Worse’n solitary, the mindless work, the awful food of this prison in all but name, there’s the Shabbat services. We’s herded into the factory chapel, most unwilling of flocks, the matron begging us—aye, begging—to keep quiet. Not a chance, Mrs. Hutchinson.
She’s always gabbing about how the chapel was inspired by the Great Synagogue of London. Not as though a Limerick wench like me would know, but I’d wager the pews there don’t give your arse splinters. But no, she means the arched doorways and windows. Who fecking cares? The pews is set in a U-shape like every synagogue I’ve ever been dragged into. The ark’s empty but for a few dusty prayerbooks; Torah scrolls ain’t for the likes of us convict women. Not that I blames them, dunno what I’d do with a fancy scroll, given the chance.
Rabbi
