From a guest: Carriers of Secrets

This is the second post at “Notes on the Putsch” from a contributing writer, who remains a federal employee. The first was the March 2 post, “From a guest: A strong affinity.” Once again, it has not been edited.

I stayed behind. My strongest and most talented fighters are gone. We are now the thin, still-standing frame of the burnt house of government. No help is in sight, and all we can pray is that, against the odds, a cold rain will blow down upon the cinders of this nation’s madness. I am not optimistic. Those who could, or simply chose to — likely in their wisdom — have lighted out for greener country. 

It isn’t difficult to carry on yet. Cars go, meetings wander along, trains run. We knock through our day-to-day lives. Offices empty as we watch the clock draw down. Like any people on a normal day. We glance at the television. A man has his head shaved roughly. He cries, alone, scared, unbelieving of his fate. We click the TV off and head home. I get my own hair cut alongside my son. Me and my boy. Each clipped by a friendly man and woman with features and accents not of this area. These, our neighbors, the workers and owners of the local business that we frequent and cherish. My son would never do such violence to them. Such violence could never be levied upon his head. 

Among the remaining federal executives there is a spectrum. Pure collaborators, survivors, and resisters. The latter two routinely blur as each of us selectively provides information to the administration, persuades, denies, lies, and offers up limited hangouts. The first group though… well… in the final accounting we will not forget their names. The rawest example I have witnessed is a deputy assistant secretary in charge of several-hundred federal employees. Herself at little risk of firing or layoff. And yet she volunteered layoffs for her people because in her words, I wanted to give “them” what they wanted. When gently pressed on the idea of pushing back against the rats, her reply, well that won’t be me. I value my career. 

People have been trapped in similar predicaments in history, and far worse. The repulsive thing about our modern collaborators is that they do it by choice. There is no real danger yet. All I risk each day is my job. A construct that gives me pay and benefits and societal security. Still, just a construct. Awful to be without for a little while, but not my life. Not my family or anything I really care about. I would only do so much to keep it. Perhaps too much, as I may have already done. My collaborationist colleagues, on the other hand, place nothing higher than their positions, their careers. They cheerfully comply, and I shudder to picture them facing bleaker choices. We need you to sign the warrant, Madam Deputy Assistant Secretary. And every single time, she does. So much worse than the Sonderkommando who is himself trapped in a death machine. This person can walk away at anytime, yet marches forward with no conscience and jet-black eyes. 

I doubt such people realize that as carriers of secrets, they will only be spared so long as they are useful. I wonder this about myself often, and rather darkly ponder when my utility will expire. I miss my cherished friends who have gone and jealously protect those who have stayed here with me. 

I hope there is rubble left to rebuild upon when we are liberated. We will pause hostilities, harden our hearts, and calmly adjudicate all involved. And if our freedom should be delayed, then let my secret message be dug up from beneath the garden: “Things beyond human comprehension have been done to each of us here. Enclosed are the names of those requiring a strong application of justice…”