The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  “Bah! You talk like your Uncle Mendel. I don’t want any Bolsheviks in this house. I don’t want to hear this talk of revolution here. Not in this household. We are only loyal British subjects here. Better to put your attention on these young men coming home from the war. These Jewish officers. These heroes.”

  “I am not looking for a Jewish hero, mother.”

  “Well, you better find someone quick. Someone to put a smile on that beautiful face… because beauty fades… like there is no tomorrow.”

  Her mother quietened after that, closing her eyes until all Celia could hear was a light snoring. She sucked in the last of her cigarette, tossed it into a dirty cup of cold tea, not something she would have normally done, but did it anyway to spite her mother. And as she sat there in the darkening kitchen with the dusk casting long shadows across the room, the damp clothes hanging on the pulley above her head, the dishes still unwashed, she realised that the ending of this war meant a great deal to her. But it did not give her nearly as much hope as that revolution in Russia.

  The population of Duke Street seemed happy enough. At least, no less dour, no less rowdy, no less talkative as they went about their daily business than any other pedestrians in any other street in the city. Celia had always imagined the presence of the prison would have an effect on them. Those forbidding arched gates, that stretch of so high walls, higher than a tram car, impossible to peer in even from the top deck. All that locked up evil, guilt and shame that resided there, hovering above the walled perimeter like a poisonous cloud that would somehow seep into the souls of passers-by. She supposed the locals had just gotten used to it. But for her, the sight of Duke Street jail made her shudder. A schoolyard skipping song forming her first impressions long before she had ever set eyes on the place.

  There is a happy land,

  doon Duke Street Jail,

  Where a’ the prisoners stand,

  tied tae a nail.

  Ham an’ eggs they never see,

  dirty watter fur yer tea.

  There they live in misery.

  God save the King!

  She was singing the song to herself as she waited by the visitors’ gate until a hard look from a wee wifie in front of her made her shut up. So she just stood there silent close to the wall, feeling herself cold in her very bones from the winter chill and the greyness of the building she was waiting to enter. Then a grinding of a key in the massive lock, the hauling open of one of the thick arched doors. A guard came out, fob-watch in his palm, regarding the time until three o’clock exactly, not willing to concede one extra second to those inmates with the pleasure of a visitor to see. She shuffled in with the rest of them, gave the officer at the cubicle the name of Agnes Calder and her prison number. The man whistled as he scanned his register with a dirty fingernail. “Aye, the fire-raiser,” he said, without looking up. She was told to turn out her pockets, surrender any packages for inspection, then wait in a freezing stone corridor. A guard would come to collect her.

  The visitors’ room wasn’t much warmer. There was a grudging fire in a grate that was too small to heat the entire room. Rows of wooden tables, some with screwed-in links for the handcuffs to be locked into. And there was the smell. Not just the carbolic sloshed over the harsh stone walls and floors. But the sense of something else in the air. Something that could not be mopped and scrubbed out no matter how hard those on cleaning duty tried. The smell of dead-end despair that would cling to her skin and clothes long after she had left these walls.

  Agnes looked terrible. Her coarse blue-white prison garments hung loose from her body, hard to believe this oversized uniform hadn’t been given to her as some kind of joke. Her skin was colourless like the stone around her, her eyes sunk deep in their sockets, the essence that was once her friend retreating with them. The guard locked her cuffs to the table. The poor woman was trembling.

  “How are they treating you?” Celia asked when they were left alone.

  “Well, it’s not just that the food’s awful. But there’s so much of it.” She gave a little smile, then scrubbed hard at the inside of her wrist with her knuckles. “These clothes scratch you like a punishment all by themselves. How about you? How’s life now the war’s over?”

  “We’re all busy with the workers’ strike for a forty-hour week. There’s to be a big rally in George Square in support.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much effort into the strike. The men can look after themselves. It’s things like the family allowance we should be pushing for. Keep your mind on the women’s issues.”

  “We’re doing that as well.”

  “Aye, I hope so. It’s easy to get distracted, get your energies drawn here and there. The men’ll do it you. The union leaders and those bloody politicians. Now they see us women as a force to be reckoned with. Christ, it’s so cold in here. Are you cold? I’m bloody freezing.”

  “I’ve got a coat on.”

  “A coat would be a fine thing. Rain, snow or sunshine, it’s all the same uniform in here. At least, they could give you a blanket. A blanket and some hot water to bathe in.” She scratched away at her skin again, raised her voice. “Aye, a blanket. An animal gets treated better.”

  “Come on, Agnes. What’s going on with you?”

  Her eyes darted around at the guards, the other prisoners with their visitors. Then bent over close, spoke hushed and quick.

  “There was a hanging today. It was an awful thing. You could tell it was going to happen for they put up screens on top of the outside walls so those in the tenements overlooking couldn’t see in. The prisoners kept away from their windows too, like it was a curse to watch it happening.” She broke off to hack out a series of coughs. Celia could hear the flimsy, tarred lungs straining to their task. It was an awful sound. Then she finally settled, continued:

  “They do it at eight in the morning that’s the custom. A black flag goes up when it’s all over. Then there’s the bell. They ring that too. Not like a merry church bell. But slow and solemn. The chimes go right through you, cold and shivering. I’ve never been so upset in my life. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You’ve still got another eighteen months.”

  “There’s men in here done far worse than burn down a bloody recruitment office,” she hissed. “And got off with far less punishment. It’s the women that get the harsh sentences. These male judges and their counsellors, they can’t stand us suffragettes.” Again she looked up, quick glances around the room. “I’ve decided on a hunger strike. Starve myself until they release me under the Cat and Mouse Act.”

  “I didn’t think it was still on the books.”

  “It’s no been repealed as far as I know. A lot of the suffragettes down south have used it. No reason it shouldn’t work here. As soon as I become ill, they have to discharge me.”

  “Then as soon as you get well, they’ll put you back in again.”

  “I don’t care. I just want out. Even if it’s only for a wee bit.”

  Celia looked around at the guards. “I wouldn’t trust them. They’ll force-feed you with tubes down your nose. Who’s to stop them?”

  “I’ll take my chances. Do you recall Jimmy Docherty? The reporter from the Citizen?”

  “The one at the courthouse for the rent trials?”

  “Aye, that’s the man. Well, get in touch with him, tell him what I’m doing. Maybe he’ll get his paper to take an interest. After all, the fact of Agnes Calder no stuffing her mouth with food has to be of national interest, don’t you think?” She laughed at this, then inevitably broke into one of her coughing fits. “Did you bring some baccy?” she wheezed.

  “I handed it in at the gate.”

  “How much?”

  “Two ounces.”

  “Well, the guards will take their share. I’ll be lucky to get half. That’ll do me though.”

  “I thought you were going on a hunger strike.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t smoke. Look, I’ve put you down as next-of-kin. Name and a
ddress. That means when I start getting sick, they’ll send for you to take me out of here.” Agnes tried to reach out to her with a cuffed hand. “I’ve nobody else, dearie.”

  Eleven

  THE WHITE, GOLD-TRIMMED CARD WINKED at her from the mantelpiece. She could hardly get on with her housework because of it. When she came in from beating the carpets or bringing back the laundry or after dumping the ash-can on the midden, there it would be. Taunting her. There were actually two of them. The one on the left was for her parents so that didn’t bother her at all. It was that one on the right. The one with the words The Jewish Servicemen’s League scored out, replaced with the name Solomon Green. An invitation to a dance at The Marlborough in honour of those Jewish men and women who had served their country.

  Her mother had been delighted, of course. Almost burst out of her corsets such was her glee. “This is your chance,” Madame Kahn had declared, wagging a finger at her. “Take it. Or end up a spinster.”

  “Mother, I’m only nineteen,” she protested.

  “Already too late. You will be left on the sideboard if you are not careful. All these young men returning. All these heroes. I will make you up a special gown. Only the best material. And the latest fashion design. You will be the beauty of the ballroom. I give so many thanks to Solly for this.”

  “You don’t even like him.”

  “Solly is all right.”

  “You always told me a bookmaker’s son wasn’t good enough for me.”

  “You think I want you for this Solly? No, Solly is … how do you say? … Solly is your Horse of Troy. Once you are there, these young Jewish heroes will want to dance with you. I will supervise, of course. And I can give you advice. This one is a good family, this one not so good. This one is rich, this one…”

  “Mother, I’m very fond of Solly.”

  “Look, this Solly is not so bad. But he is not for you.”

  Her mother was right. Solly was not for her. Still, she had agreed to go to the ball. Not because she didn’t want to hurt him. Or because her mother had been so insistent. It had just been so long since there had been music and dancing and dressing-up in her life.

  “Ahead of us, what a weekend we have,” Uncle Mendel said as they raced along the freezing streets. “First George Square. Then The Marlborough. Socialism… followed by socialising. Aha! I like that.”

  It was all right for him, she thought, rushing along like this, with his fitness gained from traipsing the countryside day after day. But her city legs had difficulty keeping up.

  “Please slow down, uncle.”

  “What’s wrong?” he complained. “You are thirty years younger.” But he slowed anyway and they fell in with the rest of the demonstrators heading for the square.

  She felt like an old campaigner. It was the Rent Strikes all over again. Except this time, it wasn’t the landlords she was protesting against. It was the employers. On behalf of those returned soldiers. With their forced ‘pack up your troubles in your old kitbag’ smiles, their haunted looks and their twitchiness. As if the trench mud had sucked out their very souls and the noise of exploding shells had forever shattered their nerves. Those who had survived without injury, who were still able-bodied enough to be a fitter or a welder, a boiler-maker or a caulker, a pipefitter or a toolmaker, for them there were no longer any jobs. That was what this rally was about, the unions wanting the working week cut from fifty-four to forty hours to create jobs for these discharged soldiers. The idea had a common sense about it. But she knew there was more to it than that. It was political too. It was a working class struggle. Labour versus Capital. All set against the volatile background of that revolution in Russia. The shipyards were out on strike, the engineering works were out, so were the miners, the electrical supply workers. The city was restless and nervous. Twitching like those shell-shocked soldiers.

  A colourless sky. Breath clouds and tobacco smoke. She stood on frozen tip-toes, tried to see above the bodies to all sides of her. She looked for her own comrades in the Women’s Peace Crusade, impossible to spot them among this huge crowd. Men clung to lamposts. The Red Flag swayed here and there, bleeding colour into the grey surroundings. The trams around the square stood still, disabled, powerless, their poles and pantographs plucked from the overhead wires by the strikers. Policemen mingled, batons drawn. Other constables on horseback, the beasts’ flanks steaming, tails flicking, moving with the swaying hordes. On the steps of the City Chambers, the speakers in full swing.

  Uncle Mendel brought out a silver-plated hip flask, took a swig, passed it over.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Highland whisky.”

  “Good.” Better than the sweet schnapps he usually drank. She felt the metal cold between her teeth, then the bite of the liquid in her mouth, the slow burn down her throat into her belly. All around her, the crowd started to clap. Manny Shinwell had just finished his speech.

  “Not bad for a Jew, eh?” Uncle Mendel said, blowing into his gloves.

  It was the first time she’d seen Shinwell in person. In his buttoned-up coat, pipe in hand, urbane yet passionate. This Jewish union leader who had little to do with the Jewish community, this Jew who stood up, refused to be hammered down. But now Shinwell had gone inside the Chambers with a delegation to negotiate with the Lord Provost. Leaving her in this company of men, hardly a woman in sight, a sea of cloth caps, the mood pleasant enough but restless too. She could feel an edge to everything. This wasn’t like the march on the courts during the Rent Strike. This was a deeper, darker confrontation.

  A rumour quickly spread. A sheriff had come out on the steps to read the Riot Act.

  “What’s that you say?” Uncle Mendel asked the man in front.

  “The fucking Riot Act.”

  “What riot?” she asked.

  “Dinnae worry, lass. Someone’s snatched it from the bastard’s hands. He’s no got anything to read now.”

  She felt the crowd ebb and flow, a dark mass with a collective life of its own. She moved in closer to her uncle. A roar up front. A surge forward, then back.

  “The fucking polis are attacking,” someone shouted.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s a baton charge.”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, the polis are attacking.”

  “Someone’s come out of the Chambers.”

  “Shinwell’s down. The polis have hacked down Shinwell. Shinwell’s down.”

  “It’s no Shinwell. It’s Davie Kirkwood who’s been felled.”

  “They’ve chopped Kirkwood. They’ve chopped Kirkwood.”

  “Jesus Christ! The constables are charging.”

  “Fuck. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Run! Run! Run! To the Green. To the Green.”

  Uncle Mendel grabbed her. And she ran with him. Eyes on her feet, fearful of falling, to be trampled by this fleeing mob. In Hanover Street, a parked lorry, tarpaulin unfurled, to reveal its load of empty bottles. The strikers grabbing the contents, the missiles flying over her head into the chasing horde. The smash of glass. On the roads. Against the building walls. Breaking the window of an abandoned tram.

  “Uncle Mendel,” she screamed. “Uncle Mendel.”

  She saw his body snap back, his hat flying, his hands grabbing at the constable’s grip around his throat. She was already a few yards past him, had to fling herself out of the flow of people, flatten herself against a wall. She could see her uncle on the opposite side of the street, crouched down in a doorway, hands over his head, the constable flailing at him with his baton.

  She pushed herself off the wall, looked to find gaps in the crowd running across her, weaving here and there, being pushed, cursed at, almost knocked over, until she arrived behind the constable. She meant to make a lunge for him but then she saw the unbroken bottle in the gutter. She grabbed at it, raised it high, had a thought to smash it down on his helmet, but something made her shift her target to his shoulder, just by the collar of his coat. The bottle came down hard on the
bone, and the constable fell. Uncle Mendel looked up from his cowering stance in the doorway, one eye blue and swelling, blood running down the side of his head, staining his beard.

  “Mein Gott,” he said.

  She looked at the fallen constable, his helmet knocked askew, the strap pulling awkward at his chin, his large ears, his thick moustache. She felt the rushing bodies brush past her, felt the neck of the still unbroken bottle in her hand.

  “Celia.” Her uncle was shaking her. “We must go.”

  “I’ve killed him,” she said.

  “Celia. Come on. We must go away from here. Avek, avek, avek.”

  “I’ve killed him.”

  “No, no, no. He is not dead. I hear him moaning. Come on.”

  “But I want to go to the Green with the rest of them.”

  “Celia,” he said, grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him. “A policeman you hit with a bottle. We must go home. Here is too dangerous. Come, come.”

  Her uncle limped off ahead, a bloody handkerchief held to his head. She followed, a huge tiredness in her legs slowing her down, a feverish ache through her whole body. She just wanted to lie down somewhere, curl up in a doorway. But she walked on, the fog coming in thicker, ribbons of it all around her, clinging to her skin. She saw a tramcar rising out of the mist like some unleashed dragon as it was driven deliberately into the strikers fleeing from the Square. She saw men ripping up park railings, wielding them like battle-axes, fending off the police charges. All these scenes silently passing her by – no protests, no screams, no cursing – all sound blocked out by the pounding in her head.

  “Throw away the bottle.”

  “I can’t hear you, uncle.”

  “The bottle. Throw it in the river.”

  She moved over to the parapet of Glasgow Bridge, could hardly see the dark waters beneath through the mist, let the bottle slip from her grasp. She turned to look at her uncle. His black eye, his bloodied beard.