not only clean, but with more assurance than either Ronan or Daphne had seen, maybe since he was a boy, before all of this, maybe ever.
“Up– upon him l– l– laid.” He struggled out. He paused trying to recompose himself and then continued. “The death– the deathless love… of L– L– Luth…” He stopped. He looked at Ronan. Ronan saw that he was about to cry and began to applaud loudly. There was a ripple of uneasy applause in the audience, but they were unsure of what to do. Ronan continued to clap as he came forward and put his arm around Harold.
“Let’s go.” He said. “You did your best, let’s go.” Leading him back to his seat where Harold buried his face in his hands and cried.
“The recital is over.” Daphne said. “Go home and love your families. All of you.”
Ronan stood next to his brother in his seat comforting him in a low voice as people got up to leave. He wasn’t looking when Daphne saw it from where she stood. She saw it clearly, and it terrified her. The uniformed man was still sitting at the back of the room and was smiling. A small, closed-mouth, ruthless smile. Ronan looked up and they both watched him leave.
—
“We have to assume they took him. We have to assume he’ll break.” Ronan said.
“It’s only the middle of the day, he missed one morning of work, maybe he just–” Daphne started.
“He’s never missed one before.” Ronan interrupted. “I walked him to his place late after the recital, but I didn’t go in. They were waiting for him inside. I’m sure of it.” Ronan was sitting in his office chair, looking at the floor with his hands clasped behind his head. Daphne was pacing about the room. “If I had gone in, If I had–”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” Daphne said. “If they took him there are some things that we need to consider. Right now.” She paused then continued, talking fast but clearly. “Ronan, if we force them all out before there’s a safe path some might still make it. Some will die. Some will be captured and they may talk, and we may die.” Ronan’s hands were still on the back of his head, his knuckles were white. “But they have Harold.” She conceded. “And when they break him, they will come for us, they will find out, and then we die and so does everybody else. That is certain.”
“I know Daphne. I know,” Ronan said looking up miserably. “We have to tell them all to go.” Ronan got up and they walked to the cellar door together. He waited for a moment with his hand on the door handle, and then opened it and started down the staircase. Daphne followed.
They were immediately surrounded in the cellar. Twelve faces. Scared, tender, proud, strong faces. They quietly asked for news, of loved ones, of events, of anything. They asked with a politeness that itself was resistant to the gravity of their situation. Men, women, and children. Families, friends, strangers… people. Daphne looked at Ronan. He closed his eyes and nodded in agreement with her change of heart.
“It’s not safe here anymore.” He said, and the people drew in their breaths when he paused. “Get ready to fight.” He finished.
“We’re not going to lie to you. They are coming, but we’ll be with you when they do.” Daphne said. There was whispering in the group and some sighs. Then everyone who could straightened and stood at their tallest. Defiant.
As Ronan and Daphne climbed back up the stairs to enter the bakery again, someone rang the bell for service. Without breaking stride Ronan circled behind the counter and faced the latest customer of the day.
“How can we help you?” He said. Daphne went into the office and shut the door.
—
“That’s two scones and two coffees. Six seventy five please Edith.” Daphne said from behind the cash as Ronan fetched them.
“Elizabeth and I are so happy that this bakery lasted. That it survived that terrible fight.” Edith said. Elizabeth was beside her nodding. “It’s our favourite place in the whole city.”
“Thank you.” Said Ronan handing her the scones and Elizabeth the coffees. “We were lucky. They never came for us. The fight never came to our bakery.”
“Still.” Said Elizabeth. “It must be a miracle this place made it. So many died. My grandson Estan, he’s gone. You knew him didn’t you? It doesn’t seem too long ago now, killed in that awful fight for the city.”
“For the country.” Ronan corrected her, placing the money in the register. Edith and Elizabeth both nodded.
“Hear hear.” Edith said. “You both fought how you could, and when the time came you picked up a weapon. I’ll come here as long as I live.” She continued. Daphne looked at the two other customers behind the old women, they were listening and didn’t didn’t seem to mind the conversation.
“We did what we could.” Daphne said.
“And we know, don’t we Edith.” Said Elizabeth. “We know you lost people too.”
“They all got out.” Daphne said. “Before the violence in the city was too much. There were others helping too and we got them all out because we were never targeted.”
“We know that too. But I was talking about Harold.” Said Elizabeth. Daphne closed her eyes. “We know they took Har–” Ronan shut the register hard.
“Next customer please.” He said tersely. The two old women looked at Daphne and nodded gently.
“We’ll come here as long as we live.” Edith said as they walked to their regular table slowly. After they served the next customers Ronan and Daphne were quiet until everyone had left the bakery and they closed it in silence. They lived close to each other and stopped before parting on the way home.
“He’s gone, Ronan. He has been for some time. It must have happened quickly, you know what they did to people. To the strongest of us,” Daphne said, hugging him “but if we never talk about him, if we don’t even speak his name, that will be worse, like we never even knew him.”
“I know,” said Ronan. “I know.” They stood apart, then they turned and went home.
They met at the same spot early the next morning on their way to open the bakery, it was still dark. They didn’t speak until Daphne pulled Ronan’s sleeve and gestured with her head to a man sitting at a table on the patio with his head lowered.
“We’re just arriving now. Nothing will be ready. The ovens won’t even be on.” Ronan said. He was taking his keys out of his pocket. The man slumped to one side and fell off the chair. Ronan didn’t mind but he didn’t even look. The city was full of people who had lost, who were lost, who were trying to pick themselves up. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door as Daphne went to help the man up off the ground. He was just inside the door when he heard Daphne gasp.
“Ronan!” She shouted. “Ronan!”
He dropped the keys, turned, and ran out to her side. She was holding him. He was limp her arms. She was crying. She was cradling his head close to her and when Ronan put his hand on her shoulder, she released it just enough so that he could see. The gentle shining eyes… the half healed scars, the missing teeth. Harold smiled at them.
—
“I had some help but he wasn’t hard to find.” Daphne said in front of the door to the cellar, blocking Ronan, facing him. “Remember Ronan… we are not them.”
“I know Daphne.” He replied, and she was convinced. She opened the door and went downstairs. Ronan followed.
“He didn’t fight. He didn’t even–” Daphne began before Ronan pushed her aside and was on the man immediately. Knocking him and the chair he was sitting on over backwards. Ronan struck him in the face hard. Again and again. Between the blows Ronan saw the same look on this man’s face as the day of the recital, long ago now, when he had first walked into the bakery. Totally impassive, inscrutable, like stone even now. Ronan couldn’t see evil in this man’s eyes, evil he could understand, but he couldn’t see anything. There was no resistance. Ronan placed his thumbs on the vacant eyes and began to press.
“Ronan stop!” Daphne shouted. Ronan stopped and stood up. Breathing hard he walked right over the man to the far side of the cellar, opposite his sister, and sat down with his back to the wall and his head in his hands. The man on the floor slowly sat up, then stood up and picked up the chair, smoothed the uniform he was still wearing, and sat back down, his face blank. Daphne knew the man knew what he had done. Ronan knew the man knew. The uniformed man’s face was still an unreadable deadpan, and looking at it Daphne could feel the truths of the moral world shake. The man knew they both knew and didn’t waste time with formalities.
“He is stronger than I thought, your brother, after that pathetic display at your little recital.” The man’s voice was like a sword point being dragged along a stone floor.
“He was given so little, and you took it all anyway.” Daphne said. The man shrugged.
“We worked on him. A lot. We suspected you were a part of the resistance, we wanted to know who your co-conspirators were, where you were sending people, where you were getting them. By the time we decided to move on your bakery anyways the battle for the city had started and it was too late, but your brother never said a word… Well that’s not entirely true.” Ronan looked up. “He kept babbling that rhyming nonsense over and over. It’s all he ever said. Like it was on a loop in his mind. Do you have a cigarette?” He asked Daphne. She said nothing and the uniformed man shrugged again. He knew he wasn’t going to die here, the trial would come later. He knew would tell the truth on the stand as well and then… He knew this was not a confession, merely an affirmation.
—
“Th– Th– This is a l– lot of chairs.” Harold said, they were setting up as many as the bakery could hold, maybe two hundred. His stutter was still there. So was his limp. His scars, the burns, the missing fingers and teeth were healed but still obvious. Harold hadn’t missed a day at the bakery since he had shown up for work unexpectedly, not too long ago now. He helped Ronan place another chair. “Are you s– s– sure it’s not t– too many?” Ronan looked at Daphne and she smiled.
There was great applause for the pianist who played a famous and ancient piece so well. There were sighs when a talented young singer with a pure, honest voice sang a ballad of dream and memory. There was not an empty chair. And when Harolds turn came the whole gathering was silent. He sat in his chair for a moment and looked at Daphne from across the room. She gestured with her head, urging him to get up in front of everyone. As he limped forward slowly, even more frail now than he had ever been, Ronan looked intensely at the door. It remained shut. No one was coming. Ronan looked back at his younger brother now standing in front of everyone and could see that he was nervous. Harold breathed in to try his poem again but the words didn’t come, he closed his eyes to focus, and when he opened them and began, they were all standing. Every man, every woman, every child, every parent holding their baby, every citizen and every soldier. Every person he had saved with his silence. All people stood up and recited the poem they now knew for him, every word of it. Not by memory but by heart, and all the truths of the moral world were safe.
And thus in anguish Beren paid
for that great doom upon him laid,
the deathless love of Lúthien,
too fair for love of mortal Men;
and in his doom was Lúthien snared,
the deathless in his dying shared;
and Fate them forged a binding chain
of living love and mortal pain.
Harold had never spoken much, but with that he said everything. He said that our history is the battle of power and control and violence failing to crush even the smallest acts of human kindness. He said if what is caring and gentle in humans has not been murdered, has not been taken from us even now, after all of the brutality then it will never be conquered. The false prophets, the brainwashing teachers, the murderous revolutionaries, the corrupt leaders, and their efforts to eradicate it are too weak. He said it doesn’t matter if they arrest us, if they torture us, if they kill us. What we know by heart is truly our own and what we have there can never be taken from us, and makes our deeds, our lives, our heartbeats, and our breaths, acts of defiance.
Matthew Cameron 
First they came for… it doesn’t matter. We know the story by memory. When we change the meaning of words, instead of changing laws. When our personal ideology becomes the means to turn the nation into an instrument to satisfy our most base impulses. When our minds are busy with irrelevant theories or distracted by endless fantasy and our private manias are public spectacles. When there is no pathway from working, earning, and struggling, towards freedom. When disagreement is treason, when opposition is conflict, when existence is crime. When the dead are worth killing for and we admire what we do but despise who we are. When the blood of martyrs and of those who said ‘no more’ mix as it circles the drain in the street. When we willingly trade our highest rights for our lowest desires. When we only want, when we only need, When we only take, when we only have. When we beat our ploughshares into swords and break all bonds just to better pretend that tyranny is liberation. When lies are told in love, and when truths are told in hate. It was not inevitable when fascism came, but we cannot say it came as a surprise.
—
“I know he’ll do what we say. He told me he’s been practising all week. We should just let him do it Daphne.” Said Ronan. “He works hard, and it will be only friends tonight. It’s just a recital. He doesn’t have to be a genius, and it will be good for his confidence I think.”
“I know he does what he can. It’s not just Harold I’m worried about.” Replied Daphne. “You know that. It’s not just him we promised to help.”
She had left the door open. They went quiet and Daphne closed her eyes and pursed her lips when Harold entered the office suddenly, looking at his feet. “Harry, I didn’t mean… I mean I’m not worried about…” Daphne began before Harold looked up from the floor.
“I sp– sp– I knocked over th– the mop.” He began with a stutter. He closed his eyes with determination, Daphne and Ronan let him finish. “I spilled the mop b– buck– bucket.”
“It’s okay Harry.” Daphne said, looking at Ronan. “Let’s go clean it up.” Daphne rose out of her chair and walked out of the office into their bakery’s shop. Harold lingered for a moment and looked at his feet again.
“Th– th– thanks Ronan.” He managed to say before turning around and walking out. Ronan watched him go slowly, limping as he had his whole life. Harold had never talked much but the stutter came later after Ronan had found him behind the school, beaten by two bigger boys in his grade. Ronan didn’t remember why they had done it, he never cared to, but he remembered the fight in the classroom when he had attacked them both the next day. They had to learn. Harold had to learn too, but different lessons. He sighed to think about it, and returned his attention to the bakery’s accounts. Daphne, his elder sister, himself in the middle, and Harold, his younger brother, together they had run a bakery on the edge of a nice neighbourhood. They still owned the bakery, but there were no nice neighbourhoods anymore.
—
“Next up is Estan.” Said Daphne. The recital was going well. It began with a singer who sang a few stories of their homeland in low tones. She was followed by a guitar player who plucked two dulcet, nameless melodies. She, Ronan, and Harold had arranged some chairs so that family friends, regulars at the bakery, people with homes nearby, and anyone interested could sit facing the performers. It was a small gathering to keep spirits up, about thirty people. Ronan scanned the audience and recognized almost every face. Daphne would know the others. She looked at Ronan and he nodded, letting her know that everything was going alright.
Ronan heard the faint sound of hard boots on the pavement outside, and was looking at the door when it opened. The few people who first turned to look stared for a moment, and as a murmur spread through the group, everyone turned to look. The air left the room, and the bakery fell completely silent. He stood in the door in a crisp, clean uniform, with sharp, parted hair, and no expression on his severe face. When everyone had seen him he walked to a chair and sat down. His boots clicked loudly on the floor in the silence that gripped the bakery.
“Continue.” He said. Ronan looked at Daphne. They had no choice.
“Our next performance will be from Estan. I believe he has a poem?” Daphne said uneasily. Estan stood up from his chair and strode forward. When he turned to face the audience, they saw that he was angry.
“This is a poem from an old fight. An old war.” He said, composed himself, and began. He said the words with a clean, steady, and loud voice, and looked directly at the man in uniform as he recited it.
Do not call me home father,
Do not wish me back.
Do not look for me father,
Do not seek me.
We are on a course uncharted,
Fire and blood erase our tracks.
On we fly on wings of thunder,
Never more to sheath our swords.
All of us in battle fallen,
Never more brought back by words.
I know not if we will meet again.
All there is, all I know, is to fight.
It was short, but aggressive to the last word and immensely powerful. Ronan and Daphne were both moved despite the situation. Nobody applauded, nobody breathed, but their hearts swelled in their chests with defiance at the tone of the poem. They shot glances at the man in uniform who remained seated, as completely without expression as he was when he entered the bakery. Estan continued to stare at him for what seemed like an hour with his fists clenched and his jaw set. Estan was ready to fight, and was daring him. The moment passed and Estan turned to his chair sharply, walked over and sat down. There was a shuffle of chairs and small exhales of breath.
Harold stood up. He knew it was his turn, he had been waiting all week, and was oblivious to what was happening. Ronan quickly tried to meet Daphne’s eyes from the other side of the room, and saw that she was already moving towards Harold, who was limping forward.
“I… I… have a p– p– poem too.” He said. “My favour– favourite. I know it by–” Daphne grabbed his arm.
“Not now Harry.” She whispered fiercely, trying to hide him by standing in front of him. He continued to limp forward. “Harold, I’m telling you that you’re not allowed.” She said to him quietly but almost savagely. He pulled his arm away with a strength that surprised her and looked at her with an intensity that was new to her. They were in front of everyone. Daphne relented, stood back, and looked powerlessly at Ronan.
“It’s j– j– just an old poem.” He said. “I’ve kn– known it my wh– wh– whole life.”
The room was quiet and Harold closed his eyes with focus, breathed in, and began.
And thus in anguish Beren paid
For that great doom upon–
He got through the first line and a half not only clean, but with more assurance than either Ronan or Daphne had seen, maybe since he was a boy, before all of this, maybe ever.
“Up– upon him l– l– laid.” He struggled out. He paused trying to recompose himself and then continued. “The death– the deathless love… of L– L– Luth…” He stopped. He looked at Ronan. Ronan saw that he was about to cry and began to applaud loudly. There was a ripple of uneasy applause in the audience, but they were unsure of what to do. Ronan continued to clap as he came forward and put his arm around Harold.
“Let’s go.” He said. “You did your best, let’s go.” Leading him back to his seat where Harold buried his face in his hands and cried.
“The recital is over.” Daphne said. “Go home and love your families. All of you.”
Ronan stood next to his brother in his seat comforting him in a low voice as people got up to leave. He wasn’t looking when Daphne saw it from where she stood. She saw it clearly, and it terrified her. The uniformed man was still sitting at the back of the room and was smiling. A small, closed-mouth, ruthless smile. Ronan looked up and they both watched him leave.
—
“We have to assume they took him. We have to assume he’ll break.” Ronan said.
“It’s only the middle of the day, he missed one morning of work, maybe he just–” Daphne started.
“He’s never missed one before.” Ronan interrupted. “I walked him to his place late after the recital, but I didn’t go in. They were waiting for him inside. I’m sure of it.” Ronan was sitting in his office chair, looking at the floor with his hands clasped behind his head. Daphne was pacing about the room. “If I had gone in, If I had–”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” Daphne said. “If they took him there are some things that we need to consider. Right now.” She paused then continued, talking fast but clearly. “Ronan, if we force them all out before there’s a safe path some might still make it. Some will die. Some will be captured and they may talk, and we may die.” Ronan’s hands were still on the back of his head, his knuckles were white. “But they have Harold.” She conceded. “And when they break him, they will come for us, they will find out, and then we die and so does everybody else. That is certain.”
“I know Daphne. I know,” Ronan said looking up miserably. “We have to tell them all to go.” Ronan got up and they walked to the cellar door together. He waited for a moment with his hand on the door handle, and then opened it and started down the staircase. Daphne followed.
They were immediately surrounded in the cellar. Twelve faces. Scared, tender, proud, strong faces. They quietly asked for news, of loved ones, of events, of anything. They asked with a politeness that itself was resistant to the gravity of their situation. Men, women, and children. Families, friends, strangers… people. Daphne looked at Ronan. He closed his eyes and nodded in agreement with her change of heart.
“It’s not safe here anymore.” He said, and the people drew in their breaths when he paused. “Get ready to fight.” He finished.
“We’re not going to lie to you. They are coming, but we’ll be with you when they do.” Daphne said. There was whispering in the group and some sighs. Then everyone who could straightened and stood at their tallest. Defiant.
As Ronan and Daphne climbed back up the stairs to enter the bakery again, someone rang the bell for service. Without breaking stride Ronan circled behind the counter and faced the latest customer of the day.
“How can we help you?” He said. Daphne went into the office and shut the door.
—
“That’s two scones and two coffees. Six seventy five please Edith.” Daphne said from behind the cash as Ronan fetched them.
“Elizabeth and I are so happy that this bakery lasted. That it survived that terrible fight.” Edith said. Elizabeth was beside her nodding. “It’s our favourite place in the whole city.”
“Thank you.” Said Ronan handing her the scones and Elizabeth the coffees. “We were lucky. They never came for us. The fight never came to our bakery.”
“Still.” Said Elizabeth. “It must be a miracle this place made it. So many died. My grandson Estan, he’s gone. You knew him didn’t you? It doesn’t seem too long ago now, killed in that awful fight for the city.”
“For the country.” Ronan corrected her, placing the money in the register. Edith and Elizabeth both nodded.
“Hear hear.” Edith said. “You both fought how you could, and when the time came you picked up a weapon. I’ll come here as long as I live.” She continued. Daphne looked at the two other customers behind the old women, they were listening and didn’t didn’t seem to mind the conversation.
“We did what we could.” Daphne said.
“And we know, don’t we Edith.” Said Elizabeth. “We know you lost people too.”
“They all got out.” Daphne said. “Before the violence in the city was too much. There were others helping too and we got them all out because we were never targeted.”
“We know that too. But I was talking about Harold.” Said Elizabeth. Daphne closed her eyes. “We know they took Har–” Ronan shut the register hard.
“Next customer please.” He said tersely. The two old women looked at Daphne and nodded gently.
“We’ll come here as long as we live.” Edith said as they walked to their regular table slowly. After they served the next customers Ronan and Daphne were quiet until everyone had left the bakery and they closed it in silence. They lived close to each other and stopped before parting on the way home.
“He’s gone, Ronan. He has been for some time. It must have happened quickly, you know what they did to people. To the strongest of us,” Daphne said, hugging him “but if we never talk about him, if we don’t even speak his name, that will be worse, like we never even knew him.”
“I know,” said Ronan. “I know.” They stood apart, then they turned and went home.
They met at the same spot early the next morning on their way to open the bakery, it was still dark. They didn’t speak until Daphne pulled Ronan’s sleeve and gestured with her head to a man sitting at a table on the patio with his head lowered.
“We’re just arriving now. Nothing will be ready. The ovens won’t even be on.” Ronan said. He was taking his keys out of his pocket. The man slumped to one side and fell off the chair. Ronan didn’t mind but he didn’t even look. The city was full of people who had lost, who were lost, who were trying to pick themselves up. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door as Daphne went to help the man up off the ground. He was just inside the door when he heard Daphne gasp.
“Ronan!” She shouted. “Ronan!”
He dropped the keys, turned, and ran out to her side. She was holding him. He was limp her arms. She was crying. She was cradling his head close to her and when Ronan put his hand on her shoulder, she released it just enough so that he could see. The gentle shining eyes… the half healed scars, the missing teeth. Harold smiled at them.
—
“I had some help but he wasn’t hard to find.” Daphne said in front of the door to the cellar, blocking Ronan, facing him. “Remember Ronan… we are not them.”
“I know Daphne.” He replied, and she was convinced. She opened the door and went downstairs. Ronan followed.
“He didn’t fight. He didn’t even–” Daphne began before Ronan pushed her aside and was on the man immediately. Knocking him and the chair he was sitting on over backwards. Ronan struck him in the face hard. Again and again. Between the blows Ronan saw the same look on this man’s face as the day of the recital, long ago now, when he had first walked into the bakery. Totally impassive, inscrutable, like stone even now. Ronan couldn’t see evil in this man’s eyes, evil he could understand, but he couldn’t see anything. There was no resistance. Ronan placed his thumbs on the vacant eyes and began to press.
“Ronan stop!” Daphne shouted. Ronan stopped and stood up. Breathing hard he walked right over the man to the far side of the cellar, opposite his sister, and sat down with his back to the wall and his head in his hands. The man on the floor slowly sat up, then stood up and picked up the chair, smoothed the uniform he was still wearing, and sat back down, his face blank. Daphne knew the man knew what he had done. Ronan knew the man knew. The uniformed man’s face was still an unreadable deadpan, and looking at it Daphne could feel the truths of the moral world shake. The man knew they both knew and didn’t waste time with formalities.
“He is stronger than I thought, your brother, after that pathetic display at your little recital.” The man’s voice was like a sword point being dragged along a stone floor.
“He was given so little, and you took it all anyway.” Daphne said. The man shrugged.
“We worked on him. A lot. We suspected you were a part of the resistance, we wanted to know who your co-conspirators were, where you were sending people, where you were getting them. By the time we decided to move on your bakery anyways the battle for the city had started and it was too late, but your brother never said a word… Well that’s not entirely true.” Ronan looked up. “He kept babbling that rhyming nonsense over and over. It’s all he ever said. Like it was on a loop in his mind. Do you have a cigarette?” He asked Daphne. She said nothing and the uniformed man shrugged again. He knew he wasn’t going to die here, the trial would come later. He knew would tell the truth on the stand as well and then… He knew this was not a confession, merely an affirmation.
—
“Th– Th– This is a l– lot of chairs.” Harold said, they were setting up as many as the bakery could hold, maybe two hundred. His stutter was still there. So was his limp. His scars, the burns, the missing fingers and teeth were healed but still obvious. Harold hadn’t missed a day at the bakery since he had shown up for work unexpectedly, not too long ago now. He helped Ronan place another chair. “Are you s– s– sure it’s not t– too many?” Ronan looked at Daphne and she smiled.
There was great applause for the pianist who played a famous and ancient piece so well. There were sighs when a talented young singer with a pure, honest voice sang a ballad of dream and memory. There was not an empty chair. And when Harolds turn came the whole gathering was silent. He sat in his chair for a moment and looked at Daphne from across the room. She gestured with her head, urging him to get up in front of everyone. As he limped forward slowly, even more frail now than he had ever been, Ronan looked intensely at the door. It remained shut. No one was coming. Ronan looked back at his younger brother now standing in front of everyone and could see that he was nervous. Harold breathed in to try his poem again but the words didn’t come, he closed his eyes to focus, and when he opened them and began, they were all standing. Every man, every woman, every child, every parent holding their baby, every citizen and every soldier. Every person he had saved with his silence. All people stood up and recited the poem they now knew for him, every word of it. Not by memory but by heart, and all the truths of the moral world were safe.
And thus in anguish Beren paid
for that great doom upon him laid,
the deathless love of Lúthien,
too fair for love of mortal Men;
and in his doom was Lúthien snared,
the deathless in his dying shared;
and Fate them forged a binding chain
of living love and mortal pain.
Harold had never spoken much, but with that he said everything. He said that our history is the battle of power and control and violence failing to crush even the smallest acts of human kindness. He said if what is caring and gentle in humans has not been murdered, has not been taken from us even now, after all of the brutality then it will never be conquered. The false prophets, the brainwashing teachers, the murderous revolutionaries, the corrupt leaders, and their efforts to eradicate it are too weak. He said it doesn’t matter if they arrest us, if they torture us, if they kill us. What we know by heart is truly our own and what we have there can never be taken from us, and makes our deeds, our lives, our heartbeats, and our breaths, acts of defiance.
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