‘During the war, to satisfy his hunger, my father grabbed a swan in the city park of Brussels’
It is still early in the morning when someone already squeezes something through the closed slot of my mailbox. A thick brown envelope with my name and address written in elegant handwriting. I look through the window and see the messenger cycling away, decked out in crash helmet and high-vis vest.
I open the envelope and shake out a black velvet and Plexiglas box. Depending on the sitting of a medal and a pin that you can fix in a buttonhole. Both gems feature waving crops and wisps that remind me of tagliatelle. ‘Bronze Trade Union Sign of Honour’, I read on the certificate that is also in the envelope. ‘As a token of recognition as a result of a trade union commitment of ten employees of the employees’. My name has been entered without errors, I am pleased to say.
I stand embarrassed in the hallway of my house, in the smell of coffee and rain that has fallen on dry ground. In my hand rests the only discernment I have been able to authorize in this life. Recognition at last! Not because I’ve written a thousand pieces, trying to cook healthy food for my kids or using my blinker in traffic. I am recognized for the simple fact that I have been affiliated with an organization for a quarter of a century. That’s all I did, ‘ten benefits from the employees’, and to transfer my membership fee every quarter.
I have the limitation of being faithful in heart, even in times when faithlessness is rampant. I believe in solidarity and remain affiliated with the syndicate, even as a small self-employed person. Sometimes my union actions are heartfelt, when the trains don’t run again and especially the working people get screwed. Yet I do not forget what unions have long ago meant to the reprobate of the earth. In the century appeared active a bitter struggle against hunger and exploitation. The factory bosses, backed by unmerciful governments, are confused as to the reasonableness of the demands. “Children ended up with their hands and arms between the machines,” a doctor testified in those days. “In many cases, the skin was scraped off to the bone, exposing the skin. Sometimes one or more fingers were torn off (…) Almost half of those children had already sustained injuries on one of the machines during that work.’
I have the limitation of being faithful in heart, even in times when faithlessness is rampant.
We have forgotten such situations. De Vooruit is now called VierNulVier and socialism became a clothing line. Football players and cyclists are our contemporary heroes. I often hear in the news that they have an appointment with history.
During the war, to satisfy his hunger, my father grabbed a swan in the city park of Brussels. He also forged documents that allowed people to escape death. Costs he got a medal, which gathers dust on a cupboard at my mother’s house. It features birds above the sea and a sober text: ‘From the Jews of Belgium – in recognition.’
I weigh my badge in the palm of my hand and let the light dance over the tagliatelle. Credit where credit is due, I guess – and stash it in a drawer between orphan socks.