The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  Twenty-three

  THE TELEPHONE RANG IN THE COLD, EMPTY HALLWAY. That sound still made her jump. She knew in some homes, families used the device for ordinary, everyday conversation. But not in the Kahn household. That shining black daffodil set upon the hall table was only to be used for special occasions. Just like the sets of dishes stored away in the cupboards only to be brought out once a year at Passover. The phone continued to ring. She was kneeled down on the kitchen floor, her hands wet and soapy from the scrubbing brush. She thought to call out for her mother but remembered she had gone down to the bakery. Papa Kahn and Nathan were at the shop.

  “All right, all right,” she muttered to herself, as she stood, wiped her soapy hands on her apron. “Calm yourself down. I’m coming.” She went into the hallway, sat down by the telephone table, wriggled herself up straight, picked up the earpiece.

  “This is the Kahn residence.”

  The clipped tones of the operator. “Is that Glasgow South 390?”

  “Yes, this is Glasgow South 390.”

  “I have a trunk call for you. Putting you through now, thank you.”

  She listened to the clicks of connection, then from far away:

  “Who is there?” the voice asked.

  “It is Celia Kahn.”

  “Celia, Celia. It is your Uncle Mendel.”

  “I can hardly hear you. What is it?”

  “For hours I try to book this call. It is not easy. But better than a telegram to tell you.”

  “Uncle. What has happened?”

  “The news is very bad.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “It is not about me. It is about Avram. I don’t know how this to tell you. But Avram… he is dead.”

  “What did you say? The line is not very clear.”

  “Celia. Avram is dead.”

  “Dead? He can’t be. He was here only two days ago.”

  “Yes, yes. I know, I know. A terrible tragedy. I need to speak to your father. Arrangements we need to make very quickly. I am sorry…”

  She heard her uncle’s voice disintegrate into a sobbing wail. She held the receiver away from her ear as if this distance might lessen the impact of what she had just heard. Perhaps if she just swept this black device off the table-top, she could somehow obliterate the dreadful information.

  “Celia? Celia? Celia?” Her uncle’s tinny voice. “Can you hear me?”

  She leaned forward, spoke again into the trumpet. “Yes, I can hear you.”

  “Go bring your father. Tell him to telephone me at Avram’s shop. Here I will wait.”

  “But what happened?”

  “The details I have no time to give. Only one minute I have. The constable came to the shop to tell me. Avram was shot.”

  “He was murdered?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Accident? Murder? It is not clear. Please bring your father to telephone me.”

  “But what will happen to Megan and the baby?”

  “A baby? About a baby, I don’t know…”

  Click. The line went dead.

  When she told her father, he spontaneously bursts into tears. She herself hadn’t properly absorbed what had happened, yet as soon as she had finishing pronouncing the word “dead”, her father had fallen back on his chair, started to cry. Here she was being all stiff and practical while her father was a sniffling wreck. This ability to immediately access his emotions astonished her, made her think better of him, worse about herself. What was wrong with her? That her heart should turn so hard against such bitter news. Her mother, of course, had a different reaction.

  “They hate us,” she said, as she snapped open the piano lid. “They pretend to like us. But in their hearts they hate the Jews.” Her fingers began to hammer out a tune.

  “But mother,” she protested. “We don’t know what happened.”

  Madame Kahn stopped her hands mid-strike above the keyboard. “You will see. Mark my words. This will be the work of some anti-Semite.” Her fingers hit the chords hard. “Anti-Semite!”

  Her father shouted from the hallway. “Shah! I am speaking on the telephone. Quiet in there.”

  When he had finished his call, Papa Kahn came through to the kitchen. His face was a sickly yellowish-white. She jumped up from her chair, busied herself at the hearth preparing a pot of tea. Her father took a bottle of schnapps from the mantelpiece, poured himself a glass. Her mother stiffened, looked ready to scold him, but instead she closed the piano lid with the greatest care, went to sit beside him at the kitchen table.

  “So?” she asked. “What did you find out?”

  Her father searched in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief into which he loudly blew his nose. He then folded the linen neatly, returned it to his pocket. He picked up the shot-glass, tipped back the amber liquid in one gulp, replaced the receptacle on the table-top. All this, he did very slowly and deliberately as if the slightest unplanned movement might shatter his fragility and he would break down again in tears.

  “Mendel is taking care of everything,” he said hoarsely.

  “What is everything?” her mother asked.

  “The proper transportation.”

  “What did the rabbi say?”

  “Of course, Lieberman says the burial should be within twenty-four hours of death. But in an extraordinary situation such as this, if there is to be an official examination of the body, then dispensation can be made. Meanwhile, Mendel will arrange with the railway company to bring Avram back to Glasgow. He will be buried at the cemetery in Riddrie. I have spoken to the Burial Society. A plot will be prepared.”

  Celia moved quietly beside her father, placed a glass of black tea and a bowl of sugar cubes by his arm. He reached out, grabbed her lightly by the wrist, looked up at her with his red, watery eyes. “Thank you,” he said, with such a solemnity it was as if she had presented him with a gift of gold bars. “Thank you.”

  “So who will pay for all of this?” her mother asked. “All these special arrangements.”

  Her father placed a sugar cube between his teeth, then sipped on the black tea. “Of course, we will pay.”

  “You see, I knew he was trouble from the moment I set my eyes on him. When I opened the door to that orphan boy from Russia and saw him standing there, I knew it. It was as if a candle in my mind lit up. Tzores, it said. Trouble. Avram will be trouble. Is that not true, Celia? Tzores.”

  “Mother. I cannot believe you are talking like this. He was my brother.”

  “Your adopted brother.”

  “It doesn’t matter which. He was a member of the family. And he has been killed. Somebody shot him.”

  “Nobody shoots someone for nothing. There has to be a reason. This Highland shikse he wanted to marry. What was her name? This Megan. I swear she is behind all of this too. Both of them. Nothing but trouble. And these anti-Semites too. Meanwhile, we have to pay for all of this mess. All this mess people make from their lives, we have to pay.”

  “Calm down, Martha,” her father said. “Just calm down. Avram gave you very little trouble. You know that. He was sent here with almost nothing. A few coins sewn into a jacket pocket. Never understanding why a mother could say she loved him, yet send him away from her. For what? To stop him going into the Russian army. At the age of twelve these Cossacks wanted to take him. Such a terrible thing to do to a child. Quotas, quotas, quotas. Using the youngest Jews to fill their damn quotas of conscription. And yet you chose to dislike him. Why? Because you have a jealous heart.”

  “Celia,” her mother hissed. “Go away from here. You should not have to listen to such things.”

  “Celia will stay,” her father said firmly. “She is a young woman. A young woman can hear such things.” The colour was back in his cheeks now. Whether from the brandy or his anger she did not know.

  “What does Celia know about what is going on in this family. She is never here. Like a lodger she is.”

  “Mother…”

  “Don’t avoid the subject, Mar
tha.”

  “What is the subject? My jealous heart? Well, it is true, isn’t it? You and Avram’s mother. You and this Rachel. You were… lovers.”

  “Martha, Martha, Martha. What does it matter? It was such a long time ago. I have forgotten all about my life in Russia. Why did you have to take it out on Avram?”

  “He was trouble. See, he comes back here for three days and look at the trouble he causes. A man should walk out in the middle of the Kol Nidre service. On the holiest of days. Who should do such a thing? And you too, young lady. You think you can run about town all by yourself. Like a zoyne. A common prostitute.”

  Papa Kahn slammed his fist on the table. “For goodness sake, woman. Control yourself.”

  Her mother continued to whimper. “See, even in death, Avram causes us trouble.”

  “Bah,” her father snorted. “If it is the money you are worried about, then I think you will find that Avram had plenty. Ask your brother. Mendel will tell you what a successful businessman Avram was. And you know who will inherit his estate? This Megan who was not his wife? This bastard child that was not his? We will, Martha. We will.

  His adopted parents. That’s how much trouble he was.” Her mother didn’t go to the funeral, took to her bed, claiming her nerves had gotten the better of her. It was a miserable day anyway, rain drizzling down, trees half-stripped of their foliage, damp yellowing leaves underfoot like sodden bunting after a parade. A few mourners had turned up despite the weather. Apart from Nathan and her father, Solly was there, as was Charlotte, the seamstresses from the shop, a few family friends. Uncle Mendel had come down from Oban with the coffin, the funeral-car picking up the wooden box from Buchanan Street station, bringing it straight to the cemetery, the label ‘human remains’ still attached until someone had the good sense to tear it off. On her way to the graveside, she asked her father:

  “What happens when we die, papa?”

  “We go to the oylem habo – the next world.”

  “What kind of world is that?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged, his eyes staring off into the distance. “Once I asked Rabbi Lieberman the same question. But his answer was so vague. Either he didn’t know, or it was a secret he wasn’t revealing.”

  Rabbi Lieberman was officiating at the ceremony, standing by the open grave, such a frail man these days, his skin almost transparent, his own body not that far from collapsing into the oylem habo itself. One of the synagogue officiants held up an umbrella for him. The rabbi spoke feebly, recalling how he had tutored Avram in his bar mitzvah, how the boy’s voice had soared so beautifully on that significant day, only to be cut off so cruelly now in its youth. Still no-one knew exactly who had cut off this life. Celia had assumed the killing must have somehow involved the father of Megan’s child but Uncle Mendel doubted this was the case. The incident might have been nothing more than a tragic case of mistaken identity. There was to be an investigation. Persons would no doubt be charged. What did it matter? she thought. Avram was dead. Just when it seemed he might have found some real happiness, his life had been taken away from him. And how would she grieve for him? He hadn’t been in her life for years. How did you mourn the loss of someone who had hardly been there?

  One by one the male mourners stepped forward, grabbed a spade in turn, tipped the worm-ridden earth back into the open grave. What a horrible sound that was, the dull thud of the clods as they scattered across the wooden box. The not-hollow sound reminding her that inside lay the body of someone she had loved. She watched as her father stumbled over the recitation of the Kaddish, the memorial prayer for the dead. The rain came down heavier now, muddying up the fresh mound of earth, creating puddles at her feet. The whole world seemed to sag with a sadness at this mournful scene. Charlotte, solemn-faced behind her dark veil, came to stand by her side, took her arm, gave her a squeeze of support. Her father finished his recitation, she responded along with the small congregation in a communal ‘Amen’. That was it. She raised her handkerchief to dab at her dry eyes. Charlotte pulled her gently away from the graveside, arm-in-arm they took to the path that led back to the main building. Off to the side, standing under an umbrella, under a tree, a man she thought she recognised.

  “My God. It’s Jonny.”

  “Who’s Jonny?” Charlotte asked.

  “Someone I used to know.”

  “He’s a good-looking fellow.”

  “Perhaps he is.”

  “I suppose you let him slip away.”

  “You know what I think of men.”

  “I know what you think about them. What you might feel about them is a different matter.”

  “Oh no. He’s coming over.”

  “I’ll walk on ahead.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Oh yes, I think I will.”

  Their umbrellas met first. Then there were a few awkward moments until they had both adjusted their stances. Eventually, he turned to face her. She saw that his skin was tanned from a sun that never visited this city, so that his teeth shone white even on this dull day. His hair was unoiled, slightly longer than she remembered. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought him a foreigner, some Italian painter perhaps – he had that bright-eyed, unkempt looked about him. He held out a leather-gloved hand.

  “I wish you ‘long life’,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t think you need to say that to me. I’m not a blood relation.”

  “It seems appropriate.”

  “Thank you.” The rain dripped down between them. “What are you doing back in Glasgow?”

  “My mother is quite ill. The family sent for me. Then I heard about…” He shrugged, nodded towards the grave where the diggers were already stacking their spades onto a small wheelbarrow. “We used to play football together.”

  “I remember you told me that.”

  He shuffled on his feet. She felt a raindrop fall beneath the collar of her coat, trickle down her neck. A smell of woodsmoke in the air. Who would be lighting a fire in the rain? she thought.

  “Perhaps we can walk a little,” he suggested. “Instead of standing here getting soaked.”

  “Yes, yes. I must join Nathan and my father. There is a motor car to take us home.”

  She could see Charlotte further ahead, then beyond her the huddle of mourners just outside the reception building.

  “How is your mother?” she asked.

  “She’s very sick. It is good that I came. I don’t think she has long to live.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you. But it is not a tragedy. She is very old. What happened with Avram is a tragedy.”

  “Yes, I know. I don’t think I’ve fully absorbed what has happened.”

  “Death can be like that.”

  She wondered how he would know. “Of course, you were a soldier.”

  “I see your father is waiting for you. Please pass on my condolences.”

  “Yes, yes. I will have to go. Thank you for coming. That was thoughtful of you.”

  He took her hand again. “I don’t know how long I’ll be staying here in Glasgow. But perhaps we could see each other.”

  “Yes, I would like that,” she replied with the realisation that she genuinely meant it.

  He seemed to immediately relax to the warmth in her words. “I can regale you with my tales of kibbutz life,” he said with a laugh.

  “And I can tell you all that you’ve missed in bonny Glasgow.”

  “Well, it won’t be the weather. Can I telephone you?”

  “Yes, we Kahns have one of these contraptions now. Glasgow South 390. The number is in the directory.”

  Twenty-four

  “I HEARD DR LEVY IS BACK FROM PALESTINE,” Madame Kahn remarked as she polished the brass ornaments on the mantelpiece with spit and vinegar. A small dog, a tiny shoe, a tortoise, a fairy castle from Bavaria the size of a baby’s fist.

  “His mother’s sick,” Celia said, trying not to let the statement interrupt her own
rhythm in the scrubbing of the sink.

  “Yes, I heard that.” Spit, rub, spit, rub. “What is wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. I only spoke with him briefly.”

  “It is good he came to the funeral.” Her mother looked over at her and smiled. Her mood had become more cheerful since Avram’s death. As if some great weight had lifted from her shoulders. Unfortunately, that same weight appeared to have passed to her father who had taken to his bed almost immediately after the funeral. “It shows he cares.”

  “He is just visiting.”

  Spit, rub, rub. “Just visiting. That means nothing. Look what happened with your father.”

  She stopped with her brushing mid-scrub. “What happened with Papa?”

  Madame Kahn ceased in her own task, held up the Bavarian castle, squinted it as if a miniature version of herself was imprisoned in one of the turrets.

  “I never told you?”

  “Told me what, mother.”

  “About how I met your father.”

  “This is the first time.”

  Her mother scraped out a chair, sat down at the kitchen table. “Well, your Uncle Mendel and I, we were already in Glasgow a few years before your father arrives from Russia. He comes first to Edinburgh, then travels here to take a ship to America. America, America. That was your father’s big dream in those days. America with its golden pavements. Buildings as high as mountains. But he has to wait for his ship, one month, perhaps two months. And while he is waiting, he rents a room from Mrs Shulansky in Crown Street, he goes to the synagogue, he is invited here and there, after all he was an educated man, not the tailor he is now. He is introduced to the community, to my family, he meets Mendel, he meets me, and, and, and…”