The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  They put the filled pots into the canvas bags, left them in the shade under Soutar’s protection, walked down to the Ericht, Jonny saying he knew a spot from when he came as a lad.

  “We Levys used to hunt in packs,” he told her. “Everything we did – day-trips, summer holidays, weddings and bar mitzvahs – the whole family went. And I don’t mean just first cousins. Fifth cousins, tenth cousins. A whole Russian village of Jews we were in our own right. We needed a separate rail carriage just for the food.” He laughed, then looked down sadly at his feet. “It’s been a bit different since the war though.”

  “We didn’t have much of a family to lose,” she told him. “My father’s alone here in Scotland. My mother’s only got her brother, my Uncle Mendel. My own brother Nathan was too young to enlist, thank God. The same with Avram. Although he’s only my adopted brother.”

  “I heard he’s playing football now. For one of those Highland teams. Argyll Thistle.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Thistle have just drawn Celtic in the Scottish Cup. Half the Jewish men in Glasgow are talking about Avram like he’s some kind of hero. Like Judah Maccabee. And they haven’t even played the game yet.”

  “We hardly ever hear a word from him,” she said. “He’s got his own life now.”

  “Well, if he scores a goal, he’ll be the most famous Jew in Glasgow. Apart from Mannie Shinwell.”

  He took her to a dry grassy area in the shade high up on the bank above the Ericht. They sat down, she set her basket between them.

  “I brought enough food to feed an army,” she said. “That’s all your fault. You and your West End Zionist Youth. I want you to eat everything. It’s not right to waste food.”

  “You needn’t worry. I only brought an apple.”

  She picked out a sandwich for herself, drew her legs up and under her body, sat watching the river as she ate. It was so peaceful and picturesque, not a soul around, she wondered why she didn’t take herself out to the countryside more often.

  “The river’s not usually as low as this,” he said. “After the rains, it runs all swollen and powerful. That’s when you can see the salmon leaping.”

  “Salmon leaping? Don’t be daft.”

  “I’m not being daft. It’s true. The salmon leap out of the water as they head up river to spawn. I’ve seen them do it with my own eyes.”

  She munched down on her chicken, not knowing whether to believe him or not, feeling a bit stupid for being a city girl with more knowledge about the times of the trams than the habits of fish.

  “I suppose you would have to see it to believe it though,” he said. “The wonders of nature.”

  He sat quietly after that. He had a sad look about him, she wondered whether it was the war he was thinking about. Hard to believe it was possible to go through an experience like that, not have the memories drift into your mind during these quiet moments. A whole generation of men wandering around full of these awful stored-up nightmares in their heads, she wondered how they could go on living, a society go on functioning. She picked a dandelion from the grass, her own fingers stained raspberry red against the yellow petals she plucked from its head.

  “Did you volunteer?” she asked.

  “No. I was a conscript.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Why?”

  “I was part of the women’s peace movement. We were not exactly in favour of everyone marching cheerfully into war.”

  “There’s a lot I don’t know about you.” He lay back on the grass, stuck his pipe in his mouth, but didn’t light it. She stared at the river, trying to imagine salmon leaping upstream, such a struggle against the flow of nature in order to give birth.

  “I’ll be finished my studies in another few months,” he said, more to himself than to her. “It’ll be off to Palestine after that.”

  She plucked the last of the petals off the dandelion, blew it from between her fingers into the air, watched it float away. “A new life in a new land.”

  “That’s a good way to put it. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What plans do you have? When you’re not trying to stop wars.”

  “When I’m not scrubbing floors, beating carpets, hauling in the coal, cleaning the grate and whitewashing the walls?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “Well, there’s the family allowance for married mothers to be fighting for. Broadening the conditions for women’s suffrage. Supporting the Independent Labour Party on equal rights for women. That’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you think?”

  “You’d be perfect for a kibbutz.”

  “Me? If I wanted to dirty my hands in the soil, I’d get myself an allotment in Queens Park.”

  “I just thought a kibbutz would suit your socialist principles. To each according to their need, from each according to their ability. You can’t get more Marxist than that.”

  “I’d rather apply my principles to the people of Glasgow. Why get up and go somewhere else?”

  He struck a match to his pipe-bowl, she watched him suck the tobacco alight, she liked that hiss and crackling sound as the dried leaves caught. “Glasgow’s problems are just too entrenched,” he said. “I’d rather start somewhere from scratch.”

  “That’s a strange attitude for someone who wants to be a doctor. I imagined you’d have a limitless desire to heal the sick. And there’s plenty here in Glasgow.”

  “Sadly, the extent of my compassion is limited. I’m prepared to care for my family, my friends, my neighbours and my community. But beyond that, I just let the world take care of itself. That’s why I admire someone like you.”

  “You admire me?”

  “For taking on all those causes, helping people you don’t even know.”

  “Only the women,” she said. “The men can look after themselves.”

  “You don’t really like men, do you?”

  “In my experience, they’re either too weak. Or they’re putting down women to feel strong.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because here’s another.”

  The newcomer had to be one of the travellers, a short, stocky man, flat-capped, shirt-sleeves rolled up tight, trousers both belted and with braces. He stood about twenty yards off, beckoned them with a wave.

  “What do you want?” Jonny shouted.

  The man didn’t reply. Instead he crouched slightly, legs set apart, body lowered, summoned them again with his fingers, the way a master might entice his dog.

  Jonny called again. “What is it?”

  The man remained silent but his gestures became more impatient.

  “Let’s go with him,” she said.

  “The farm-lad warned us off the gypsies.”

  “I’ve nothing against them.”

  Jonny held up his hand to indicate ‘wait’. Quickly they packed away their picnic things, went after the man. He didn’t let them catch up but walked ahead, turning around every now and then, beckoning them on.

  They followed him to a barred gate left open, along a path through the trees, the sun poking through the leaves and branches where it could, speckling the dry carpet of needles and cones underfoot. She breathed in the freshness of the pine, the smell of far-off burning wood, hiked up her skirts so she could walk faster.

  They came to a clearing. Unyoked caravans were parked in a rough circle, facing into each other, all with their stovepipes jutting out of the roofs, some painted plain, others boasting elaborate designs. A couple of fires smouldered away at the centre of the camp, pots heating away among the cinders, the rich aroma of a meat stew. A woman sat on the steps of one of the caravans, weaving a basket, thick black hair down to her waist, a scattering of silver-tin buckets at her feet. She looked up, narrowed her eyes, then retreated to her task.

  “Where’s he gone?” Jonny said.

  “I can’t see him through the smoke.”

&nb
sp; “He can’t have disappeared.”

  “There he is,” she said, spotting their guide beyond the far-side caravans. “He’s still asking us to come over.”

  They didn’t cross the campsite directly, but walked around the rear of the wagons. Piles of pots and churns lay around, clothes hung on lines, a roped-off paddock where a dozen or so horses grazed without an ear pricked at their passing. It was so quiet, she thought. If the men were away picking in the fields, where were the women? And where were the children? When they had walked about half-way round the wagons, they found their man standing in a clear space near to a thick pole dug firm into the ground. He smiled at them through broken teeth, swept off his cap to reveal a band of pale, sun-starved skin across his hairline, pointed with a stick to a large dark mound on the ground at the pole’s base,

  “What is it?” she asked Jonny, her eyes stinging from the smoke off the campfire.

  Jonny took off his hat, ruffled the sweat-matted hair at the back of his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a bear. It’s a bloody bear.”

  “Hey ho,” the gypsy said, holding up his stick. “Have I got a show for you.” He started to gently prod the body of the beast. The bear shifted its head from the cradle of its arms, opened its eyes, stared right at her. A pulse of fear, excitement and revulsion all wrapped into one ran through her whole body. The man poked again with the stick. The bear opened its huge jaws. She could see its pink maw, the fangs, its thick tongue. Then it uttered a painful yawning sound.

  “Hey ho,” the man said, whacking the bear lightly across its back with the stick. “Dance time.”

  The animal shook its head, it was only then she noticed the cuff around its neck, the chain attached. Slowly, the bear heaved itself up onto its front paws, raised its rear until it rested on all fours. This time, it let out a growl. Not a ferocious sound, more like a tired groan. She took a pace backwards, just managed to stop herself urinating in her knickers.

  “I don’t like this, I don’t like this,” she said. “We should go.”

  “Wait a moment,” Jonny said. “Let’s see what happens.”

  The man took his stick, held it above the bear’s snout, began to slowly raise it higher. The animal stretched to follow the path of the stick until it heaved itself up on to its hind legs, straining against its chain. Standing full, paws raised, it was a massive beast. Yet she could sense its weary sadness, its spirit broken. The gypsy reached into his trouser pocket, brought out a mouth organ. He wiped the instrument against his shirt sleeve, started to play with one hand, the other jiggling the stick above the animal’s snout. The bear stumbled from one rear leg to the other in a pathetic jig.

  “Come on,” she said, pulling on Jonny’s arm. “This is cruel.”

  “Yes, yes, in a moment.”

  “Stay,” the gypsy shouted. “Free show, free show. Don’t go, my friends.”

  She could hear the mouth organ start up again behind her as she strode across the middle of the encampment, the smoke from the fires tearing her eyes, she couldn’t be sure of the entrance point back into the woods.

  “What are you running for?” Jonny asked on catching her up, grasping her arm. She shook him off.

  “Why didn’t you come when I said? You should have come…”

  “…Hey, hey, gaji.” It was the woman weaving baskets on her caravan steps “Hey, hey,” she shouted again. “Come here.”

  “Ignore her,” Jonny said.

  The woman stood up. Broad-shouldered she was like a man, her long hair so black it surely had to be dyed in youthful contrast to the wrinkled face it framed. “You,” the woman said, pointing at her with a fearsome finger. “You. The gaji. Come here.”

  “Let her be,” Jonny said. “She’ll just want to sell you her weaving.”

  But there was a commanding strength in this woman’s voice that made disobeying almost unthinkable. “I want to see what she’s after.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll wait for you here.”

  She walked over to where the gypsy stood on the steps. As soon as she was close enough, the woman grabbed her hand, tried to claw open her fingers. “Let me see, let me see,” she kept saying. “Let me see your palm.”

  She managed to pull back her hand. “What do you want?”

  The woman started touching her hair. “Such black, black hair, dearie.” Then her fingers stroked her cheek. Hard leathery skin against her own. “Dark skin, dearie. Where you from?”

  “Glasgow.”

  “Heh! Heh!” The woman half-laughed, half-cried, her mouth a cavern of blackened stumps. “Tell your Auntie Jessie where you’re really from?”

  “I told you. I’m from Glasgow.”

  “That’s a place for red-haired bairns, skin the colour of milk. You’ve got the Roma blood in your veins. Jessie can tell.”

  “My father’s from Russia.”

  “Ah. Russka Roma.”

  “No, no. We are Jews.”

  “Jews,” she said, smiling so that her face cracked into a web of deep lines. “Jews too are wanderers on this earth.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her skirt as if to bring an end to the matter. “Now why don’t you buy one of my tin buckets? To carry the berries I’m sure you been picking. Or why not a pot to pee in for one of the bairns you and that handsome Jock over there are bound to have?”

  “I haven’t got a penny on me.”

  “Why not ask yon Jock to give you twelve. For a shilling will buy you a brand new bucket of tin.”

  She was just about to call to him for the money when he came wandering over through the smoke. “She’s not got you buying something?”

  “A shilling for the best tin-craft in the land,” Jessie hissed. “You’ll pay double in that city of yours.”

  “Come on, Jonny,” she pleaded. “I want to show these folk a kindness.”

  “Aye,” Jessie grinned. “A kindness. We’re all alike, you and I.”

  Madame Kahn stood at the kitchen table, inspecting the contents of the different pots that lay there. “I have never seen so many berries in my life,” she said. “We have enough here to make raspberry jam until the Messiah comes. Those West End Zionists, they make you work hard. Did you enjoy yourself? The sun on your skin looks good.”

  “It was a good day, mother. But it is late. I am tired.”

  “And you must thank this Jonny for the bucket. Whatever you want to say about these gypsies, their tin-work is excellent. This bucket also will be here when the Messiah comes.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Now where are all my jars?”

  “You are going to start making the jam now? It’s nearly midnight.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I enjoy making jam. It reminds me of my childhood. I like the soft feeling in my hands. But then we make with erdbeeren, not with these raspberries.”

  Celia was too tired to help. Instead, she just went to her cot, kicked off her shoes, lay down fully-clothed, listened to her mother sing as she worked away with her simmering pots, the smell reminding of her day in the fields, of farm lads with adult ways, of bears and berries and gypsies.

  Seventeen

  SHE HAD JUST COME BACK FROM THE STEAMIE, her hands full with a basket piled high with clean linen, still warm and smelling of bleach and soap. The basket she’d put down in the small entrance hall inside the storm-doors, she was struggling to find her keys to the flat when she heard a sound on the stairway. At first, she thought it was a dog whimpering and she preferred to just let it be, not having any affection for the upstairs’ neighbour’s mongrel that would bark her awake most nights. But the sound persisted, something plaintive and beseeching about it that made her curious. So she closed the storm-doors slightly against her basket what with thieving kids happy to run away with anything unguarded, slowly ascended the stairs. She kept her body in a lean in front of herself, twisting her head upwards, her legs ready to scarper in case she had to. As she approached the las
t few steps to the first floor landing, she noticed a mound of dark clothing in a pile outside Uncle Mendel’s flat. Her first thought was that he had forgotten to take his washing in, her second one being a flash of memory of the gypsy bear tied up to the base of the pole. Then she realised the groaning was coming from this very pile of clothes. She raced up the last few steps, knelt down by the body that lay there.

  “Uncle Mendel, Uncle Mendel,” she cried, shaking his moaning body. “What happened?”

  Her uncle was lying in a pool of yellowish liquid and she feared the worst embarrassment for him. But then she saw the uncorked, empty bottle of whisky at his side, smelled the stink of cheap liquor not that much dissimilar to the stench of disinfectant. Her uncle’s face was buried into his folded arms on the cold stone floor, his hat still clinging to his head but off at an angle. She shook him again, he turned his face towards her, his lips slurring some incomprehensible words.

  She moved in closer. “What? What did you say?”

  “Keys.”

  “Yes. Your keys.”

  “My keys. I cannot find.”

  “Here, let me help you to your feet.”

  “Go away,” he shouted. “Avek. Avek. Gey avek.”

  “Uncle. It’s Celia. I’m here to help you.”

  He buried his face back into his arms. Then his back heaved up and down. “Leave me alone,” he sobbed. “Leave me alone.”

  She took off his hat, placed her hand on the back of his neck, felt the skin there, hot and sweaty. “Let me help you.”

  “You cannot help me,” he sobbed. “Just leave me alone. Leave me to die.”

  She patted his jacket pockets, found the one that contained his keys, a huge bunch of them, she could be here for days deciding the one that fitted. She tried the few marked out from the rest with coloured tape, miraculously the third one successful in the opening. She knelt back down beside her uncle.

  “I can’t do this on my own,” she whispered. “You’re going to have to help me.”

  “Just go away. Gey avek. They will kill me.”