On arrival to the prison outside of Manchester, Elana stood in line with six other beaten and downtrodden women, waiting to be admitted. Her copper hair stuck out in a tangled mess. Her clothes were dirty. Two weeks in the holding cell after the trial had almost driven her mad. Now she found herself in a huge stone prison, but at least there were other people, even if she was not allowed to speak. She looked at the other women; young and old, thin and fat, all of them poor and disheveled; not one aristocrat in the bunch. She found a strange satisfaction in that fact. These women were on her social level and whether they were criminals or innocent like herself, she could identify with them. The matron snapped her out of her thoughts with a slap on the back of her head. “Move along.”
First their particulars were recorded. Next the prisoners were weighed and measured by the prison surgeon. This was done in the nude. Elana was embarrassed and tried to cover herself with her hands. She felt vulnerable and exposed. Next they were tested for their ability to read and write. Ushered into a bathhouse they were given a shower before receiving one set of prison clothing. The prison garb consisted of a long gray cotton dress with long sleeves, one pair of pantaloons, an undershirt and thick stockings. Black shoes with laces completed the ensemble. Elana went through the humiliating steps as if she were in a trance.
Taken to her cell, the iron door was opened and she stepped inside. The cell was small. She assessed it to be about six feet by eight feet. There was a hammock, blanket, one sheet and a pillow. On a small table sat a towel, comb, spoon and salt cup. She also had a stool and chamber pot with lid. She stepped into the room and noticed the prison rules were posted on the wall. Because she was a protestant, she was given a bible and a hymn book. When the door slammed behind her, she turned and stared at it. There was an eerie finality in that gesture. Her freedom was gone. This is where she would spend the rest of her life. Realization settled like a cold, hard shell around her. No one believed her. She was innocent but found guilty. This was her home from now on and she was completely helpless. She wanted to escape and go home, back to her life where she could be like everyone else. She paced around the room. Her mind was muddled, and she was angry. She wanted to scream. She was afraid. She sat down on the stool, placed her head in her hands and cried.
The prisoners slept, ate and worked in their cells. No contact between them was permitted. Elana’s breakfast was served at 7:30 a.m. It consisted of five ounces of porridge with milk. Elana ate heartily. It was better than the dry bread she had received in the holding cell for the past month, the bread she shared with the rats. The prisoners were allowed to take a shower once a week. A change of prison garb was provided on shower day.
The eighth day, she was taken to the shower room. The female guard told her to remove her clothes and step into the shower. After she was washed, the guard ordered her to sit on the metal stool at the side of the room. Naked, vulnerable and most uncomfortable, Elana sat down wondering exactly what the guard was about to do. The guard grabbed a handful of her hair. Elana pulled away. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting this mess short. You’ll never manage it with just a comb, so I am going to cut it off.” The guard snapped the scissors closed. Elana watched sadly as a long chunk of hair fell to her feet. She wanted to protest, but knew it was useless. She was at the mercy of the guard. She sat as her beautiful wavy locks were trimmed to a bob just below her ears. My beautiful hair is gone just like my freedom. I have no rights. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? I shouldn’t be here.
She just wanted to weep.
For the first four months, she did not see any other prisoners or any visitors. The only person she saw was the guard that brought her meals and took her to the showers once a week. She was alone and confined to a small space. The smell from the chamber pots was sickening. The pots were emptied once a day, but the stale stench of urine permeated the cellblock. She lay with her sheet over her face in an effort to ward off the horrible stench.
Lying on her hammock, she thought of Daniel. How she missed his arms around her. She would never feel them again. She knew the truth, but no one would believe her and she would never get out of here. It was a desperate, sinking feeling. She was allowed no visitors and only one book per month. Squinting in the dim light from the window, she read the same book ten times. The window in her cell was high and small; it let in little light, but did let her know when it was day and night. She was given no exercise privileges. For the first few days, she paced her cell and did pushups on the filthy floor. Then, even that was too much effort. The cell was hot and stuffy and her mood was dark and hopeless.
After weeks alone, dark depression set in. Elana began to think of ways to kill herself. She tore the sheet in strips to hang herself, but in the end, couldn’t go through with it. She cried, she screamed and she talked to herself, but no one cared. The days dragged on. Elana was sure she would go mad.
One night she found herself speaking out loud, telling a story from memory. It was one of Daniel’s stories. She sat in the darkness and told the story to no one but herself. As she spoke, she found it gave her great comfort. She resolved that she would not die. She would remember every story that Daniel had ever told her. Every night for months, she told herself a different story and felt her love for Daniel in her heart. It got her through the loneliness and isolation. She started to take an interest in her grooming. At night she would comb her shortened locks, remembering how she would brush her hair one hundred times every night. A couple of passes with the comb would suffice now, but she did it faithfully.
On the first day of month five, she ate her breakfast mechanically like she did every morning. It was one of the things she came to look forward to. She heard the sound of keys in the lock; her eyes stared at the door in anticipation. It was eight o’clock and the guard opened her cell. “Come with me.” Elana looked at her. Did the woman just tell her to come out of the cell? She wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. When the guard repeated the command, Elana asked where she was going, but got no answer. She stood up, but didn’t move. It had been months and she was afraid to leave the cell. As much as she had prayed to get out, now she was afraid. The guard ordered her to come out. Reluctantly, she followed the guard. She walked past the other cells timidly and noticed that most of the cells were empty. She was taken to the kitchen. The matron was busy adding a large marrowbone to a soup pot. “Here is the new kitchen help.” Elana stood eyes downcast, hands behind her back. It was a huge kitchen with several stoves and iceboxes on one wall. A long wooden table sat in the middle of the room stacked high with vegetables. One of the first things she noticed was the smell of disinfectant and food; it was so refreshing. She inhaled deeply. She squinted in the brightness of the kitchen. She had become accustomed to her dimly lit cell and the bright light hurt her eyes. The guard left and matron turned to look at her. “Well, don’t just stand there. Grab the mop and start washing out the pantry.” Nervously, Elana picked up the mop and bucket and headed for the small room the matron pointed to. Although she was relieved to be out of the cell, she felt timid and afraid of everyone. When she entered the small pantry and began to mop, a great relief fell over her. Elana had grown used to being alone and now she found security in the solitude. She scrubbed the pantry from top to bottom. She was allowed to stop work for 15 minutes, while she ate a bowl of soup made from marrowbones, carrots, barley and leeks. It was surprisingly delicious and it helped her build up her courage. Elana tried to talk to the matron, desperate for any conversation, but the woman was not very talkative. Elana worked in the kitchen until seven o’clock. Returning to her cell, she felt strangely glad to be back in the safety of the small room. Supper was oatmeal and milk. That night, exhausted to the point of collapse, she fell to her knees and thanked God for the little human contact she had experienced. Just spending eleven hours with another person and being allowed to breathe air that didn’t stink of urine, was greatly appreciated. She realized that she would have to get used to other people again.
She returned to the kitchen every day for a fortnight. Working in the kitchen provided the odd extra piece of bread or second bowl of soup. She was treated to a full glass of milk once during her stay. She could hardly contain her excitement; it tasted so good. She started to physically regain her strength. The milk cart arrived every day with fresh milk from the local farmers. Matron told her that in winter, milk became scarce and the prisoners were served treacle water. The cart reminded Elana of the farm and she felt a deep sadness and longing for Daniel.
From the little that the matron said, she concluded that once the four-month initiation was over, most new prisoners worked in the kitchen or the laundry. After their two-week introduction to prison life they were subjected to hard labor. She inquired as to what exactly that entailed and was not happy when matron told her the details. Matron told her the crank machine was a machine where prisoners were expected to turn the crank handle more than ten thousand times a day, forcing ladles through sand inside a drum. “What is the purpose of the machine?” Elana asked the matron, being unable to come to any sensible conclusion from what she had been told.
“The purpose, child, is to keep the prisoners busy.” Elana stared at her in disbelief. “And to make it harder, the warder can tighten the screw. But the treadmill is worse.”
“The treadmill?” Now Elana grew worried about her time in prison. She was actually content working in the kitchen, although housework had never been her forte.
“The treadmill is kind of like an elongated wheel on one of them paddle steamers, with steps instead of paddles. The prisoner hangs onto a strap or a bar and stands in individual compartments over the steps. The wheel turns and you have to keep climbing or you’ll fall off.”
“And I suppose it serves no purpose either.”
“None whatsoever; now get back to that scrubbing. That oven is thick with burned on grease and grime and I want it shining.” Elana scrubbed and tried to forget about the crank and the treadmill.
Later she returned to her cell. Her clean bedding was piled on the end of the hammock. Picking up the sheet, she realized it was the same one that she had torn strips off of. I guess there will be no replacement, she thought to herself. No one to blame, but myself. Carefully she tucked the short sheet under the blanket on her hammock. At least it’s clean.
Elana lay in her hammock dreading the next morning. She had served her fortnight in the kitchen. The guard was taking her to her labor post, where she would go every day until they decided to change it. She prayed it wouldn’t be the treadmill or the crank. She thought of her mother and when she closed her eyes she could feel her mother’s arms around her. It gave her comfort.
The sun shone through the small window illuminating her cell. She yawned and rolled out of her hammock. Stretching her body, she prayed that she would be given a duty that she could do without her body being exhausted every day.
Breakfast arrived. Not knowing what her chore would be, she ate heartily. Then the guard arrived. “Come on, today you get to do some real work.” Elana shuddered. She followed the guard tentatively. “Hurry up! You’ve got work to do.” Head down, she walked through the prison.
She was brought to a huge room. The first thing she noticed was that the air was filled with dust. Several women were seated at large barrels pulling bits of rope apart. To their right, a woman beat the rope with a large rake-like instrument. She created billows of dust that flew into the air making it almost unbearable. After the rope was beaten, it was thrown into barrels, like the ones in front of the women. Elana was directed to one of the chairs. “Warder will be here to tell you what to do shortly. Watch them and get started.”
Elana looked shyly at the other women. One looked up and smiled. She was a young woman about twenty years old. Her hair was blonde and pulled up under a scarf. She reached into a bag beside her and handed Elana a large scarf. Looking around to make sure no one could hear her she said. “Better tie your hair up in this. Helps keep it clean and out of your face.” Elana took it thankfully. Her chopped hair was shoulder length now. She pulled her thick locks up into the scarf and off her face.
“Thank you, I’m Elana.” The other woman pursed her lips and motioned for her not to talk. Elana waited. Finally feeling that it was safe, the woman spoke to her.
“Betsy.” The young woman introduced herself before whispering, “You best get busy before his highness comes. Just pick up the rope and pull it apart. Use one of those picks.” Elana picked up a short piece of rope. She looked at it and started trying to pull it apart. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. She used the pick and soon the rope started to unravel. Her third finger ached as she put pressure on the rope. Broken in the holding cell during her initial incarceration, it was bent permanently to the left at the first knuckle. Elana knew it would give her trouble in the future.
“Why are we doing this? Another useless job?” Elana whispered.
The other woman next to Betsy laughed softly. “So they told you about the crank and the treadmill did they? Name’s Daphne.”
“Yes, Matron in the kitchen told me and I prayed I wouldn’t be sent there.” Betsy snickered. “Shush, look busy, here comes someone.” The three sat silently working until the man pushing the cart was out of earshot.
“They tell all of us about those two machines, just to frighten the dickens out of us. You only go there when you misbehave, so watch your step.” Betsy jerked her head to the left intimating that someone was coming. Elana continued picking at the rope.
The tall man stopped beside Elana. “So another oakum picker. You best do it faster than that, because we need forty bushels by five o’clock. And no talking.” The warder moved on.
“Oakum?” Elana looked questioningly at Betsy and Daphne.
“That’s what it’s called when it’s pulled apart. They use it to seal up the seams in wooden ships or for mattresses. In fact, you sleep on oakum every night, if you’re one of the lucky ones with a mattress.”
“Just a hammock in my cell.” Elana was starting to work the pick so that she could work faster. “Are there other jobs like this?” She had to wait almost an hour before Betsy or Daphne answered her question. The warder walked back and forth watching their every move.
“Sewing, tailoring, joinery work or making herring nets are what most of us do. Some even get to work outside in the vegetable garden, but only the special ones get those jobs, and the price is high, if you know what I mean.” She looked at Elana as if they shared a secret, but Elana had no idea what she meant. However, she nodded to Betsy, as if she understood. “You will be here for a while. I’ve been here for two years and Daphne for one.”
The day passed by with the women talking whenever they could. Elana felt alive once again. She was having a real conversation, stilted and interrupted perhaps, but a real conversation, at long last. She had not realized how lonely she really was.
A couple of days later she asked, “How long are you in for?” Elana dreaded to think that she would be spending the rest of her life picking oakum.
“Lifer. You?” Betsy threw her oakum into the barrel.
“Same. What did you do to get in here?”
“Killed my husband, the miserable bastard. He beat me constantly and one day I just stuck him with the butcher knife, but it was worth it. At least no one has hit me in two years.” Elana looked at Betsy. She didn’t look strong enough to stab a man to death. She was getting a whole new education in prison. “What did you do?” Betsy asked Elana.
“Nothing. I was wrongly accused of killing my brother-in-law, but I didn’t do it.”
“You can tell us. We don’t care if you did.” Daphne chirped.
“I didn’t. I’m telling the truth.” The other two women exchanged a sympathetic look. Elana realized that no one would believe her, not even these two prisoners. She never protested her innocence again.
The day passed and Elana felt better than she had in almost six months. Although her hands ached every night, at least she had someone to talk to and she wasn’t on the treadmill. She soon learned that records were kept and if prisoners did not achieve what was expected, or disobeyed orders, they were punished. Daphne disappeared one morning and was not seen for a fortnight. When she came back she looked ten pounds lighter and ten years older. She had spent her time on the treadmill. Elana was very careful to fulfill her quota and keep as quiet as possible. Talking was not encouraged in the oakum room.
Elana’s hands would not stop bleeding from splitting the rope. After asking several times for something to stop the bleeding, the guard finally delivered a small jar of grease to her from the matron. At night she rubbed her hands with grease. It stung the cuts on her fingers, but it did help. The finger that she had broken when Lady Birmingham visited, ached badly at night. She rubbed it and tried to keep it warm. Sometimes she cursed Lady Birmingham under her breath. Prisoners only saw the doctor if they were critically ill or near death; she would have to work through the pain. Her life became a routine, each day the same as the one before. The cell was hot and stuffy in summer and cold and damp in winter.
After six long months, she finally received the news she had been waiting for. The guard informed her that she had a visitor and would be given 30 minutes in the visitor room. Elana fixed her hair and tied it back with her work scarf. She walked down the corridor with great anticipation. Door after door was opened and locked behind her. Finally, she arrived at the long room filled with tables and chairs and armed guards walking the perimeter. Visitors were ushered to the prisoner’s table and told not to touch or give the prisoner anything. Elana looked up in great anticipation as the door opened. The guard ushered a man into the room. It was Daniel. She almost screamed his name, but put her hand to her mouth to stifle it. He looked around the room before seeing her. She watched him lovingly, until their eyes finally met. He followed the guard and sat down opposite his wife. Their eyes and their hearts were locked in an imaginary loving embrace. “Don’t touch and don’t try to give her anything.” The guard walked away.
Daniel stared at Elana and she stared back. “Oh, Daniel I can’t believe it is you, after all this time.” He was shocked at her bobbed hair and her dowdy gray prison garb, but he found that the loss of her crowning glory, made her somehow more, and not less feminine, as he would expect. She was still his beautiful Elana.
“How are you, Love? I miss you terribly.” He wanted to pull her close, but he knew he couldn’t and it was torturing him. “What happened to your hair?”
“They cut it off and we have no right to protest.” She looked into his eyes. “I love you, Daniel. I miss you so much.”
“And I you, my Love. It suits you like that. Your hair, I mean.” She smiled, appreciating that he was simply trying to make her feel less ugly than she did. They settled into a pleasant conversation.
She told him how she had kept sane the first four months by telling his stories over and over. It gave him some satisfaction that his tales were helping her when he could do nothing. She told him about the oakum and how she worked every day. He looked at the bent finger and felt such pain for her. She asked about her mother and Mary Margaret. Daniel told her as much as he could. The time passed too quickly.
The guard arrived to usher Daniel from the room. Daniel turned to her, “I will see you next month. Wait for my letters and I will send you more stories. I love you.” He walked away; his heart was breaking for her. She sat still until the door closed, and then she put her head in her hands and wept. She was happy to see him, but now she felt more alone than ever.
Elana had many strange thoughts go through her mind as she sat in her dank and dreary cell. She remembered one of Maude’s quotes, ‘What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; tis dearness only that gives everything its value.’ She applied this quote to freedom. She had taken it for granted when she had it, but now freedom was very highly rated in her heart and her soul and would never be taken for granted again. But now, it was too late. She groaned sadly; her freedom was gone forever. She and Daniel would never hold each other again. It made her want to die.
Daniel returned to the cottage and wrote dozens of stories for Elana. His visit haunted his dreams. Why had fate dealt them this horrible blow? He saw her face when he closed his eyes. He stared into the flames of the fire, and then sat down and wrote a poem about truth, to those that had locked his wife away for the rest of her life.
Stand beside, not upon
The fires of your soul
Feed the flames with vanity
Greed, hate and control
Add gossip, lies, folklore
Destroy it all this day
Now sit and watch the fire
Burn your false self away
When the flames to embers turn
Sift amongst the ash
There you find what you seek
The only truth, at last.
He put it away with the other poems, stories and drawings in his trunk. The writing helped him express his feelings and helped him to cope. He mailed a letter every week. Because the prison opened the mail before it was given to the prisoners, only half of Daniel’s stories reached her, but it was enough. It was a part of her husband and she held them close to her heart. She hung the drawings that he sent in her cell; scenes of the farm, the baby lambs and even Max driving the cart to market, all the beautiful things that she missed so much. They seemed to erode some of the dreariness. Visits were once a month and anything she could do to relieve her melancholy would help her get through until the next one.