Lynda Plante - The Talisman

The prisoners were all gathered in the canteen for their dinner. The Governor called for silence. He had a speech prepared, but only got as far as telling the men that the war was officially over, Germany was taken and Hitler was dead, the long nightmare was over. The men cheered and shouted, and the rest of the speech was lost as the prisoners roared their approval.

The fact that the country was at long last at peace really meant very little to those serving sentences, but they celebrated along with the rest of England, the rest of the world. They filed into chapel and offered prayers for the dead, prayers for peace to be long lasting.

All across England the long-awaited peace gave rise to street parties and celebrations. Not everyone celebrated — peace would bring an end to the black-market racketeers, and night clubs folded overnight. Soldiers, sailors and airmen arrived home first to cheers and then disillusion as they tried to readjust to civilian life, to the fact that they had missed their children’s growth, their jobs were lost, in many cases their wives were gone, and mass unemployment loomed again.

Men trapped in the insulated world of the prisons were given film shows of the invasions, the signing of the peace treaty. Newsreels were shown, and the prisoners on their rows of hard-backed wooden chairs watched the screen with awe, which turned to horror when they saw footage of the liberation of Hitler’s concentration camps. Many hardened criminals wept at the appalling atrocities on the screen.

Alex lay on his bunk, still trapped in the nightmare of those starving millions, the skeletal shapes of men’s, women’s and children’s bodies being tipped into the anonymity of the mass graves. The haunting, pitiful faces were so remote, so unreal, that they hung over his head like a cloud, part of a terrible dream.

‘Alex, you think them films were real? I mean, really real? Like, I know some of us inside here have done things in their lives, like meself even, but, but no one could really do what we saw, could they? Starve all those people like animals, I mean, they didn’t even look human... were they?’

Alex sighed and turned over, looked at the big, bull-necked man who was so disturbed, so disbelieving... He was like a child. ‘Takes all kinds, George. It wasn’t just one man what done it, it’s a whole country. They must all be as bad as each other.’

George swung his legs down from his bunk. ‘You tellin’ me that ordinary people stood by and let it go on wivout doing nuffink? I mean, there was kids operated on wivout anyfing to put ‘em out! Jesus, they wouldn’t even do that in the nick.’

Alex didn’t want to talk, he was as overwhelmed as George by what they had seen. He rolled over to face the wall, but George continued, ‘I get my hands on that bastard, on Hitler, I’d bleedin’ kill him, I would. I’d give him his own torture, then shove ‘im in the gas chambers. I’d round up the Gerry bastards and gas the whole fuckin’ lot of them. Not one of them should be allowed to live, gas the bleedin’ lot.’

Alex told him quietly that if he did that he would be no better than the Germans.

‘I believe in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that’s in the Bible, that’s in the bleedin’ Bible.’

Alex was unable to get any peace with George banging around the cell, picking up his comic books and slapping them down again. ‘One million Jews die, so they should take one million Germans and wipe ‘em off the face of the earth... I’d not leave one SS officer alive — not one of those cunts would survive — that’s what I’d do. For however many Jews was gassed, pay ‘em back. What you say, Alex, never mind this trial. What they doing, anyway, givin’ them animals a trial? Fuckin’ hell — you and me know what a good lawyer can do, they’ll walk away, you watch ‘em, walk away and...’ George Windsor, ‘Mister Tough’, ‘Mister No-Talk’, ‘Mister Stay-Off-My-Back’, broke down in tears, his square, muscular body shaking as he sobbed his heart out.

George was not the only man in the prison unable to face what had gone on outside, beyond their safe world, and it caused a mass outbreak of rioting and destruction. No more films were to be shown until the prisoners had settled back into their daily routines. But the films had another, more positive effect on many of the men. They all volunteered to work in the Red Cross department making blankets, to contribute in some small way. Jew-haters suddenly wanted to help Jewish prisoners.

George soon began to drive Alex nuts. He had to slink off to the library to read, and George even pursued him there.

‘You mind if I ask you somefing personal, Alex? It’s just that, well, I’ve been thinkin’ over some of the things what you told me, and, like, I got anovver year... Well, look, Alex, will yer teach me ter read and write like what you do?’

Alex led him along the rows of books and found a children’s story book, took it back to his table. He was now a ‘trusty’, allowed in the library and able to borrow books at will.

‘I’ll work wiv yer in the gym, if you like. I was a trainer, see, a boxer, an’ there’s nothin’ I don’t know about the ‘uman body — injuries, the lot, so it’d be a fair swap, all right, mate?’

So George began learning to read and write. He looked up to Alex as if he were some kind of hero, because of his superior intelligence.

At first Alex ignored George’s offer to help in the gym, but eventually he let George begin training him. His already large, six-foot-two-inch frame changed radically. His wide shoulders tapered down to a firm, tight waist, and he built up his legs and arms on the weights.

One day while George was barking out the time like a drill sergeant and Alex did press-ups, he stopped counting. ‘Alex, your name’s Stubbs, ain’t it? You related to a boxer, ex-champ?’

Alex picked up a towel and wiped his forehead. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Well, it’s the name, like, he was called Freedom Stubbs. Bit before my time, mind, but me old man, my dad, he was one of his sparrin’ partners down at this big country house. Always said he was one of the finest men he’d ever seen box, man was like lightning, with one hell of a reach. He was an enormous geezer, six foot four, used to wear his hair long like, yer know, he was a gyppo.’

Alex tossed his towel aside, for a moment he was tempted to tell George.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Yer know in the washrooms — well, last cubicle, ‘is name’s scratched into the wall. He must’ve served time ‘ere... He was British Heavyweight Champion, oh, must’ve been, now let me think... 1925 or ‘26...’

Alex walked along the cubicles and into the stall at the far end. He found his father’s name scrawled beside a date. He leaned against the tiled wall, feeling sick, and tried to remember the dates his father had been away, but it was all so long ago, a blur.

George was released four months later, but he promised to write, and to arrange a place for Alex to live. Alex had the cell to himself for a month. He now had the best bunk, and he waited to see who they would put in with him.

Brian Welland was a pretty boy, and Alex knew at a glance that he was queer. He tossed his book down and stared hard. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven, sir.’

‘What you in fer?’

‘Fraud.’

Alex came on as the heavy ‘con’ at first, almost repeating George Windsor’s welcome when Alex had first arrived at Durham. Brian was well educated, his speech refined. But it was the row of books that Brian carefully laid out by his bunk that interested Alex. Classical volumes, with a few thicker books on banking and taxation. Brian gave Alex a sheepish smile, expecting a crude remark, but instead Alex picked one of the books up and asked if he could read it.