The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  She stumbled up the path to the clearing where the picnic had taken place. Thank God there were still some people there. She only hoped that Agnes was still among them. She brushed away as best she could the mud and leaves from her coat, straightened her stockings. Underneath, her drawers were torn and stained. There had been blood on her thighs and some other fluid she had wiped off with a handkerchief. She ached from the tear between her legs, from the lead of his weight against her breasts. She had left her hat somewhere, the black velvet one she only wore for best. She gulped in a breath, walked towards the gathering, trying to keep her body upright. She had slipped and fallen down the grassy slope, that is what had happened, caught her head on a stone, might have even knocked herself out, look you can even feel the bump, how long had she been away?

  “Where are your shoes?” one of the children called out as she approached. “Look, mother. She has no shoes.”

  She kept walking into their midst, one hand pinning her collar to her throat, the other bunched around the soiled handkerchief in her pocket. “I fell,” she said to no-one in particular. “I fell down the slope. I am so sorry. I should have been helping. But I fell.”

  Two firm hands against her shoulders stopped her. “For Christ sake, lass,” said Agnes. “What happened to you?”

  “I fell, Agnes. I fell down the slope.”

  Agnes pulled her into her grasp, patted her head, picked out the leaves and twigs from her tresses. “Of course you did, lass. Of course, you did.”

  It was only then she started to cry.

  She had no recollection of walking barefoot with Agnes through the Botanic Gardens to the park gates. There had been a ride in a hansom, she remembered that. And it had started to rain. The smell was so sweet as she listened to it drum on the leather canopy. She stared out from under the cab, watched the downpour cleanse the dusty streets, saw Luigi the ice-cream man pushing his cart in the rain. A penny-lick. She would have liked that now, her mouth so dry. Or even a glass of cider. There had been a flight of stairs after that, children running down them as she was helped upwards. It was the first time she had seen Agnes’ home, her flat in the West End. Later she would remember thinking it was not as austere as she had expected. There was an ample hallway with quite a few doors leading off. Tall windows and high ceilings. Fine rugs on the floor. Through the fog of her distress the thought arose that the place was quite grand really for a teacher’s salary. Piles of pamphlets everywhere. Come the revolution and we’ll all live in posh West End flats. She was led into a large kitchen.

  “I’m getting you into a hot bath as fast as I can,” Agnes said as she fired up the range. “You sit down there. I’ll bring you a blanket.”

  She watched as Agnes boiled up the water, tipped it into a tin bath in the middle of the room. Then she was made to strip, sit in the water, even though it was hardly six inches deep, watched with fascination as she splashed the last of the blood from her thighs.

  “I want you to douche,” Agnes said. “I’m going to add vinegar to the water. As much as you can possibly bear. Then I want you to wash yourself out.”

  She did as she was told. The sensation mildly irritating but it pleased her too to feel the acidity flush out the ugliness from between her legs. She smelt like a fish and chip shop. Wrap me up in newspaper and take me away.

  “I doubt if the vinegar will do much good,” Agnes kept saying. “It’s old wives’ tales really. But I’ve got nothing else to offer you. Except for this.” Agnes handed her a glass.

  “What is it?”

  “Whisky. Drink it down. You’ll feel better. And I’ll fill up the bath now so you can have a proper soak.”

  When she woke, the rain was still coming down against the dark window-panes. She had a headache, a pain between her legs, a tingling around the tops of her thighs from the vinegar. The water was still hot. Agnes must have been re-filling the bath while she slept. Her neck was sore too where she had leaned her head against the cold tin. Agnes sat in a rocking chair by the fire, knitting at a pace that would have impressed even her mother.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not long. About fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, it felt like forever.”

  She lifted herself up from the water but fell back again, as if her body was refusing entry back into this hostile world. She tried again. Agnes brought her over a large towel which she stepped into, the fabric scrubbing rough against her hot skin.

  “I must go,” she said. “My mother will be wondering where I am.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Agnes said, pushing her gently down into a chair. “I sent a neighbour’s child over to your parents with a note.”

  “You don’t know where I live.”

  “I know there’s a Gorbal’s tailor shop with your family name on it.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I just said you were with a friend, you had a little turn, probably from something you ate, nothing to worry about, said you’ll be home later. I’ll make you up some food meantime. You should get your strength up while your clothes dry.”

  She saw that her dress, bloomers and stockings hung in a line over the fire. She closed her eyes. All she could see was Boydie’s face, close up against her own, his lank, dishwater blond hair brushing against her cheek, the pox holes in his skin, the tree branches above. A grey sky, clouds moving in, rain on its way. The rest of her body gone from this picture in her mind as if she had been cut off from the neck downwards. The song of the thrush. She wished she could re-produce that precious sound. A boy at her school used to do that. Make bird sounds. No-one paid his skill much notice. But how wonderful that must be. To be able to carry that birdsong around with you always. She sensed Agnes in front of her now, felt a napkin placed in her lap. She opened her eyes, took the plate of macaroni held out to her.

  “Eat,” Agnes said.

  Which she did. Scooped down her food with a spoon, dribbling the melted cheese on her chin like a baby, couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so hungry. Agnes just watched.

  “Thank you,” she said, handing back her empty plate, hoping there was more but there wasn’t. She asked for some water.

  “It was my fault,” Agnes said as she brought her a glass.

  “What was your fault?”

  “I saw you go off with him. That lad.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No. He’s never been before. I don’t know anything about him. His address. His family. Nothing.”

  “That’s good then.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t want to know anything about that fucking boy.” She’d never used that swear word in her life before, although she’d heard it often enough, usually cringed to hear it. It felt good to say it now though. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she thought. “I could say this forever.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself,” Agnes continued, without a flinch to her language. “I saw you go off with him. I should have known.”

  “Don’t worry, Agnes. I’m fine now.”

  “Aren’t you the brave one? You’ve had a bath and a wee whisky, that’s all. But you’re still in shock. You won’t feel so fine tomorrow. And there’s nothing we can do about it. If the bastard had beaten you up, bruised you a bit, broken a few bones, then perhaps the police would take an interest. Rape? They won’t listen to a woman. There’s no proof. It’s his word against yours. And I know whose they’ll believe.”

  Celia leaned back in her chair, listened to the rain. She didn’t want any police. She just wanted to go on with her life as if nothing had happened. Except for that one question she so much wanted to ask in her ignorance.

  “Can I get pregnant? I don’t mean to be stupid, Agnes … but the first time it happens … what with all the blood and everything, surely a baby can’t come from all that … Can a girl get pregnant the first time?”

  Agnes came over, kissed the top of her head, pressed her to her lap.

  “
Oh, my little lass,” she said. “Oh, my little lass.”

  She gently pushed Agnes away. “Well, can I?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I wouldn’t want it,” she cried. “I wouldn’t want a child by him.”

  “Then I’d put your trust in either your God or luck. Rather in any vinegar. But let’s not worry about that now. It might never happen.”

  “I do want to worry about it now. Can you help me, Agnes? Could you do something if it happened. Please.”

  “Yes, I could arrange something. But it would be dangerous. Too dangerous.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll do anything.”

  “Then it might be safer to have the child,” Agnes said softly. “And kill the poor thing afterwards.”

  Glasgow

  1918

  Ten

  “IT IS OVER.”

  It wasn’t the sudden interruption that had startled her. It was the actual voice itself. It had been years since she had heard it. An aural insect trapped in an amber of sound. She looked up from the drab, tan section of linoleum she had been scrubbing. Standing in the kitchen doorway, her young brother. Nathan. She felt her heart swell. It was a tangible sensation as if this joy was an actual, physical commodity being pumped into her veins. She stood up, quickly walked over to him, drying her hands on her apron as she approached. Her first instinct was to crouch down, to lower herself to his height. But he was taller than her now. So she remained standing, staring at him. His hair totally white, blanched of colour after years without light.

  “We must get you a new pair of pyjamas,” was all that she could say to him as she fussed with the lapels of his jacket. He might have grown taller but he was as scrawny as a war-time chicken. “These ones are too small on you. Look, the sleeves are so short.”

  “It is over,” Nathan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  But he didn’t answer, just gazed ahead, his eyes blinking in the light. She heard the front door open. Over Nathan’s shoulder, she saw her father enter the hallway. What was going on? He was never home at this time. In one hand a bottle of schnapps, in the other a newspaper.

  “Look,” Papa Kahn shouted, waving the front page that was just one bold printed word: peace! “The war has ended. The armistice is signed.” And then: “Nathan? You are up?”

  “Yes, Papa. It is over.”

  “My God, my God, my God,” her father cried, holding his hands and their contents up to heaven. “What a day this is. What a day. Oh thank you, my Lord. Thank you, thank you.” He kissed the top of Nathan’s head. “Your mother will soon be here. She is closing the shop. No-one works today. We must drink to celebrate. Your mother will be so happy.”

  “I would like a bath,” Nathan announced flatly.

  She told him she would heat up some water, she would do anything, anything he wanted.

  “Thank you,” he said, turning back towards his bedroom. “It is over. But so many died.”

  Before he had made it back across the hallway, the front door opened again. Her mother, hat askew, breathless. As soon as she saw Nathan, she dropped to the floor, wrapped her arms around his knees.

  “My son, my son, my son,” she sobbed. “My son has come back to me.”

  Nathan patted her hat. “It is over,” he said. “Time to start again.”

  While Nathan bathed, Celia looked out some old clothes of her father’s, perhaps even something Avram had left behind. For there was nothing for her brother to wear. He had not been bought new clothes for years. He had only worn pyjamas and even in that department, she had become forgetful. That was the first thing she would do tomorrow. A new pair of pyjamas. Something special she could hardly afford from Paisleys the Outfitters. After all, she had not bought him a birthday present since when? Since before the war. She found a shirt with a collar needing mending, she could stitch that quick. And a brand new suit still in its brown paper wrapping –tailor-made for poor Simon Silverman. A few years ahead of her in school, he was one of the first to enlist, a fact the rabbi had announced with pride from the pulpit. He never came back. Now all that was left was this uncollected suit smelling of mothballs. She gave the items to her mother who dressed Nathan like a doll, it had been so long since he had put on clothes by himself. With the bedroom curtains hauled opened, Celia watched him as he sat facing the window, his hands gripping the arm rests, his head tipped back to the weak sunlight, his hair wet and combed. She remembered how as a child she would observe in wonder this new-born baby brother come into her life. And that was what she did now.

  But there was little time for reflection. Neighbours were coming in and out of the flat, grasping her by the shoulders, shaking her as if the news were not real, pinching her cheeks. “Can you believe it? The war is over, Celia. Finished. Genug. We can live again. No more ration books, thanks to God.” There was Mrs Carnovsky with her Balkan cigarettes, old man Arkush the baker, Dishkin the kosher butcher, Solly with his father, Lucky Mo the bookmaker, stinking the place out with fat cigars. Solly grabbed her by the waist, took her hand, danced her a few steps around the kitchen, right on the spot she hadn’t finished scrubbing.

  “Come,” he said, his eyes all bloodshot from the sweet brandy. “Let’s go outside. The whole of Thistle Street is dancing.”

  She laughed. “I have no time for such things. We have guests.”

  “The war is over, Celia. It’s time to rejoice. You need to stop being so serious.”

  She felt his lips wet on her cheek. Again she laughed as she held him off. “I think you are drunk, Solly Green.”

  “I think I love you, Celia Kahn.”

  “And I think you love everyone today.”

  “Yes, you are right,” he slurred. “I love everyone today. Where is that Judith Finkelstein? She will give me a dance. What a day.” He poured himself another glass of schnapps, danced with it out onto the street.

  She made a pot of tea, took it into Nathan, sat with him for a while. Friends and neighbours had asked after him but better to keep him quiet like this, introduce him slowly back to the world. She pushed his hair back off his brow, felt his forehead clammy.

  “You need a haircut,” she said. “Tomorrow, new pyjamas and a haircut. That’s an order.”

  His eyes stared beyond her, out of the window, to the backcourt. A group of children playing in the midden. “You are so unhappy,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “What did you say?”

  “So unhappy. What happened, Celia?”

  “Nothing happened. It’s just the war. It affected everyone.”

  “It is not just the war.”

  “What do you know, my little brother? You have been asleep for most of it. What are you? Some kind of mystic? A little Joseph with his dreams.”

  Nathan smiled. “I would like some tea.”

  She poured him out a cup. “Sugar?” she asked. “You see I don’t remember if you like sugar. Of course, you like sugar. You must like sugar. You do like sugar, don’t you?”

  “You are crying, sister.”

  “So I am.”

  Later when all the visitors had left, when her father had gone to lie down, she went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. As she stood by the sink, she looked at her arms, wrist-deep in suds. How thin they had become, almost as wasted away as Nathan’s. She could still hear people outside celebrating in the street, the wartime songs with their blind cheeriness she had come to hate, someone playing a violin, a bottle breaking. It was hard to believe the war was over. All the holes it had left in people’s lives where loved ones had been. There would be no more daily casualty lists. No more nameless gravestones. No more sailors’ funds and flag days. No more balaclavas to be knitted. There might even be butter on the table. A good slice of brisket. And perhaps she wouldn’t feel so run-down all the time.

  “There you are,” her mother said, stumbling into the kitchen. “My beautiful little Celia.”

  “Mother. I do believe you are drunk.”

  “Yes, I do believe I
am. My head is spinning like a clock. Dancing I was. I must sit.” Madame Kahn crashed against the kitchen table, grasped for a chair, managed to ease herself down.

  “I’ve never seen you like this before, Mother.”

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I am not becoming a shikker like my brother. This is a once in my lifetime event. How many war endings can there be to celebrate in my life? And my son. God has given me back my son. What is the date today? What is it?”

  “November the eleventh.”

  “Then this day I will remember forever. November the eleventh. A holy day. The anniversary of my happiness. Why are you washing the dishes on such a day?”

  Celia shrugged. “It was something that needed done.”

  “Well, leave them alone.” Her mother made to rise from her chair, but slumped back again. “Come, come. Sit down.”

  Celia dried her hands, sat down at the table, took out her tobacco tin and a box of matches from her apron pocket. There was a roll-up all ready inside. She lit up, sucked in hard, such a good feeling that crispy tobacco taste, then the harshness in her lungs steadying her nerves.

  “Now what will you do?” her mother asked. “Now the war is over. Now you have nothing to protest against. No more meetings. And demonstrations. And pamphlets to write. Everywhere there are these pamphlets. We have a house full of pamphlets. What is it with these damn posters and pamphlets? You stop a war with being strong. With tanks and guns. Not with these pamphlets. Thank God no more pamphlets. No more war, no more pamphlets.”

  “You don’t really understand, do you, Mother? The women’s movement isn’t just about being against the war. That’s only part of it. It’s about equal pay. It’s about giving all women the right to vote. It’s about family planning and birth control. It’s not just about the war.”