The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  “Yes, always. You wanted to be a clippie when the war started. You could only have been fifteen then. The last time I saw you, you were off to a demonstration in George Square.”

  From between her lips she released little kisses of smoke to the air. “I’m committed, Avram. That’s the difference. Not like them.” She waved a hand behind her.

  “They’re committed to Judaism,” he offered.

  “Hah,” she sniffed. “They pay lip-service to Judaism. I don’t think they really have a clue what’s at the heart of their religion. Or what their prayers mean. Tell me, Avram. What are you committed to these days? What do you really care about? Is it still the football?”

  That was Celia. No small talk. No “Hello, how are you?” No “What are the Highlands like?” With Celia, there was no beating around the bush. It was straight to the core. Like a Grand Inquisitor. And suddenly he found himself talking not about the football but about Megan. How they had met, the way her hair used to be, the songs she sang, the time spent out on the peninsula. Telling her everything. Sharing secrets like they used to do. All the words stored up for so long coming out in a rush, sometimes not knowing if it was Megan or Celia he was really talking about. He even told her what had happened with Sinclair. And the abortion.

  “Megan said there was a good chance,” he said. “If it was done early.”

  “That’s her just being brave. It’s a bad business. You’ve got to be lucky to survive, early or not. If she doesn’t bleed to death, the infection can kill her.”

  “How do you know so much about it?”

  Her body jerked slightly to the question, seeming to take her off guard. “It’s a woman’s responsibility to know these things.” She sucked down the last of her cigarette stubbed it out vigorously in the ashtray. “Are you sure this child isn’t yours?”

  “I told you already.”

  “You’re going to an awful lot of bother for someone not carrying your own.”

  He shrugged. “As I said. It’s not my child.”

  “So why are you doing this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, Avram. What are you afraid of? Why don’t you just admit that sometimes you have feelings for people?”

  He was ready to hit back with some smart retort. But he felt an unfamiliar scratching in his throat, had to gulp it down, hold back the churn of emotion. For Celia’s question had probed deep and all he could think of at that moment was a vision of his mother turning her back on him on a cold Riga pier. Celia appeared to guess the answer to her own question for she didn’t wait for his response. But her tone had softened when she asked: “When is the appointment?”

  “Half past seven.”

  “That’ll be right in the middle of the Kol Nidre service.”

  “She didn’t want me around anyway. But I’ll try to get away when prayers are finished. Just to make sure she is all right.”

  “And I’ll come with you. This is women’s work, Avram. You wouldn’t have a clue what to do.”

  Fifty

  AVRAM’S HEAD ACHED, his dinner lay heavy in his stomach. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, wait for his food to lurch towards digestion, let what remained of this intense day flow past him. Yet here he was, stuck in full view of the congregation, with no place to hide. All the pew seats were reserved, but Papa Kahn had managed to book him a seat in the overflow – the several rows of folding chairs set out on the floor space between the Ark and the bimah. This was where he joined the other nomadic Jews. Those visiting their families in the city, those passing through from Edinburgh and onwards to America. Or those too poor to pay the synagogue’s seat-rental charge.

  Even in this painful exile, mercilessly exposed to the curious eyes sweeping over him, some sizing him up as future son-in-law material, he remembered how he used to enjoy being in the synagogue on Yom Kippur eve. Sitting in the twilight waiting for the Kol Nidre service to begin. Such an earnestness about the place as congregants assembled in a rush from their early suppers, souls primed for spiritual examination, hearts aching for forgiveness. Pew ledges clicking back, seat-lids opening and closing in the search for tallithim and prayer books, handshakes all round. Good Yom Tov, Good Yom Tov, Well over the Fast. The settling down into a time for contemplation. A time for repentance. A time to ask to be written into the Book of Life for yet another year. To discover who shall live and who shall die. Who by fire. Who by water. Who by the sword. Who by wild beasts. Who shall be at rest. And who shall wander.

  This evening he wasn’t the only curio on display. Up on the bimah stood Cantor Levy, dressed in white robes and a white silk Cossack-style hat. Much was expected of the new chazan, leased like some milk-cow from a synagogue in London, this squat, baby-faced man with a roly-poly figure perfectly proportioned to be a chamber for the voice.

  “A great milestone in the history of our synagogue,” Papa Kahn had explained to Avram over dinner. Papa Kahn grabbing his arm, talking as if he were addressing the shul committee of which it seems he was still treasurer. “Having our very own chazan represents the reaching of maturity for our Jewish community in the Gorbals.”

  “But Uncle Mendel told me the Jews are moving out of the Gorbals. Further south. To Queens Park. To Langside.”

  “What does Mendel know? What kind of a Jew has he become? Listen, Avram. The Gorbals will always be the heart of the Jewish community in Glasgow. Garnethill may be the head. But the Gorbals is the heart. The rest of the body can go wherever it pleases.”

  “I’m just glad we don’t have to listen to Lieberman,” Celia said. “I don’t know what made me feel worse. His singing or the fasting.”

  Avram scanned his fellow-congregants, exchanged silent greetings with Solly, seated beside his father, the recently retired bookmaker Morris Green – Lucky Mo, with his bald head glistening under the newly-installed electric lights. Further along sat Old Man Arkush, the baker who used to store Madame Kahn’s cholent pots in his ovens over the Shabbos, probably still did for all he knew. And there in the front row in his fine blue-mohair suit, fending off the outstretched hands of well-wishers, reigned Jacob Stein. Yes, of course, Jacob Stein – the ganze macber. The warehouse owner, his former employer, a city bailie, a founder of this very synagogue. And the organiser of betting syndicates. Shaking hands, bestowing his patronage, a firm grip here, a touch to the upper arm there, his shiny little moustache working overtime as it curved and straightened over the smile of his upper lip, the tobacco-stained teeth revealed. Avram realised he hadn’t actually seen Jacob Stein in person since before the war had ended, since the day he’d been told he had to work with Uncle Mendel as a credit draper. Yet somehow the man had always been there in the background. Pulling strings.

  Jacob Stein donned his tallith, lowered his bulky frame into his seat, an action that appeared to galvinise the other congregants into doing the same. Avram turned his attention to Rabbi Lieberman, his old bar mitzvah teacher wedged into his single pew by the side of the Ark, hooded under his white garments, the weary eyes peering out from beneath his veil of silk, waiting patiently for his flock to settle. Then the rabbi’s finger arched ever so slightly to signal commencement to his usurper on the bimah opposite. The chazan clasped his arms to his stomach, his flushed jowls trembled as he sang the first words of the Yom Kippur service.

  Kol Nidre …

  The notes were good, Avram thought. A mellifluous tenor voice as crisp and sweet as apple dipped in honey, soothing even to the pain inside his head, and he muttered his response along with the rest of the congregation. He tried to read on but the pounding behind his eyes made it difficult to focus on the text. Instead, his thoughts drifted back to the dinner table.

  “… and not only a chazan,” Madame Kahn had continued. “Soon we will have a kosher restaurant in the city.”

  “And then you’ll want your own kosher public house,” Celia said.

  Papa Kahn turned to her. “You might reject our ways, young woman. You might think all our customs me
an nothing. That we ramble on with our prayers in a language most of us do not understand. But what is important is that we sit down in the synagogue as a community.”

  “Papa,” Nathan said. “You are becoming too excited.”

  Papa Kahn brought his fist down on the table. His wife covered her face with her hands. “Tell him to calm down,” she wailed. “Tell him to stop.”

  “No, I want Celia should understand this. It was the community that helped me when I arrived here. It was the community that helped your mother, the community that gave your uncle a job. Community, community, community. This Jewish community. It is not so different from this socialism.”

  For once, Celia said nothing. But Madame Kahn rose from the table, strode over to the piano. She lifted the lid and began to play. A Scottish melody.

  “Martha, please,” her husband called to her. “Come and sit down.”

  Madame Kahn continued, banging out the notes with an unnecessary harshness.

  “Martha. We are in the middle of dinner.”

  Madame Kahn stood up, walked calmly over to the open window.

  “Only Scottish songs heard in this household,” she shouted out into the street until Nathan pulled her back. “No German music. No Bach or Beethoven here. Only Scottish songs.”

  Avram rose with the congregation for the Amidah prayer. A time to repent. A time to forgive and to ask for forgiveness. To rock back and forth in rhythm to his own silent mouthing of the words in front of him. To pound a fist into his chest above his heart as a symbol of atonement for his sins. So many sins.

  Profanation of the Divine Name.

  Wronging one’s neighbour

  Despising parents and teachers

  Violence

  Envy

  Effrontery

  Evil inclination

  Unchastity

  Denying and lying

  Scoffing Slander

  The taking of bribes

  Vain oaths

  Breach of trust

  Causeless hatred

  Wanton looks

  Haughty eyes

  Turning aside

  Being stiff-necked

  Hardening of the heart

  He stopped there, snapped his prayer book shut. If there was another sin to add to the list he had just read, he knew it would be the one he was about to commit now. Only sudden illness or death itself could excuse a person during the utterance of the Amidah prayer. And this was a matter of life. He squeezed himself to the end of the row. He saw the rabbi pushing aside the veil of his tallith, the look of shock on Cantor Levy’s face. Suddenly, an arm shot out to block his path. Avram looked down at the blue-mohair sleeve, then up to the face of the suit’s owner.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Jacob Stein hissed at him. “It’s the middle of the Amidah. Have some respect.”

  Avram looked straight back at his obstructor, taking in the oiled-back hair, the fleshy lips, the lack of recognition in the man’s stare.

  “Let me be,” he said, angrily pushing away the hand.

  Jacob Stein’s hard little eyes lit up. “Ah yes, now I see. Avram. Avram Escovitz. The footballer. Who never got to play for Celtic.” He leaned forward to whisper close to Avram’s ear. “Don’t blame me. It was your decision in the end. Just remember that. Your decision.”

  Jacob Stein pulled back, returned his attention to his prayer book, waved a hand of dismissal. But Avram didn’t move. Instead, in the same way he’d earlier seen Stein bestow his little kindnesses on his fellow congregants, he took hold of the warehouse owner’s upper arm. But firmly. Feeling the soft, fleshy muscle give way easily under his grasp. Like a woman’s arm, Avram thought, as he saw Jacob Stein’s face wince to his grip.

  “And I forgive you, Herr Stein,” he said calmly. “I forgive you.”

  And with that remark he let go his hold, continued down the aisle beside the bimah, suddenly aware of the sound of his heartbeat and the certain lightness to his step. He glanced up at the gallery where Celia stood in a broad-rimmed hat, her head bowed over in prayer. He thought she might not have seen him, that he would have to aggravate his sin even further by calling out her name. But she lifted her face. Without hesitating, she closed her prayer book, and despite her mother’s protests, she too made her way to the exit.

  “Let me ask you again,” Celia said to him in the vestibule. “This is definitely not your child?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “But now you want to stop this?”

  “I’m sure. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Let’s find a hansom.”

  It had started to rain.

  “A tram might be quicker,” Celia said, pulling her hat tight around her face.

  “Whichever comes first.”

  The cab came first.

  “Trongate,” he told the driver, then sank back into the leather seat. Celia took his hand.

  “You’re shaking,” she said.

  He held the small hand tighter. Somehow he had imagined this scene before. Hand in hand with Celia, seated in the back of a hansom. A slight drizzle outside. Both of them dressed in their best. A sense of common purpose to their journey. He thought it was to their wedding they were going.

  “Do you love her?” Celia asked.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want to abandon her.”

  “Even though she once abandoned you.”

  “Even after that.” He looked out at the city, the lamplights, the bleak tenements, the umbrellas held up against a rain coming heavier now, the puddles quickly forming. Such an odd day this had been. This Day of Atonement. This asking of forgiveness for one’s sins. “I always thought it was you I loved,” he said quietly.

  He felt the pressure of her hand increase. “I know you did. But now?”

  “If the world were the walls of this carriage, and we could just sit here holding hands like this, then yes, I could say I love you.”

  “And outside this carriage?”

  “Too much has changed.” He felt her grip tighten again. Those tiny fingers. Leading him once to the top landing of the close. Childhood games. “And you are so committed now, Celia. You have all these causes. You know what you want. I cannot compete with that. I feel like a nothing beside you. I only ever wanted to prove to you I could be a somebody.”

  “But you are a somebody in my eyes. Look at what you are doing now.”

  “I think it will be too late for that.” He pulled down the window, shouted to the driver. “Hurry, please. This is urgent.”

  Fifty-one

  THE RAIN HAD STOPPED by the time the hansom arrived at the end of a dim lane, lit at the entrance by a solitary gas lamp.

  “Ye’ll have tae walk frae here,” the driver said. “But go careful.”

  The whole length of one side of the lane seemed to consist solely of the back ends of pubs. The air reeked of alcohol from empty barrels piled high. Avram could hear the voices of male drinkers. Not cheery sounds. But harsh swearing. Shouting. A window slammed from somewhere above them. More shouting. A woman’s voice this time. He stumbled on something underfoot. He heard a groan, stopped and peered into the shadows. He had tripped over someone’s outstretched legs.

  “What is it?” Celia asked.

  “Somebody lying in the gutter.”

  “Is he all right?”

  A mumbling from the prostrate body. “Drunk,” Avram said.

  “Come on, then. Look for the numbers on the doors. There’s another lamp further up.”

  A figure emerged out of the greyness. “Lookin’ for something?” A woman’s voice. Warm in the questioning, but cold underneath.

  “Number sixteen,” Celia said.

  The woman stepped back. “Thought you was on yer own,” she said to Avram.

  “Help us,” Celia said. She took the woman’s arm, led her into the light. Avram could see her fully now. Lank hair. Smudges of powder on a pasty face. Coat wrapped tight over her small body. She was p
robably eighteen, maybe less, looked a lot older. Lamb dressed as mutton.

  “This is the address,” Celia said, showing her a piece of paper.

  The woman laughed. “I cannae read.”

  “It says: Number sixteen. Saracen’s Lane.”

  “This is Saracen’s Lane all right. I dinnae ken about no number sixteen.”

  Celia leaned forward, whispered something into the woman’s ear.

  “I ken whit yer after.” She pointed somewhere up to the left in the darkness. “Three doors up. But I havenae seen her all day. I might have missed her but. I’ve had my busy times, ye ken.”

  Celia reached into her coat pocket for her purse, pressed a few coins into the woman’s hand.

  Avram moved further up the lane, feeling his way along the dank, slimy walls. An invisible animal brushed by his ankle. He kicked out. Nothing.

  He turned back to Celia. “Give me your hand.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  He poked his hand about in the darkness until he located her arm, moving down the sleeve of her coat to her fingers. They were cold and clammy. He stumbled on. No air came from above. The sweat was dripping off him.

  “How can people live here?” he said but Celia didn’t answer. He counted off three doorways and stopped.

  “This must be it.”

  “Let me see.”

  She moved past him, struck a match, held it up to the doorway. He saw the number sixteen chalked on the stone and knocked on the damp wooden door. Silence. He knocked again. There were no windows to the front, if there were any at all, but he thought he glimpsed a slither of light from under the door. He was sure he heard movement. He held his breath.

  “Whit?” a voice said sharply from behind the door.

  “Is Megan Kennedy there?”

  No response. He could hear Celia’s breathing behind him. Swollen drops of rain falling from a gutter into a puddle. He knocked again.

  “I’m looking for Megan Kennedy.”

  “Who?” came the voice.