The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  “You ran up those steps like the most religious woman in the Gorbals,” her mother noted as they entered the haven of the foyer.

  “And so did you, mother.”

  From her pew in the upstairs gallery, she observed the men of the congregation as they smugly went about the performance of their rituals. She watched as they murmured the holy texts in baritone under the cover of their prayer shawls, as they opened the Ark to collect the sacred scrolls, read from the Torah, faced this way, then that way, stood up, sat down, prayed for the dead, made a business deal with the living, shook hands with their neighbours, glanced upwards at their audience, nodded confidently at their wives and daughters. While she did what? Sat quiet in her primness, doing nothing except follow the service in her prayer book. She felt her mother nudge her.

  “See.” Madame Kahn dipped her head to a section of the male congregation. Celia looked down to witness the late arrival of a certain medical student from Glasgow University. She started so much at the sight of him that she knocked her prayer book off its ledge onto her mother’s lap. Madame Kahn picked it up, passed it back to her, her lips curled into a smirk under her veil.

  Jonny was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairway, smiling confidently, while she held on to the banister, observed her feet negotiating the steps as if her black leather patents were the most fascinating items on earth. She actually could feel herself shaking under his unwavering gaze. She guessed that after dealing with the threat of imminent death for two years in the trenches, a young Jewess in her Sabbath finery would not present much of a challenge to his nerves. She noticed he was wearing the same double-breasted suit as on the night she had first met him at The Marlborough Hotel. Silver cufflinks, matching tie-pin, even a silver thread reflected in his white silk yarmulke, his arm outstretched to greet her mother. Then he turned to take her gloved hand in his own before she had reached the bottom of the stairway. Standing above him, she could see the firm line of his parting that split his creamed-down curls as he bowed slightly before her. His hair was as black as polished coal.

  “Good shabbos, Miss Kahn.”

  “Good shabbos, Mr Levy,” she said, her voice emerging more high-pitched than she would have liked. “And for what do we Jews of the Gorbals owe the honour of your West End presence?”

  Jonny released his grasp, stepped back from her, set his feet slightly apart, hands behind his back. Some kind of ‘at ease’ stance, she thought. “I have been invited to Shabbos lunch with the Samuels family,” he said, rocking from side to side. “They live in Thistle Street. I assume they must be neighbours of yours.”

  “There are so many Samuels in Thistle Street, Mr Levy. You will need to be more specific.”

  “Meyer and Fanny. They lost a son, Joseph. He served with me during the war. I thought I would use the opportunity to attend the service here. It is such a beautiful synagogue.”

  “Surely not as beautiful as the one in Garnethill?”

  “They are easily comparable,” he said, before turning to address her mother. “Madame Kahn,” he stated with a certain formality. Celia noticed her mother straighten, touch her hat.

  “Yes, Doctor Levy?”

  “That’s very kind of you. But I am still only a medical student.”

  “Pardon my error,” Madame Kahn replied. “I am always running a little ahead of myself. You were saying.”

  “Some of us from the West End Zionist Youth Group are going fruit-picking in Blairgowrie. I wonder if it would be appropriate to ask your daughter to accompany us.”

  “What would be more appropriate, Mr Levy,” Celia said quickly, “is if you made your request directly to me. We no longer live in Victorian times.”

  He seemed unaffected by the rebuke, smiled at her in that confident way of his, then at her mother, then back to her again. “Forgive me, Miss Kahn. But a poor soldier from the trenches has been unable to keep up with the world of modern etiquette. I will therefore ask you directly. Would you like to come on an outing to pick berries in the company of the West End Zionist Youth Group?”

  “The West End Zionist Youth Group,” Papa Kahn repeated as he and Uncle Mendel joined them. “I’ve never heard of such an organisation.”

  “We intend to build communes in Palestine, sir,” Jonny said, snapping out of his ‘at-ease’ pose. “Kibbutzim.”

  “Jewish socialist communes in Palestine, eh?” Papa Kahn chortled. “My, my, what a concept. What do you think, Mendel?”

  “You know what I think of such things. A true socialist does not need a Palestine. Socialist principles are universal. Even for the Jews.”

  “Excuse my brother-in-law, Mr Levy. But he is a Territorialist. He will put the Jews wherever they are told to go. Land is land is land. Even if it is in some jungle in Africa. Or even on the moon. Anywhere but where God promised them. Now about you and these kibbutzim. When do you intend to set off on your adventure?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. I need to finish my degree first. But I’ve already started to learn Hebrew.”

  Papa Kahn moved in closer. “I would keep that quiet if I were you. There are some people standing in this very foyer who believe Hebrew can only be the language of the Book. Not to be used for everyday speech. God forbid if Hebrew is used to order a meal in a restaurant or to buy a train ticket. Even if that restaurant or railway station is in Palestine…”

  “…Enough of this Palestine,” Madame Kahn snapped. “I believe Mr Levy was talking about fruit-picking in Blairgowrie. I personally am very fond of strawberries. Erdbeeren. So delicious. They remind me of my childhood. How do you answer Mr Levy, Celia?”

  Sixteen

  IT WAS EARLY MORNING at Queen Street Station when she had to meet Jonny and the West End Zionists. But it was raspberries they were off to be picking in Blairgowrie, not the erdbeeren her mother craved. Apparently it had been a poor year for strawberries, the farmers leaving their thin pickings to the hired help – the tinkers, the travellers and the local labourers – rather than Glasgow folk on a fun day out with their careless hands and distracting talk. She was late even though he had insisted she must be on time what with three different journeys to make – two by train, one by horse and cart. So she was running up Buchanan Street with her wicker basket containing a couple of apples, her sandwiches filled with white chicken, a few extra made in a gesture of socialist solidarity for any of those with large appetites among the Zionist Youth.

  She might have been tardy but she was no fool. She had brought with her a copy of the Glasgow Jewish Evening Times for protection. For in the early hours when the city was deserted like this, before the stores opened up and the traffic really got started, the rooftops belonged to the starlings. Thousands of them, with their endless screeching, excitedly discussing the latest gossip in birdland while dumping their liquid excrement down the sides of the buildings and onto the heads of pedestrians below. These birds would eventually turn the city white, she thought. Like that ancient Italian city with its volcanic ash. But she had her newspaper over her head to defend herself. For even her fast pace couldn’t stave off the enemy above. Plop, plop, plop. She felt the paper flick to the force of the aerial bombardment. But even if the bird droppings had found her, her clothes weren’t too much to worry about. Jonny had told her to dress appropriately for a day among the earth, the berries, the nettles and the brambles. She wore an old smock, a sleeveless cardigan and a floppy hat which she hoped would pass muster with these Zionists preparing to build farming communes in Palestine with their bare hands.

  She was glad to see Jonny kitted out in his own berry-picking attire – a battered hat, an old tweed jacket with saggy pockets, twill shorts and long woollen socks. He was leaning against a side pillar at the station entrance, smoking a pipe, two large canvas bags at his feet. He swept off his hat as soon as he saw her.

  “Where are the rest of them?” she asked.

  “You’re late. We’ve only got three minutes.”

  “But where are your West End Zionists?
”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side, smiled weakly. “There are no West End Zionists,” he said eventually.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t think your dear Mama would let you come on your own. So I just made them up.”

  “What on earth made you think I’d want to come by myself?”

  “I thought you were one of those modern misses who didn’t need a chaperone.”

  “You lied to me. You lied to my mother.”

  “I’m sorry. But what else could I say in front of her.” He picked up his bags. “Look, I’ve got the train tickets. And we’ve got two minutes. You can either come with me. Or turn around, never speak to me again. Which is it to be?”

  If his face had shown just one little look of that cocky confidence of his, she would have walked away. But instead, his eyes were flickering this way and that, anywhere but to gaze at her straight. A bird dropping landed in the space between them, splattering white excrement onto his boots. Divine retribution, she thought.

  “I’m furious with you,” she said. “So don’t expect me to be all nice and friendly and polite. But I didn’t get dressed up in my glad rags for nothing. Which platform is it?”

  She hardly spoke to him all the way to Perth. Just took the window seat, watched the countryside steam past without a care for his fidgeting and various attempts to introduce conversation. She was still angry with him, but his behaviour had also given her the upper hand, allowing her to sit there calmly and in control, knowing she could bring this little stand-off to an end whenever she wanted. She was enjoying the views too now that the sprawl of the city had petered out and the sun was beginning to burn off the early morning mist. Only breaking her silence to murmur a reluctant ‘thank you’ when he brought her a mug of tea from the dining car, too much sugar stirred into it for lack of her proper instruction. He stared out the window too, his face looking quite handsome in profile, skin shaven clean, he must have woken up bright and early to do that, the sharp metal scraped sleepily across his chin and cheeks just for her. He pointed out Stirling Castle, a piece of information she ignored even though it was the first time she had seen the grand fortress perched up there on the craggy hillside, plumb centre in the middle of the town. Then there was the Wallace Monument standing there like some giant raised fist of defiance to the sky. Her heart lifted to the smell of the pine forests and the wheat fields sucked into the carriage through the open windows. One of the other passengers opened parcels of food for her bairns, the stink of boiled eggs adding to the aroma of the carriage.

  At Perth, there was another train to connect them to Coupar Angus and on to Blairgowrie where she eased off slightly with her aloofness now that she had to depend on him for where to go next. He led her to a farm-lad with his horse and cart ready to take them the couple of miles out to the picking fields. They sat in the back among the bundles of firewood and jute sacks, the driver thinking himself to be some kind of tour guide, pointing out local features of interest as they plodded along.

  “Salmon,” he said as they crossed the bridge over the River Ericht. Then over on the other side. “Flax mills.” On passing a cottage by the riverbank: “Mrs Beveridge. Wash mangled for a penny.” A while later: “Walnut tree.” And even: “Cows.”

  With the morning sun full out, she ignored the lad’s sparsely worded commentary, laid her head back to rest on the jute sacks. There was nothing in her line of vision blocking out the cloudless sky. She could have been anywhere at any time in history. Just herself and nature. Banished from her mind was the city soot, the shipyard cranes blighting the skyline, the overcrowded tenements, the children with no shoes, the women with their hunched backs and their worn-out wombs, the men haunted by war, crushed by poverty, awash in drink. Here the air was fresh and clean, the grass was lush, the trees healthy, there were potatoes and berries in the fields. Out here, she was a nobody. Neither a woman nor a Jewess. Just a carefree soul on the back of a wagon, her cheeks hot from the sun and the excitement running through her. She wanted to laugh out loud. Not from any amusement. But out of sheer joy.

  “We’re here,” the farm boy said as the wagon pulled into a courtyard. The lad turned round to look at them. “Water.” He jerked his head in the direction of a pump, took out a fob-watch from his waistcoat pocket. She reckoned the lad must have been about thirteen but he had all these adult mannerisms about him, the way he screwed up his mouth as he looked at the watch face, the slow pace of his speech. “Hmmm,” the boy said. “Eleven-thirty. I’m off to the station at three-thirty if it’s a ride back to Blairgowrie you’re after.” He pointed out a track leading away from the yard. “The berries are down there. Keep going until you get to the tinkers, then take the next row along. Gaffer’s name’s Soutar. You’ll get to hear him soon enough scolding the tinks. He’s the one to sort you out with the buckets and the weighing and the paying. And mind, mister, to keep an eye on your lass there.”

  “Why’s that?” Jonny asked, looking up from tightening his bootlaces.

  “We cannae vouch for the behaviour of any of those men working down there,” the lad said, scratching his head as if in all his young years he had already discovered the wayward ways of the adults of his gender. He then gave a shout to the horse, a shake of the reins and he was off.

  She walked over to the pump, let Jonny work the lever while she splashed water on her face, cupped some in her hands to drink. She then did the same for him so he could fill up a couple of bottles he’d brought out of his bags.

  “Forgiven me?” he asked.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  He ran his wet hands through his hair, his mood suddenly all light and cheerful. “Come on,” he said, fixing his hat back on. “Let’s go berry picking.”

  She strolled with him side by side for a good quarter-mile before they came across the tinkers working the rows. She’d never seen men so dark-tanned before, stripped to their shirts and vests, hands flashing quick for their penny-a-pound of rasps, mouths silent, eyes set hard on the task. Then they came across the man who had to be the gaffer Soutar with his flat-cap and purple-stained dungarees, sitting on a barrel by a rusty upright weighing-machine.

  “You can start there,” Soutar said, handing them a couple of buckets, nodding to a row. “Done this before?”

  She shook her head while Jonny said: “Not since before the war.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you some tips to remind you.” Soutar scratched the back of his neck then had a quick examine of his nails. Deep-ingrained purple they were. “Just pick the full ripe ones. It’s no use to us if you take the ones that are no ready. And it’s no use to you because they won’t ripen once plucked. Place them, don’t throw them, into your bucket. Don’t stack them too high or you’ll squash them. Bring them up here once you’ve got a level of around three to four inches and I’ll weigh them.” He scratched again at his neck. “What have you got to carry them home?”

  “I brought some containers.” Jonny opened up his canvas bags, took out some shallow pots with lids.

  “Grand,” Soutar said. “And don’t just pick the easy ones either. Search a wee bit among the leaves for the shy ones.”

  Celia walked down to her row, bucket swinging, beside her Jonny humming some stupid war-time song, she thinking themselves a couple of scallywags in their shabby clothes, like in some Charlie Chaplin picture.

  “I can eat as many as I want,” she said. “Who’s to know?”

  Jonny laughed. “That’s the temptation. Just don’t give yourself tummy-ache. That’s what I used to do as a boy. Stuff my face for an hour, then have my belly hurt all the way home.”

  “You’ve got greedy eyes, Jonny Levy. That’s your problem.”

  “And what are you? Some strictly disciplined miss?”

  “Yes, that’s me, I’m afraid,” she said laughing, although she feared it was true.

  She took one side of the row. The bushes came up to just about shoulder-high, so she could see Jonny working
away on the other side, still humming away at his stupid song. She didn’t have to search hard for the berries either, there were so many of them, coming off easy and squishy between her thumb and forefinger. She was all heated up now from the sun, the sticky leaves clinging to her skin, her fingers red from where the too-ripe berries had burst, bees and flies as plump as the rasps flitting all around her. She could feel the band of her knickers under her dress, itchy with her sweat. She took off her hat, wiped a sleeve across her brow.

  “I’ve got enough,” he shouted over to her. “See you at the end of the row.”

  When she had about a three-inch layer in her bucket, she went down to join him. He gave her a bottle of water to swig, then they walked up to where Soutar did the weighing and the calculating, poured the rasps gently into Jonny’s pots, then started the whole process again. It was easy work but in the fresh air and the sunshine, she tired quickly. After their fourth trip up to Soutar, she was glad Jonny announced their work was done.

  “I’ll pay the man. Then we’ll go down to the river for lunch.”