Make Britain Great Again
written by: Clive La Pensée
‘He fled to the USA when the Nazis entered Hungary,’ the music presenter says.
He makes it sound easy. You just speak it into the microphone, and it becomes history through millions of loudspeakers. Leave one’s country and flee to another, where one doesn’t speak the language or understand the social code. So easy to say. So easy to listen to, ninety years on.
A composer had dared criticise the neighbourhood fascists. No one needed sassy artists.
Those fascists were suddenly in his back yard, about to knock on the door. Minutes before, he had grabbed his money, advised his friends and relations to go somewhere safe, and fled. He at least had a plan and was a respected musician. Rich Americans commissioned work from him, to keep his head above water. Those were the days when America rescued dissidents.
The phrase ‘He fled his country,’ sounds attractive, now we have lost the election through corruption and duplicity – and our own stupidity, one must admit. Now thugs patrol our streets. I imagine what they might do. The radio raised the question – Should I flee? Can I flee?
To where? Who would give me work? Who would honour my political commitment?
When the xenophobes enter my back garden, which they will, what will I do? Plead with them, tell them that I am old and no danger to their dream of Little England for the Little English? They will probably reply with a law allowing ‘voluntary’ euthanasia. That’s how much they hate us.
Will they punish my children?
I hear the drones, but they are far away. They patrol the streets, pictures sharp enough to spot ethnicity, age – fear as well.
There is the knock at the door. So early! It can’t be them. No one knows I am here, in a hut near the woods.
But they can guess. I need water, and the hut has access to a clean spring, so where else would I go? All my clever planning kept them at bay for a few days. Now it’s all up. How long will I last when the beatings begin? One never knows until they start. Had we been organised, we would have thought this outcome through, planned an escape route. Now it is too late.
I pull the bolt back and wait for a jackboot to come through, jamming the door open. This is fantasy. The modern thug wears trainers.
Nothing! No shoe, no boot, no aggression.
Something pushes gently at the door. I don’t resist. The rising sun pours in, blinding me, but I recognise his silhouette. Now I can see him, the local fascist – the one with a St. George’s flag in his garden.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he tells me through the gap. ‘Just keep your head down. They were asking after you at our last meeting. I said you were OK. Just don’t get out of line again – spouting you mouth off or we are both for it.’
A hand comes round the door and shoves a couple of twenties towards me.
‘Get yourself a bit to eat. I know they have been delaying payments. They should start again now.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
‘No. Thank you. This isn’t what I voted for either. Now we need to see it through together.’
‘Do you want to come in?’ I ask.
‘I’m not that brave. I’ll leave the heroics up to your lot. We just need to keep you safe, for the moment.’
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
The beginning of this piece is based on the history of the Hungarian composer Bela Bartok. He fled Hungary as the Nazis came in and settled in the USA. What would he do today?
- Make Britain Great Again - October 10, 2025
- Darwin Rules - July 11, 2025
- Spotlight On Writers – Clive La Pensée - June 21, 2025
