The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  The ring of the front door bell. Who could that be at this ungodly hour? The butcher with his brisket? But not on a Monday morning. Not the fishmonger either. A delivery for the shop, perhaps. Or the knife-sharpening man with his sun-darkened skin even in winter time. She laid back down, her head heavy on the pillow, waited to see if anyone would answer. She heard a door open, a certain beat of feet that could only belong to Nathan. She closed her eyes.

  The shaking of the curtain waking her.

  “What? What is it?”

  Nathan’s voice. “It’s for you.”

  “What’s for me?”

  “A telegram.”

  “A telegram?” She drew open the curtain. “Are you sure?”

  Nathan raised his eyes at her. “You are Celia Kahn?”

  She took the pale yellow envelope. Her name in funny little printing on the front. She’d rarely received a letter before with her name on it, never mind a telegram. Her thoughts racing towards the worst. Yet all her family were here. Except Avram.

  “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She pinched open a corner, ran her nail under the fold, pulled out the single enclosed sheet of paper.

  COME IMMEDIATELY STOP GOVERNOR STOP H M PRISON STOP DUKE STREET

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh Agnes,” she breathed. “Oh, poor Agnes.”

  She bought a bag of Soor Plooms especially for the occasion. Although whether the first thing a person wanted coming out of a hunger strike was a sweet to suck she wasn’t sure. But for a stomach not used to digesting solids, it didn’t seem such a stupid idea. There was no direct tram, quicker to walk all the way, save her money for the hansom to take Agnes back home. She needed the fresh air anyway to clear her head, sucked on one of the Soor Plooms for her breakfast as she crossed over the South Portland Street Bridge into the east side of the city. She was glad Agnes was getting out. She’d felt guilty she hadn’t been to see her, no time even to contact that reporter Docherty from the Citizen, she’d been that busy with the strikes. She’d make it up to her though, take care of her the same way Agnes had tended to her after she was raped in the park, the only light then amidst her darkness. Yes, that was what she would do. Nurse Agnes back to health with plenty of hot baths, Soor Plooms, pots of tea, packets of Woodbines.

  She had to knock on the prison gate given it was outside proper visiting hours, one of the guards coming to a barred slot, taking a good look at her up and down, examining the telegram passed through, then finally letting her in. At the reception cubicle, the officer didn’t need to run his yellow-stained finger down the ledger to know who Agnes Calder was, just said to her, “Wait over there. I’ll get someone to attend to you.”

  She went and sat on the cold bench, wished she had brought something to read, maybe even a bit of knitting, rather than just sitting there staring at the dank walls. She hadn’t really thought through how it was all going to happen with Agnes, just assumed she’d have to collect her friend from the prison hospital, hopefully she’d be strong enough to walk to a hansom then taken home. A prison officer arrived with a large brown paper parcel.

  “Are you the one for Calder?”

  She stood up quickly. “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, here are her belongings.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In the parcel. Her clothes. A few personal items. You can check them off from a list if you want to make sure.”

  “But where’s Agnes?”

  The officer looked over to his colleague in the reception cubicle, shook his head. “She’s dead, miss.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Again the officer glanced over at his colleague. “Dead, miss. Dead and gone.” And then more kindly. “I thought you knew.”

  She let herself sink back down onto the bench. She had a handkerchief somewhere, she knew that. But it wasn’t in her coat pockets. She also knew she was crying, she could feel the warmth of her tears on their run down her cheeks, but otherwise she felt cold. Two different parts of her, this inner part mourning her friend while these hands searched and searched in this pocket and that pocket, then her bag, while the officer stood watching her, this brown paper parcel in his hands which he eventually laid gently on the bench beside her as if it were a baby in swaddling. He put a hand into his inside jacket pocket. Perhaps he had the handkerchief she was looking for.

  “She left a letter for you.”

  She took the envelope. Two communications to her in just this one day. This time her name handwritten, not those single strips of letters on the front of the telegram.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then wondering why she was being grateful to this man who had brought her this news, she began to feel an anger take over. “What happened to her? What happened to my friend?”

  The officer took off his cap, tucked it under his arm. He had small, expressionless eyes. He didn’t look like a bad man, she thought. But he didn’t look like a good man either. Just someone who did as he was told, followed the rules, didn’t ask questions. He spoke with some kind of an English accent. She hadn’t noticed that at first. It made what he had to say sound more official.

  “She died from the hunger, miss. Or at least complications deriving therefrom. It was her lungs that did for her in the end though. The prison doctor would tell you proper what it was. You can request a report. That would be your right. Being the next of kin as directed by the deceased.”

  “When? When did this happen?”

  “A few days ago. Thursday, I believe.”

  “Why did it take so long to inform me?”

  “Normally, you would be notified immediately. You are probably not aware but recent events in the city have taken up a great deal of our time and manpower. With the riots, I mean. There have been many arrests. We are detaining several people here within our walls.”

  She felt her body stiffen. “I am perfectly aware of recent events, officer. Now, can you tell me, where I might see my friend? Her body.”

  “I’m afraid she’s dead and buried.”

  “Buried? Where?”

  “Here, miss. In the prison grounds. A death within these walls means the body of the deceased belongs to the state. The property of His Majesty’s Prison Authorities. We have the right to bury all prisoners.”

  “Well, can I see the grave then?”

  The officer scratched his head, replaced his cap, clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I suppose I can take you there. The plot is nearby. Just quick mind. I’ve other duties to attend to.”

  She followed the officer as he opened up barred doors with a selection of keys, along corridors as icy as death itself, stone and steel, steel and stone, the stink of carbolic, not a drop of colour to the place. Grey, grey and more grey, then out into a dark sky and drizzle, a plot of land with a scattering of burial mounds, not as many as she might have thought, all roughly marked with wooden crosses, just the one standing out with a proper headstone. My God, she thought, this was where Agnes was to rest. Amidst the hanged and the damned and those just too frail to outlast their punishment. This had to be the grimmest place on earth, a graveyard within prison walls. The officer pointed to the far plot covered with fresh earth. She went over, stood at one end, head bowed, she just didn’t have the words, wishing she had a Jewish prayer book with her and its mourner’s prayer for the dead. Not that Agnes would have cared, being the atheist that she was. An arctic wind ripped through her, throwing up the skeletons of dead leaves to brush at her feet as it swept through this boneyard. In the distance, foundry stacks adding their bleakness to the already miserable sky.

  “Now this Jonathan Levy,” her mother said as she strode the kitchen. “A good family he comes from. Papa knows the father from Russia. Solomon Levinsohn. The name is shortened. To Levy. Levi. To be a Levi is to be from a family of priests of the temple. You know that, of course. Here this Solomon has a garment factory making shmattes. But in Russia, he completed his studies. He
was an educated man. And the mother? Well, the mother I don’t know. She is from Lithuania. But by all accounts, she is much younger than … you are not listening, Celia. This is important. Why are you not listening?”

  “I have a headache.”

  “You have a hangover. That is what you have. You think I don’t see you drinking with this Jonathan Levy.”

  “Mother. He came over and spoke to me for five minutes.”

  “Exactly. He came over. All the way across the ballroom floor. To speak to you. A man does not do this by chance. On a whim. To walk these fifty paces from one end of a room to another. He has intention. Intention to meet you.”

  “I thought he was arrogant.”

  “Arrogant? What has arrogance got to do with anything?”

  “Mother, I don’t feel well.”

  “You feel well enough to go gallivanting all over the city. Where were you first thing this morning? I come here to give Papa his breakfast and you are gone. What is this ringing of the bell so early in the morning?”

  “Someone had the wrong address.”

  “Hmm. Anyway, this boy Levy. His family is respectable. A West End Jew. They have money. And he was an officer.”

  “A lance-corporal.”

  “Exactly. And he studies for a degree. Soon he will be a doctor. Not a priest of the temple. But a doctor.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you. But he’s going to be a farmer in Palestine. He wants to live on a kibbutz.”

  “Ach. A kibbutz. This Kommunistisch nonsense. Remember that Greenberg couple? They went out to a kibbutz a few years ago. The community even raised some money to help them go. And you know what? After one year they are back. One year. And do you think I get my money back? Now, this Doctor Levy. He will see sense soon enough. What is wrong with you? You look terrible.”

  “Mother. I am going back to bed.”

  “Well, I am going to the wash house,” her mother said. “Someone has to work around here. I would like to see the door handles polished when I return. The ironing needs to be done. And when you have finished, please cover the kitchen with newspapers. The man is coming tomorrow to sweep the chimney.”

  With her mother gone, she sat down at the kitchen table, took out the note Agnes had left her. She let her fingertips drift over each line of the coarse paper as she went through the words over and over again.

  My dearest Celia.

  I am writing this before I commence my hunger strike. If you are reading this, it means I have not survived. Please do not mourn for me. I have left instructions for you with my solicitor, Mr Sneddon of Sneddon, Baxter and Co., 179 West Nile Street. You were not only my comrade, but also my dear friend.

  With love. Agnes.

  From under her cot, she pulled out the brown paper parcel the prison officer had given her, cut the rough string with a kitchen knife. Inside were the clothes Agnes had worn when she entered the jail. A thistle brooch. And one other item. A book.

  Fourteen

  SHE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE THE BUILDING WAS given that it was right in the centre of the city but she had never really paid it much attention before. Except for its large clock, perched at just the right height, three storeys high, perfect for the naked eye of a young lady without a pocket-watch. It was one of those buildings with impressive columns and fancy balustrades that was never meant to accommodate the likes of her, yet when she entered and spoke to the young woman at reception, she was told to go on up without so much as an appointment or an escort. The liftman swiftly drew back the iron gate, gave her a nod as she entered. She eyed her reflection in the mirror above the dark mahogany panels, wished she had put on some lipstick.

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Third floor.” The same as the clock.

  She emerged directly into a hot room full of noise, tobacco smoke and busy bodies. Desks set out in rows, men on the telephones, women at their typewriters, message boys running here and there, almost tripping over her as she walked down the central aisle. She felt the yoke of flush around her throat as she searched out the familiar face but all passed by in a blur such was her anxiety and inability to focus on anything or anybody.

  “Can I help you, miss?” It was one of the errand boys.

  “I’m looking for a Mr Docherty.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yes, James Docherty.”

  “Keep on going to the end, miss. Last desk on the right. By the windae.”

  Docherty was dressed down to his shirt-sleeves, his long legs up on his desk, telephone receiver to his ear. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece when he saw her.

  “Me?”

  She nodded.

  He raised one finger in the air, then pointed to the telephone. “One minute,” he whispered. “Take a seat.”

  She cleared some papers from a simple wooden chair, sat herself down, watched Docherty as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the receiver and scribbled notes on a pad. His tie undone, his shirt collar soiled, two holes in the sole of each shoe, a cigarette behind one ear, the back of his neck red and lined, more like a farmer’s neck she thought, baked raw from the sun. But it was the middle of winter and Jimmy Docherty sitting languid with his feet up at the offices of the Evening Citizen was not exactly the epitome of an agriculture worker. In one slick movement, he swung his feet off the desk, hung up the receiver on the switch-hook, leaned towards her, blue eyes bearing down on her, eager and questioning.

  “What can I do for you, miss?”

  “Miss Kahn. Celia Kahn. I met you once before.”

  “Refresh my addled and senior mind.”

  “At the Sheriff Court on the day of the rent trials. I was with Agnes Calder.”

  “I can’t rightly recall. As you can imagine, there were more serious and distracting matters clamouring for my attention that eventful day. No doubt, Comrade Calder has played her part in this most recent riot. Which I’m glad to say has fizzled away to nothing. How is she?”

  “She’s dead.”

  He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, tapped one end against the top of the desk. “Och. I’m sorry to hear that. A good friend?”

  She nodded.

  Docherty struck a match, lit up. A strand of burning tobacco escaped into the air, landed on the desk where it glowed on a sheet of paper until he stubbed it out with his thumb. She could have done with a cigarette herself. Rude of her to ask, she thought. Rude of him not to offer.

  “I was rather fond of Agnes,” he said. “But I always thought the tobacco would get her in the end.” He inspected his own cigarette as if noticing the harm that lay there for the first time. “She smoked liked a double lum. And had a cough like an accordion with a hole in it. Is that the truth of what happened, Miss Kahn? The lungs?”

  “She died in Duke Street Jail. Like you, they said it was her lungs. But I don’t know whether to believe them. She was on a hunger strike, trying for release under the Cat and Mouse Act.”

  Docherty crouched forward on his desk, a bit like a cat himself. “The jail, eh? What was she doing in there?”

  “She tried to burn down a recruiting office about six months ago. We all thought it was a stupid idea. What with the war turning in our favour, close to an end. I thought you might have known. It was all over the front page of your paper.”

  “I don’t read that rubbish myself,” he said, smiling. “Now, what exactly is your accusation here?”

  “I think perhaps they tried to force-feed her. Tubes down her nostrils, food and liquids getting into her lungs.”

  “There would be a doctor’s report.”

  “Yes, they said I could have one.”

  “Well, that would be a good first step before you accuse His Majesty’s prison service of murder.”

  “Yes, it probably would.” She felt hot now. She should have taken off her coat. A gentleman would have suggested that. Or offered her a cigarette. A glass of water perhaps. Her fingers played with the clasp on her bag. “The truth is I should have told you ea
rlier. Agnes asked me to, right before she stopped eating. Said you might be interested in the story. Keep her name in the news. Let the public know she was on a hunger strike. Let the jail know they were under press scrutiny.”

  “And?”

  She shook her head. “I forgot. I was just so busy. What with the march for the forty-hour week. I just forgot.”

  “So that’s what this is all about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You feeling guilty.”

  “Of course I feel guilty. She was a good friend to me. And I let her down.” She glanced up from her fidgeting with the clasp. Docherty looked at her kindly.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ve got some contacts inside Duke Street. I’ll have a nosey around, see if I can find out how Agnes was treated. If the lungs got her, then no amount of press coverage would have saved her.”

  “You would do that?”

  “That is what you came here to ask, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was.”

  “You could let sleeping dogs lie, of course. The official verdict favours your conscience.”

  “I’d rather know the truth.”

  “I suppose you were one of her comrades.”