The Gorbals Philosophy Club

 

The Gorbals Philosophy Club

Gorbals, Glasgow 1938

Stephen Daly sat quietly on the box bed which was set into the living room wall of the dingy tenement flat. He watched as his uncle Charlie and three of his friends manoeuvred the coffin into the small room and settled it rather gingerly onto the kitchen table which stood in the centre of the room. His mother had already placed a heavy curtain over the table to avoid it being scratched, and this gave it the air of a small altar. The men lined the coffin up, ensuring it was well balanced and steady. They wanted no mishaps at this wake. Stephen watched as the coffin lid was unscrewed and lifted off. It was placed carefully behind the curtain as if such items were not fit to be seen by the neighbours who would be arriving soon. Stephen mused to himself that it was one of life’s ironies that the polished coffin was the only new thing in the house and the person occupying it wasn’t even aware of it.

In the coffin lay the body of his grandfather, John Daly, looking oddly pale and somewhat formal in his Sunday suit. His grey hair was brushed back from his face in a style he never chose in life and between his praying hands was a set of black rosary beads. The suit his grandfather wore was the only one he owned, and as Stephen craned his neck to look at the old man, he noticed his war service medals were pinned to the jacket above the left breast. A chlorine gas attack in Belgium in 1917 had invalided him out of the war and he had spent the years since, coughing up blood and wheezing at any physical exertion, in a damp, decrepit tenement flat in the Gorbals. His condition meant that he was beyond working and he would sit all day reading library books, dozing or watching his cat, Kaiser Bill, toy with mice it had caught in the flat. Stephen would lie awake in the box bed beside his two brothers and listen to his grandfather in the next room coughing in the night, and wonder if he ever got any real sleep at all.

As the men carried crates of beer into the house for the wake, the women arrived with their rosary beads and gathered around the coffin. Stephen, at eleven years of age wanted to slip quietly out of the room and join the men and his two older brothers who crowded into the kitchen, smoking and talking. As his mother began the prayers and the dozen or so women joined in, he knew he’d hesitated too long and must stay. His mother, eyes closed, fingers on her rosary said quietly, ‘the first sorrowful mystery; the agony of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst woman and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’ The assembled women joined her seamlessly, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.’

Stephen watched them pray, feeling the gentle rhythm of the prayers fill the room. His grandfather was barely fifty when the poison gas killed him. It may not have killed him on that summer day in 1917 when he was slow to adjust his faulty gas mask, but it did its work slowly, insidiously, corroding his lungs day by day until he simply couldn’t breathe any more. Stephen was curious about his own lack of sadness, perhaps it was because he knew his grandfather’s suffering was at an end. He leaned on the wall of the box bed and closed his eyes, remembering the times he sat with his grandfather as the old man, at least in Stephen’s eyes, taught him to read and encouraged him to think for himself. Just a few weeks before his passing, he had reverently brought out some small books he said he had read in the trenches, and looked at Stephen, ‘I was given these by a good man, an officer named Fairbairn, brave as a lion. Poor chap, he was shot by a sniper not long after he gave them to me. I would read them avidly, when it was quiet and if there was a big show on or the shelling was hard to bear, I’d think about what these books were saying and it somehow helped me get through.’

When his mother was out working and his two older brothers roaming the damp streets, Stephen would sit on the musty old bed by his grandfather and read to him. At first it was newspapers and penny westerns from the local shop but as his reading improved the grey-haired man took out the four small books from a bag under the bed. ‘Try this, son,’ he had said, suppressing a cough and handing one of the books to Stephen. The book was old and rather tattered with use but then his grandfather had always said, far better a book worn out with use than one pristine on the shelf.’ Stephen looked at the cover and tried to read what it said, ‘The Great Philoso-furs.’ He said in a stuttering voice, His grandfather smiled, ‘Philosophers- it means lovers of wisdom.’ Stephen regarded him, ‘it looks hard, grandad.’ The old man nodded, ‘it can be at first but nothing worth having in life is easy.’ Stephen’s face betrayed his discomfort with the subject, ‘but what is it for? It looks kinda… boring.’  John Daly regarded his grandson patiently, ‘I thought that too when Captain Fairbairn first gave me the books. I soon learned differently. It’s about why we’re here, what life means and how we should live it.’ Sensing his grandson’s unease, he continued, ‘look, let’s try the first chapter and see how we get on, eh?’ Stephen nodded and opened the book. In the top right- hand corner of the first page he saw the name T.E Fairbairn, written in black ink. He began to read…

Cumberland Street was in a state of excited flux as Stephen and his red- haired school friend Jimmy McVie joined a large group of mostly boys for one of the school holiday’s main events. The rat hunt was organised by local children with little input from adults, save facilitating it by supplying their children with various implements which might help. Thus, over thirty children from five or six years of age up to fourteen or so, stood in an excited group waiting for their self-appointed leader to outline the plan of attack. They were armed with hammers, mop poles, sticks, shovels and one even carried a small pick axe. Stephen and Jimmy carried sturdy pieces of two-inch timber and stood on the fringe of the group awaiting instructions.

Tommy McDermott, known as ‘Bugsy’ to one and all on account of his protruding teeth, was tall for his age and thought of himself as the general of the motley group of children who stood impatiently awaiting direction. Despite being thirteen, he still wore short trousers and this somewhat diluted his authority with his troops but he pushed on confidently. ‘Right, listen,’ he began as his pint-sized platoon of scruffy weans turned their faces towards him. ‘We’re splitting intae two groups. One is coming doon the back driving the rats oot. The other is waiting to batter them at the other end.’ The rather shabby Caesar organised his legion into two groups in order to carry out his master plan and they marched excitedly through the closes to their designated positions.

When the two lines of children were in position, facing each other, a hundred yards apart in the back court, Tommy gave the order to advance. Amused adults watched from tenement windows as the first line of children excitedly banged the dustbins with their implements and generally made a racket which they hoped would drive the rats into the open. They did not have long to wait. Screams of excitement, mingling with a hint of fear echoed around the back as the first rodent broke cover. This led to something of a disintegration of Tommy’s disciplined ranks as the more aggressive boys went in for the kill and the fleeting glory of being the first to strike at the foe. As more rats bolted for safety, a running fracas ensued as screaming, yelling, laughing children chased them this way and that across the back court. There were yells of triumph as blows were landed and derisive comments if someone’s courage faltered in the face of the enemy. Adults shouted helpful instructions from the windows and pointed out to the warriors below where the persecuted pests were hiding.

Stephen and Jimmy cornered a particularly large specimen which turned and stared at them with dark, round eyes as they nervously approached. Just as Stephen raised his stick to strike, the rat seemed to leap a foot in the air and dart past them. The two startled friends turned in time to see Tommy McDermott deliver an accurate and deadly blow to the rat with the metal rod he carried. Stephen looked at the rat as its legs jerked spasmodically in some vain attempt to escape. Its back was broken though and it only awaited Tommy delivering the coup de grace. Stephen considered the fragility of life in that moment. Everything dies one day, he thought to himself, nothing lasts forever. He turned away as Tommy raised his metal rod like a spear and put the creature out of its misery.

The great back court pogrom against the rats lasted for over an hour and when it was over the group gathered to savour the fruits of victory. Tommy held up a large, dead rodent by the tail like a trophy, ‘we got twenty- seven rats so well done.’ He then turned to a younger member of his battle group, ‘Paddy, we aw saw ye try tae whack that cat. It’s rats we’re efter, no cats, okay?’ The youngster’s cheeks reddened as he was chastised and he silently nodded. Perhaps the excitement of the day had got to him. Tommy then addressed the assembled army of rat catchers, ‘We’ll meet the morra at Crown Street. I hear tell there’s hunners of rats o’er there.’ The children cheered and raised their various weapons in a sort of victory salute before some headed for home, while others hung around to discuss the excitement of the day and view the corpses of the defeated enemy.

After the exhilaration of the rat hunt, Stephen smiled at his freckle faced friend, Jimmy and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘fancy coming wi me? I’ve got something I want tae show ye.’ The two boys walked through the lively streets of the Gorbals towards home. A crowd had gathered outside St Francis’ church to watch a bearded man with a strange barrel organ on wheels which played a tune when he turned a handle. On top of the machine, a monkey danced and jumped. The little creature fascinated the two boys who laughed at its antics and wondered how the man got it to behave like that. When it was over, the man held out a tin cup and a few pennies were dropped into it by the watching adults.

Stephen regarded the bearded man. He knew from his clothes and appearance that he was probably a member of the area’s sizable Jewish community. The man sensed his eyes upon him and smiled, ‘you want to pet the monkey?’ he said, in a thick accent. Stephen’s eyes widened a little, did he dare? As the man smiled encouragingly, he reached out towards the monkey’s little head which was no larger than an orange. He felt the soft fur and the heat of the monkey and gently stroked its head. As his hand moved gently down its back, he could feel its little heart beating. It was an oddly exciting experience, touching another sentient being. He looked into its dark eyes. What did they think? Did they miss their home? He smiled back at the man, ‘thank you.’ The man nodded and trundled his machine down the pavement, the monkey sitting on his shoulder.

The two boys reached Stephen’s close and Jimmy followed his friend up the dark stairway wondering what his friend wanted to show him. Stephen raced past his own first floor flat and continued up to the top floor of the tenement. Jimmy looked at him puzzled, ‘What are we doing up here?’ Stephen put his hand to his lips and pointed towards the loft hatch which had been cut into the ceiling of the close a few feet above their heads. He clambered up onto a coal bunker which lay beneath the hatch and stretching up, tipped open the hatch. He then leaped up and grabbed at the opening of the loft as Jimmy watched. Stephen’s legs dangled momentarily and then swung this way and that in the air above Jimmy’s head as he dragged himself into the loft. At last, he swung his legs up and into the opening, before peering down at Jimmy, ‘come on!’

In the loft there was a sooty sort of smell and it took the two boys a few moments to adjust to the semi-darkness. Stephen carefully replaced the loft hatch door and walked along a narrow strip of planks nailed to the joists until he reached a wooden wall which jutted out into the space in front of them. He pushed at it and as if by magic a door swung open and light flooded the loft. They stepped through the door into a small room constructed around a skylight, which gave it a natural light. The room was no bigger than the boxed in bed he shared with his two brothers at night and the ceiling followed the angle of the roof. A few old cushions from some long-gone couch offered them a seat and a rudimentary shelf containing a few neatly stacked books was fixed to the wall beneath the skylight. A brown paper bag containing a few pieces of bread and a bottle of water completed the unexpected scene. ‘Whit is this place?’ said Jimmy in complete surprise. Stephen smiled and said proudly, ‘It used to be my grandad’s dookit but now it’s my den. Now it’s the Gorbals Philosophy club.’ Jimmy looked at him, wearing a puzzled expression. ‘The whit?’

Over the next few weeks, the two friends visited the little sanctuary in the loft as often as they could. Sometimes they just wanted a break from their overcrowded homes and sometimes they they’d read short sections from Stephen’s grandfather’s books and try to make sense of the ideas they found there. The language was sometimes difficult for them and Stephen often wished his grandfather was still around to explain certain things to him. ‘So, yer saying these stoic guys just get on wi it, even if bad things happen?’ Jimmy said one rainy afternoon. Stephen nodded and read a sentence from the book, ‘You can dance in the rain or sulk in the rain but it’s still going to rain.’ Jimmy’s freckled face wrinkled in thought for a moment, ‘so my maw’s a stoic? She’s never up nor doon even when my da is drunk and being a pest. She says things like ‘nae point worrying aboot it, ye cannae change him.’ Stephen shrugged, ‘aye, she sounds as if she is. She disnae get worked up wi things she cannae change.’

The two boys enjoyed their philosophical discussions in the club but on other occasions were happy to read comics, eat sweets and just enjoy the peace and quiet of their own space. They got into the habit of clambering up to their alternative universe after school and spending an hour or two talking, reading or just looking out of the dusty skylight at the smoky chimneys of the city spread out before them. On a clear day they could see the tower of Glasgow university and even the Campsie hills to the north of the city. Most days though, industrial smoke and the fumes from countless tenement chimneys obscured the view.

Rain was dripping apologetically from a slate grey sky, as Stephen squeezed between the crowd of men on the pavement to see what all the fuss was about. The thumping of drums and shrill sound of flutes filled the air but there was a sullen, almost antagonistic mood among some of the men and boys watching on the pavement. It wasn’t often the orange walk came along past Crown Street and when it did there was usually trouble. As the bands stomped past, the drummers seemed to thump their drums harder as if trying to ward off the sense of unease they were feeling. Stephen saw his friend Jimmy on the opposite side of the road and waved to him. He waved back and seemed to glance at the passing bands, as if looking for an opportunity to cross the road and join his friend. Stephen shook his head, knowing from experience that such a thing could be dangerous.

A gap of a few yards appeared as one band passed and Jimmy dashed into the road. The young man twirling the baton of the following band did not take kindly to this and snarled at Jimmy, aiming a kick at him which thankfully missed. It was the cue for mayhem. A bottle crashed onto the road beside the baton throwing man and men spilled onto the road. Blows were exchanged and coarse language filled the air as the old grudge from Ireland was played out in Glasgow. As more men and teenagers joined the mass brawl, things were getting out of hand. Stephen was knocked to the ground by men pushing past him to join the fray. Jimmy reached him and hauled him up by the arm. A man flew past them, the unmistakable glint of an open razor, in his right hand. The fighting spread onto the pavement as those following the bands weighed into the battle. Shouts, screams and curses mingled with the sound of breaking glass.

The two boys pushed through the crowds towards the safety of Crown Street but the brawling men seemed to surge with them. A bottle smashed off the wall beside Stephen’s head and as he and felt a rising tide of panic fill his chest. Suddenly, strong hands pulled them into the relative safety of the nearby close. Stephen looked up and saw the Jewish man who let him pet his monkey. He smiled reassuringly at the two boys, ‘it’s dangerous out there today. Best you two stay here a while.’ The man’s voice was soft and reassuring. They stood near to him as they watched the tumult in the street continue.

The light flooding into the dark close framed the turbulent street like an oddly shaped cinema screen. It was as if the world outside wasn’t real and wouldn’t infringe on their haven in the darkness of the close. They watched the struggle going on in front of them until, at last, they heard familiar sharp whistles and saw the dark uniforms of the police appeared. The street fighters melted away as truncheon wielding policemen dealt with the situation with brutal efficiency. A sort of anxious calm descended on Crown Street.

‘Why do they fight?’ the bearded man asked the two boys. Stephen shrugged, ‘they just think they’re different when they’re not.’ The man stroked his beard, ‘yes, much sorrow is caused in the world by people who think that way.’ Then, as if he had forgotten something, he said, ‘I am Shimon, and I am glad I met you this day. I think you are safe to go home now.’ Stephen glanced out at the still simmering street, before looking back at the man in the dark shadows of the close, ‘thanks Shimon.’ The man smiled and nodded before turning and walking up the stairs. Stephen and Jimmy walked into the street and glanced around them. Broken glass littered the pavement and knots of people stood here and there discussing the events of the day. Above them, at a first-floor window, an old woman held an image of the sacred heart of Jesus on her window sill, as if it might ward off evil.

The two boys headed to their quiet sanctuary in the loft. The silence they found there calmed them after their adventures. ‘Was that guy a Jew?’ asked Jimmy, ‘he wears funny clothes.’ Stephen nodded, ‘aye, there’s loads of them live in the Gorbals though ye never see them that much.’ Jimmy was clearly intrigued, ‘so, are Jews, Catholics or Protestants?’ Stephen shrugged, ‘I don’t think they’re either. It’s a whole other thing.’ ‘So, what dae they believe?’ asked Jimmy. Stephen opened the second of the four philosophy books which sat on the shelf as if awaiting just such a question. He flicked through it in silence for a few moments before reading out loud, ‘Simeon the Just, taught that Jews should remember that the world rests upon three things: The Torah, doing service to God, and showing love and kindness. Love and kindness are the core ethical virtues. Love and kindness are closely linked with compassion in the Jewish tradition. Lack of compassion marks out people as cruel.’

Jimmy took a moment to digest what he had heard. ‘whit’s the Torah?’ ‘It’s their book. Like wi the stories of Moses, Samson and that.’ Stephen replied. Jimmy was still not satisfied, ‘So do they believe in Jesus?’ Stephen thought for a moment before responding, ‘I think they see Jesus as a good guy, but not God’s son.’ Jimmy nodded, ‘did the Jews no shop him tae the Romans and get him done in?’ ‘Aye,’ Stephen replied, ‘some Jews did but that was yonks ago and besides, there’re millions of Jews. They didnae aw shop him.’ Jimmy seemed satisfied with Stephen’s replies but added, ‘I think wan of the guys in my class is a Jew.’ Stephen looked at him, ‘what makes ye think that?’ Jimmy replied in all seriousness, ‘because he’s got curly hair.’

One glowering November day, Stephen was sitting in class as his teacher, an austere older woman called Mrs Parkinson was expounding on the miracles of Jesus. ‘Our Lord’s first miracle was the changing of water into wine at the wedding in Cana. How can we explain this miracle?’ she asked the class, hoping to lead them to an understanding that only God had such power. There was silence in the class and Stephen felt his arm slowly rise as if by its own volition. ‘Yes, Stephen?’ the teacher said looking at him over her glasses. ‘Miss, some people only believe things if they’ve seen them themselves. How can ye ask them tae believe things they didnae see? Especially things like miracles?’ She nodded, ‘we call that faith, Stephen. I believe the sun will rise tomorrow. I have faith that it will, even though I haven’t seen it yet.’ Stephen replied in a quiet voice, trying hard not to sound argumentative, ‘but the sun has come up every day for millions of years. We can expect it tae come up tomorrow. I’m talking aboot believing things that like…’ he struggled for the right word… ‘like magic, like miracles and water changing intae wine. How do we know it’s true?’  She pursed her lips, ‘Stephen the first Christians believed it to the point where they were thrown to the lions for their faith. Faith is believing even though you didn’t see things happen. You will recall that Jesus said to the Apostle Thomas, ‘because you have seen me you believe, blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.’ Stephen nodded, ‘thanks Miss.’ She regarded him for a moment, feeling as if she had been slightly nudged out of her comfort zone. Free thinking was all good and well, but children needed to accept the faith.

It was on a Tuesday after school when Stephen found the wooden ladder. It was no more than six or seven feet long and was lying amongst some rubbish dumped on a spare piece of ground near the Gorbals railway station. It was nondescript in many ways and looked pretty old but one facet of it caught his eye. On the side of the ladder, the stencilled initials of the company which had doubtless once owned it could be seen. They were somewhat faded but the neat gothic script was still decipherable. It read ‘GPS.’ As the founder member and President of the Gorbals Philosophical society, this was one gift horse Stephen would not be looking in the mouth. He picked it up and carried it through the streets until he reached the tenement where his club was located.

The ladder was the perfect length for gaining access to the loft hatch which led to the club. It would also fit snuggly behind the coal bunker when not required and could be pulled up into the loft when he and Jimmy were up there. There would be no more struggling to haul themselves into the loft. Stephen considered the possibility of others finding the ladder and perhaps using it to access the loft. He knew the two houses on the top floor of the tenement were occupied by older people and that they were unlikely to try and access the loft, but he wanted his club to remain undiscovered. He decided to talk to Jimmy about it, perhaps they would fit a padlock onto the loft hatch.

After pulling the ladder into the loft and closing the hatch, Stephen entered the den. He opened the skylight window as wide as it could go, using the metal arm which protruded from it to push it up. The metal arm had a series of holes in it and by locating a protruding piece of metal welded onto the rim of the frame, into one of the holes, the window was set in an open position. He tidied the den, fluffing the cushions, neatly stacking the books and comics and coiling a piece of old rope Jimmy had brought with him on his last visit, with some impossible plan of building a hammock.

As the light faded, Stephen leaned on the frame of the skylight and opened one of his books.  He had read two or three pages when tell-tale spots of rain began to appear on the slates of the roof outside the window. He turned to replace the book onto the shelf but struck his hand on the frame of the skylight and lost his grip on it. The book slid slowly down the slates as he watched in horror, coming to a halt four or five feet below the window. He regarded it and considered his options. He could try and draw it within his grasp using the rope as a lasso, but was unlikely to succeed. Or he could fetch a long stick and try to drag it closer to the window. In the end he did neither.

He clambered up to the skylight and slipped his legs outside onto the increasingly wet slates of the roof. He thought if he could hold onto the frame of the skylight, he might be able to hook the book with his foot and drag it closer to the skylight where he could retrieve it. He could feel in his core that this was a foolish thing to do and tried to pull himself back into the skylight but his feet could gain no traction of the wet slates. In fact, he began to feel his body slip, incrementally down as he struggled to pull himself back into the loft. A feeling of terror knocked at the door of his heart but he refused to let it in. He held on for dear life, knowing that to slip would mean plunging four floors into the back court below.

In those moments, Stephen verbalised his fears to a God he wasn’t sure was listening. ‘Please God, don’t let me slip. Please, I beg you.’ His hands were becoming cold as they clung to the cold metal frame of the skylight. How could he be so stupid as to think recovering the book with his feet was a good idea? A pigeon landed on the apex of the roof, a few yards from him. He looked up at it for the briefest of seconds. It was totally at home and totally safe in this environment in which he was in such peril. It may have a brain the size of a pea but in that instant, he’d swap places with it if he could. It regarded him with supreme indifference before leaping into flight and vanishing over the other side of the roof.

Stephen breathed, ‘think’ he whispered to himself, knowing that as time passed his energy would dissipate, like water dripping out of a holed bucket. ‘What would grandad do?’ He searched his mind and from somewhere in its darkest recesses recalled his grandfather talking about moving the big guns in the mud of the western front. They had put logs under the wheels to stop them sinking into the mire as the big horses pulled them. What was the word? ‘Traction!’ he said out loud. His worn shoes were much too smooth to grip the damp slates. He used his toes to kick at the heel of his loose-fitting right shoe and it slipped off easily before sliding down to the edge of the roof and vanishing from sight. He did the same with the other shoe and heard it too sliding down the roof. He breathed deeply, ‘stay calm, you can do this!’ Summoning up all the strength he had in his body he pulled himself forward towards the skylight. Simultaneously, he pushed with his feet, scrambling and pushing against the slippery slates. He gained enough traction to move forward and forced his elbows into the opening, not noticing that he was grazing them in the process. He heaved his body head first into the loft and landed in a shaking, sobbing heap on the floor.

Stephen lay on the floor of the den for what could have been a long time or just a few seconds. Time seemed elastic in those moments of sublime relief. His racing heart began to slow and his mind took stock of his brush with mortality. ‘It’s only a book,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘it’s not worth risking your life for.’ He rolled onto his back and lay, cruciform, gazing out at the grey sky through the skylight, his breaths coming in laboured gasps. After a few moments more, he forced himself to be calm and his breathing returned to normal. He stood and reached forward to close the loft window, noticing that the book still lay there, out of reach, tantalisingly close. It could stay there till he figured out a safe way to retrieve it. At this moment in time, finding his shoes in the back court below were more of a priority. He closed the window and exhaled, ‘thank you, God,’ before heading for the loft hatch and dropping down into a world that had no idea how close he had come to leaving it.

Stephen walked quickly through the streets, noticing for the first time how run down the area looked. The tenements were black with soot and looked sad and worn out, like some of the people who crowded into them. He passed old Tam, the one-armed newspaper seller, who stood at the same corner each day, rain or shine.  He would call out the headlines to entice customers and today was shouting something about Chamberlain meeting Hitler in Munich. Stephen had seen Hitler on the newsreels at the cinema and thought him to be a comical figure but it seemed no one was laughing any more. He crossed the rather grand suspension bridge which spanned the Clyde and led him into Glasgow Green. The park was relatively quiet and offered a more scenic route to his aunt Betty’s house which was in the Calton district, on the other side of the park. His mother had asked him to return ten bob she had borrowed from her sister and had tucked it inside his sock in case he ran into what she called, ‘pavement pirates.’ ‘Straight there and straight back, ye hear me?’ she had barked at him. He had nodded and set off on his errand.

As he reached the great glass edifice of the Winter Gardens, he saw some men sitting at wooden benches playing chess. One of them was Shimon, the man who had helped him when the trouble broke out at the orange walk. Shimon sat opposite a small man wearing a black skull cap. They were both engrossed in the game and didn’t seem to notice Stephen watching them. They talked quietly in a language Stephen didn’t understand as they played the game. After a few moments the small man pushed over his King, an action Stephen knew was an admission of defeat. The smaller man stood and shook Shimon’s hand and smiled before picking up a small black bag which lay under the table and leaving.

Shimon was about to pack his chess pieces away when he saw Stephen. ‘Ah it is the young man who sheltered from the storm with me.’ ‘Hello Shimon,’ Stephen smiled, ‘did you win?’ Shimon stroked his beard, ‘I had a tranquil time with a good friend and we talked of the old days, so yes I won, but so did he.’ Before Stephen could reply to this seemingly confusing statement, Shimon asked, ‘do you play?’ Stephen nodded, ‘I learned at school though I’m not very good.’ Shimon smiled, ‘sit, we’ll play. Unless you have somewhere important to be.’ Stephen shrugged and sat opposite him. Auntie Betty could wait a while for her ten bob.

Shimon quickly set up the pieces for the game and smiled at the young challenger sitting opposite him. The boy in his patched up, hand me down clothes, reminded him of his own son. Oh, how he missed Asher. He was but 18 when they sent him to a gulag during the purges. He had received a terse note to say he had died of typhus but he doubted that was the real cause of his death. He smiled at Stephen, ‘white first, so it is your move.’ They played the game in a slow, deliberate way, with Shimon gently advising Stephen to consider the consequences of his moves and always watch what the other player was doing. ‘Chess is like life,’ he said quietly, ‘we try to plan our moves but must always ask ourselves what our opponent is thinking.’ Stephen nodded, ‘not many boys in my class play chess. They prefer football or chases. I play against Theresa Grimes. She’s good although she doesn’t like losing. Sometimes I let her win.’ Shimon smiled, ‘that’s kind of you. We don’t need to make ourselves tall by standing on others.’ Stephen nodded, noticing that as the game progressed, it was becoming secondary to the quiet conversation they were having.

‘Where are you from, Shimon?’ Stephen asked innocently, ‘I mean before you moved here.’ Shimon replied without looking up from the board, ‘I was born in a shtetl in Russia.’ Stephen moved his Queen, seeing a chance to attack. ‘What’s a shtetl?’ he asked, wondering if it was a castle or some such exotic place. ‘it’s a small village or town which is populated by Jewish people. Alas it is no longer there.’ Stephen was confused, ‘where is it then? What happened to it?’ Shimon replied without emotion, ‘the Cossacks came and burned it when I was ten years old. Drove the people away. We ended up moving to a city called Smolensk. Have you heard of it?’ Stephen shook his head, ‘why did they burn it?’  Shimon moved his Queen into a position where it threatened Stephen’s King. With his own Queen hopelessly out of position, Stephen saw the danger. ‘They don’t need a reason, that we are considered different is reason enough.’ Stephen frowned, ‘I’m sorry about that. People can be stupid.’

Shimon liked this pale, Scottish boy. He was a thinker and that was always admired among his people. He seemed wise beyond his years and was taking his first tentative steps in trying to understand the world. He deliberately avoided winning the game, extending it so that he could talk more with Stephen. ‘Tell me about your family,’ Shimon said quietly as he withdrew his Queen. Stephen studied the chess pieces as he replied, ‘I stay with my mum and two brothers. My dad went to work in England and we haven’t heard from him for two years. My grandad lived with us but he died earlier this year. He was gassed in the war.’ Shimon nodded slowly, ‘the Great War?’ Stephen replied, ‘yes, his lungs just got worse and worse.’ Shimon sighed a long sigh, ‘that war took so many.’

He didn’t mention that his older brother, Emmanuel, had died at the battle of Tannenberg in that first summer of the war. The Russian defeat was so comprehensive that the commanding General of the army, Alexander Samsonov, shot himself. ‘Check,’ said Stephen, almost apologetically. Shimon smiled, ‘ah your bishop, I hadn’t seen that possibility.’ Shimon wasn’t being entirely truthful. He had been playing chess all of his life and saw every possibility on the board, but he wanted to encourage the boy. He blocked the bishop with a pawn and glanced at Stephen, ‘you’re good at this game.’ Stephen smiled, ‘I’m still learning. I think it’s good for your brain. It makes you think.’

They played for an hour or so as the world drifted by, unseen. Stephen learned the simple pleasure of focusing on the game whilst simply talking to another human being. Shimon declared the game a tie and smiled at his young companion. ‘Thank you for the game and for the conversation. My people say, ‘he who has friends has treasure indeed.’  Stephen stood, feeling pleased that Shimon considered him a friend, ‘thanks Shimon. I better get to my auntie’s now. I hope we can play again someday.’ He walked past the Winter Gardens towards the ostentatious grandeur of the Templeton carpet factory which marked the northern boundary of the park. He glanced back to where he had sat with Shimon but the table was empty.

Shimon Brodsky unlocked the door of his ground floor flat, his hand briefly touching the mezuzah fixed to the door post. ‘Barukh atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam, asher keedishanu b’meetzvotav v’tzeevanu leek’boa mezuzah.’  He practiced his English as he stepped inside and closed the door. ‘Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with God’s commandments and commanded us to affix a mezuzah.’ He walked through to the small sitting room where his wife, Klara, sat reading the Jewish Chronicle. She looked up at him and smiled, ‘you have a letter with an American stamp.’  He hung his coat on the door and walked to the small table on which sat the menorah which had been in his family for generations and had made the journey with him from Russia. Beside the seven-branched candelabrum was a small pewter plate on which sat the letter. He recognised his brother’s handwriting as he picked up the letter and opened it.

He stroked his beard when he had finished and turned to Klara. ‘Jacob has found a bigger house in New York. He has enough room for us now and thinks we should come to America and join him. His business is doing well and he could use another Tailor’ Klara replied without looking up from her newspaper, ‘that was our plan all along. Have we saved enough for the passage?’ He nodded, ‘yes, and I think we should go. This Hitler will drag Europe into another war and it may have consequences for us all. We’d be safer in America.’ Klara Brodsky nodded, ‘I’ve liked our years here. People leave us alone and our neighbours are kind enough, but we always planned to join Jacob in America.’

Shimon sat down at the table and placed the letter in front of him. They had been in Glasgow for eight years now but he knew it was always just a temporary home. The wilder spirits in the city seemed more interested squabbling among themselves than picking on the small Jewish community so it had been a haven of sorts. His head was full of thoughts about what leaving Glasgow entailed. It would take most of their savings to book passage on one of the big ships which left the Clyde for New York every month. He was now almost fifty years old and the thought of starting over again was less appealing with each passing year but Jacob and his family were the only relatives he had left in the world. Klara’s family were still in Russia and he knew realistically that it would be close to impossible for them to leave. He glanced at his wife, ‘we will go to America as soon as we can book passage. It was always our plan and that’s were our family is. Klara nodded but said nothing. Jacob knew putting thousands more miles between her and her family in Smolensk meant that she would probably never see them again. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said quietly.

Stephen Daly sat outside the Head-master’s office on a wet Monday morning, a feeling of mild dread growing inside him. Mr Chalmers was a large man and few who entered his office to be punished emerged with dry eyes. Stephen had questioned his teacher again during a religious education lesson, not out of boldness but out of a genuine desire to understand what it was she was asking him to believe. She had told the class that purgatory was a state of being in which the souls of the departed were purified and made ready for heaven. Most of the class said nothing when Mrs Parkinson asked if there were any questions. Stephen had many questions but started by asking if purgatory was an actual place and how long souls stayed there for. Some of his class mates looked at him and rolled their eyes. Mrs Parkinson soon became exasperated with him, seeing his questioning as little more than calculated time wasting.

The Head-master’s door opened and the bulky frame of Mr Chalmers bid Stephen enter. He stood over six feet tall and it was said that he had once been a rugby player of some repute. ‘Sit down, Daly,’ he barked. Stephen sat in a chair which had been placed in from of the Head-master’s desk, noticing the distinctive smell of tobacco in the room. ‘Mrs Parkinson tells me you’re constantly interrupting her lessons with frivolous questions and wasting her valuable time?’ Stephen didn’t meet the Head-master’s eyes as he replied quietly, ‘no, Sir. I just don’t understand some things and I ask questions to help me to…’ ‘You ask questions to drag out the lesson and leave less time for maths and other important things!’ the Head-master said, his voice rising. ‘No, Sir,’ Stephen said, ‘I just want to…’ ‘Be quiet boy!’ Chalmers said firmly, ‘your eternal soul is in great peril with this attitude. Mrs Parkinson told me that you are increasingly bold in class. ‘Stephen shook his head, ‘I’m not, sir. I just want to understand things.’

The big man stood, reaching inside his jacket for the Lochgelly tawse, a sturdy leather belt designed specifically for delivering corporal punishment. ‘Understand this, boy, you will return to class and apologise to Mrs Parkinson. You will stop these silly questions and pay better attention in class. Do you understand me?’ Stephen silently nodded, knowing what was coming next. The Head-teacher walked around the desk, his belt in his right hand. ‘Raise your hands and I’ll give you something to think of whenever you feel the urge to waste the teacher’s time.’

Stephen moved the pawn into a blocking position as Shimon watched carefully, missing nothing. He stroked his beard, glancing at the painful looking purple welt on Stephen’s hand which ran up onto his wrist. ‘Your teacher punished you?’ he said quietly. Stephen nodded, ‘the Head-teacher. Said I have to stop asking questions.’  Shimon studied the board, ‘but isn’t school the place to ask questions?’ Stephen shrugged, ‘not during religious lessons.’ Shimon looked up at the boy, ‘but those are the biggest questions of all in life.’ Stephen nodded, ‘I know. My head is full of questions. I read my grandad’s books on philosophy and... it just kinda, made me think more.’ Shimon moved his Queen forward into an attacking position. ‘You must never stop thinking or questioning. Just find the right person to ask or read the right books.’

Stephen still went to his sanctuary in the loft most days and had even rescued the fateful book from the slates using a long piece of wood with a couple of nails protruding from it. Jimmy still joined him on occasion and they had some good conversations, but it was during his chess games with Shimon that he seemed to learn best. Shimon took the time to explain things to him. ‘Shimon,’ he said to him, ‘do Jews believe in purgatory?’ Shimon replied without looking up from the board, ‘we don’t use that word but when someone close to us dies, we pray for them for eleven months. We call this kaddish, prayers asking God to purify their soul and forgive any sins they committed in life. But remember, my young friend, it is far more important to live a good life and treat people well than to fret over every detail of belief. Sometimes that is forgotten and religion can become hard and unbending.’ Stephen nodded, ‘aye, I read what Simeon the Just, said about that.‘ Shimon regarded this strange, intelligent young boy with a look of mild surprise. How many Scottish children had heard of Simeon the Just?

Stephen cut across his thoughts, ‘why is it eleven months.’ The bearded man smiled, ‘it may be thought unkind to believe that someone’s sins were so severe that he needed a full year of prayers to purify his soul!’  Stephen smiled, ‘check.’ Shimon regarded him with an amused look, ‘ah distracting me with deep questions and sneaking up on my king. Someone may need to pray for you one day for a full year!’ Stephen laughed out loud. They had played many games of chess and although Stephen was giving Shimon progressively harder games, he doubted he’d ever draw with him let alone beat him, but he was learning fast. He was also learning from their discussions during games. Shimon was happy to answer any question he asked, regardless of the topic and that was refreshing for Stephen after his experiences in school.

They had played chess in the park once each week for a few months, when Shimon said quietly one day, ‘Stephen, my wife and I are going away soon. We are moving to live with my brother in America.’ Stephen looked up at him, his eyes showing his hurt and disappointment he felt. ‘Aw no, Shimon, why are you leaving?’ ‘It was always our plan to stay her just long enough to save the money for our trip. The ship leaves in two weeks.’ Stephen repressed the urge to become emotional. ‘I’ve seen America at the pictures. It looks a good place.’ Shimon patted his hand, ‘like all lands, it has many faces but my only family is there.’ He added, unexpectedly, ‘you remind me of my son. I wish he were going with us.’ Stephen saw a hint of pain in Shimon’s eyes for the first time, ‘I didn’t know you had a son. Is he still in Russia?’ Shimon shrugged, ‘he died, a long time ago. I miss him every day. He was so bright, so full of life.’ Stephen stifled the wish to ask what happened to him, not wanting to add to his friend’s pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.   

It was on a frosty December morning that the taxi called at Shimon’s close to pick up him and his wife for a trip to the dockside. He had arranged the taxi with a friend at the Garnethill Synagogue who drove one for a living. They loaded their cases into the vehicle before he and Klara had had one last look around the empty flat. She had scrubbed it clean, disinfecting even the floorboards lest the new tenants had cause to complain. They had sold off their furniture and gifted pieces of crockery and pots to grateful neighbours. ‘Well, I suppose there is no turning back now,’ she said, taking his hand. He nodded, ‘it’s for the best, Klara. There’s a storm coming.’ She nodded, knowing he meant the situation with Germany. ‘Still, this land was kind to us. I’ll remember it fondly.’ He could see the tears on her face as she brushed past him and headed for the waiting taxi.

Shimon knew he was probably taking her away from any possibility of seeing her family again. It was the hardest decision he had ever made but he was sure it was the right one for them. The omens were not good in Europe and troubled times lay ahead. He turned and stopped at the doorway and unscrewed the mezuzah, slipping it into his pocket. He kissed the fingers of his right hand which had touched it and closed the door behind him.

He asked the taxi driver to make a slight detour and drive down Crown Street. He knew Stephen’s house was there and wanted to give him a parting gift. He knew it would be awkward if he had to just knock on the boy’s door but he was prepared to do it. As their leaving date got closer, the boy had become quieter and less chatty during their chess games, but he couldn’t just leave and not say goodbye. As chance would have it, Stephen and the other boy Shimon had guarded in the close the day of the street fighting were walking on the pavement. ‘Stop the car!’ Shimon said and got out carrying a brown paper bag. Stephen saw him and rushed towards him, ‘Shimon, I was coming to your house to say goodbye.’ The boy wrapped his arms around the bearded man as Jimmy looked on. Stephen did not hold back his tears this time. ‘Ah my boy, I’m going to miss you too. Here, I have a going away gift for you.’ Stephen took the brown paper bag before looking into Shimon’s face, ‘thank you,’ he said, sniffing. The taxi tooted its horn and Shimon could see Klara through the window tapping her wrist with her index finger. ‘I need to go, Stephen. Thank you for the friendship, the games of chess and the endless questions. Never stop thinking and never stop asking questions.’ Stephen hugged him one last time. ‘I’ll remember Simeon the wise but I’ll remember Shimon the wise too.’ Shimon waved to him as the taxi moved off. Klara said nothing as she handed him a handkerchief.

As the taxi turned the corner and out of sight, Stephen wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘Mon, Jimmy. Let’s head up tae the philosophy club.’ Jimmy looked at him, ‘what’s in the bag?’ Stephen had almost forgotten he was carrying it but he knew immediately from the feel and weight of the package, exactly what it was. He opened the brown paper bag and saw Shimon’s precious chess set. The box was carved with intricate designs and worn with many years of use. ‘Do ye know how tae play chess, Jimmy?’ Stephen asked his friend. Jimmy shook his head. ‘Well, it’s time you learned.’ They set off down the street to deliver the latest asset to the Gorbals Philosophy Club

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