GIVE ME BLOOD AND I WILL GIVE YOU FREEDOM

-Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose

Friends! Twelve months ago a new programme of ‘total mobilisation’ or ‘maximum

sacrifice’ was placed before Indians in East Asia. Today I shall give you an account of our
achievements during the past year and shall place before you our demands for the coming
year. But, before I do so, I want you to realise once again what a golden opportunity we have
for winning freedom. The British are engaged in a worldwide struggle and in the course of
this struggle they have suffered defeat after defeat on so many fronts. The enemy having been
thus considerably weakened, our fight for liberty has become very much easier than it was
five years ago. Such a rare and God-given opportunity comes once in a century. That is why
we have sworn to fully utilise this opportunity for liberating our motherland from the British
yoke.

I am so very hopeful and optimistic about the outcome of our struggle, because I do not rely
merely on the efforts of three million Indians in East Asia. There is a gigantic movement
going on inside India and millions of our countrymen are prepared for maximum suffering
and sacrifice in order to achieve liberty.

Unfortunately, ever since the great fight of 1857, our countrymen are disarmed, whereas the
enemy is armed to the teeth. Without arms and without a modern army, it is impossible for a
disarmed people to win freedom in this modern age. Through the grace of Providence and
through the help of generous Nippon, it has become possible for Indians in East Asia to get
arms to build up a modern army. Moreover, Indians in East Asia are united to a man in the
endeavour to win freedom and all the religious and other differences that the British tried to
engineer inside India, simply do not exist in East Asia.

Consequently, we have now an ideal combination of circumstances favouring the success of

our struggle- and all that is wanted is that Indians should themselves come forward to pay the
price of liberty. According to the programme of ‘total mobilisation,’ I demanded of you men,
money and materials. Regarding men, I am glad to tell you that I have obtained sufficient
recruits already. Recruits have come to us from every corner of east Asia- from China, Japan,
Indo-China, Philippines, Java, Borneo, Celebes, Sumatra, Malaya, Thailand and Burma…

You must continue the mobilisation of men, money and materials with greater vigour and
energy, in particular, the problem of supplies and transport has to be solved satisfactorily.

We require more men and women of all categories for administration and reconstruction in
liberated areas. We must be prepared for a situation in which the enemy will ruthlessly apply
the scorched earth policy, before withdrawing from a particular area and will also force the
civilian population to evacuate as was attempted in Burma.

Those of you who will continue to work on the Home Front should never forget that East
Asia- and particularly Burma- from our base for the war of liberation. If this base is not
strong, our fighting forces can never be victorious. Remember that this is a ‘total war’- and
not merely a war between two armies. That is why for a full one year I have been laying so
much stress on ‘total mobilisation’ in the East.

There is another reason why I want you to look after the Home Front properly. During the
coming months I and my colleagues on the War Committee of the Cabinet desire to devote
our whole attention to the fighting front- and also to the task of working up the revolution
inside India. Consequently, we want to be fully assured that the work at the base will go on
smoothly and uninterruptedly even in our absence.

Friends, one year ago, when I made certain demands of you, I told you that if you give me
‘total mobilization,’ I would give you a ‘second front.’ I have redeemed that pledge. The first
phase of our campaign is over. Our victorious troops, fighting side by side with Nipponese
troops, have pushed back the enemy and are now fighting bravely on the sacred soil of our
dear motherland.

Gird up your loins for the task that now lies ahead. I had asked you for men, money and
materials. I have got them in generous measure. Now I demand more of you. Men, money
and materials cannot by themselves bring victory or freedom. We must have the motive-
power that will inspire us to brave deeds and heroic exploits.

It will be a fatal mistake for you to wish to live and see India free simply because victory is
now within reach. No one here should have the desire to live to enjoy freedom. A long fight
is still in front of us.

We should have but one desire today- the desire to die so that India may live- the desire to
face a martyr’s death, so that the path to freedom may be paved with the martyr’s blood.

Friends! my comrades in the War of Liberation! Today I demand of you one thing, above all.
I demand of you blood. It is blood alone that can avenge the blood that the enemy has spilt. It
is blood alone that can pay the price of freedom. Give me blood and I promise you freedom.

Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose gave this speech to the Indian National Army at a rally of Indians in
Burma, in 1944.
 MY FINANCIAL CAREER
- Stephen Leacock

When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the
money rattles me; everything rattles me.

The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become
an irresponsible idiot.

I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that
the bank was the only place for it.

So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to
open an account must needs consult the manager.

I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant." The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very
sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral.

"Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone." I don't know why I said
"alone."

"Certainly," said the accountant, and fetched him.

The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled ball in
my pocket.

"Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it.

"Yes," he said.

"Can I see you," I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say "alone" again, but without it the thing
seemed self-evident.

The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that I had an awful secret to reveal.

"Come in here," he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned the key in the lock.

"We are safe from interruption here," he said; "sit down."

We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak.

"You are one of Pinkerton's men, I presume," he said.

He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was a detective. I knew what he was
thinking, and it made me worse.

"No, not from Pinkerton's," I said, seeming to imply that I came from a rival agency. "To tell
the truth," I went on, as if I had been prompted to lie about it, "I am not a detective at all. I
have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank."
The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concluded now that I was a son of Baron
Rothschild or a young Gould.

"A large account, I suppose," he said.

"Fairly large," I whispered. "I propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now and fifty dollars a
month regularly."

The manager got up and opened the door. He called to the accountant.

"Mr. Montgomery," he said unkindly loud, "this gentleman is opening an account, he will
deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning."

I rose.

A big iron door stood open at the side of the room.

"Good morning," I said, and stepped into the safe.

"Come out," said the manager coldly, and showed me the other way.

I went up to the accountant's wicket and poked the ball of money at him with a quick
convulsive movement as if I were doing a conjuring trick.

My face was ghastly pale.

"Here," I said, "deposit it." The tone of the words seemed to mean, "Let us do this painful
thing while the fit is on us."

He took the money and gave it to another clerk.

He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my name in a book. I no longer knew what I
was doing. The bank swam before my eyes.

"Is it deposited?" I asked in a hollow, vibrating voice.

"It is," said the accountant.

"Then I want to draw a cheque."

My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. Someone gave me a chequebook
through a wicket and someone else began telling me how to write it out. The people in the
bank had the impression that I was an invalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque
and thrust it in at the clerk. He looked at it.

"What! Are you drawing it all out again?" he asked in surprise. Then I realized that I had
written fifty-six instead of six. I was too far gone to reason now. I had a feeling that it was
impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me.

Reckless with misery, I made a plunge.

"Yes, the whole thing."

"You withdraw your money from the bank?"

"Every cent of it."

"Are you not going to deposit anymore?" said the clerk, astonished.

"Never."

An idiot hope struck me that they might think something had insulted me while I was writing
the cheque and that I had changed my mind. I made a wretched attempt to look like a man
with a fearfully quick temper.

The clerk prepared to pay the money.

"How will you have it?" he said.

"What?"

"How will you have it?"

"Oh"—I caught his meaning and answered without even trying to think—"in fifties."

He gave me a fifty-dollar bill.

"And the six?" he asked dryly.

"In sixes," I said.

He gave it me and I rushed out.

As the big door swung behind me I caught the echo of a roar of laughter that went up to the
ceiling of the bank. Since then I bank no more. I keep my money in cash in my trousers
pocket and my savings in silver dollars in a sock.

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK (1942-44)

The following extracts are taken from the diary of Anne Frank between 1942 and 1944, during
the period she lived in hiding with her family in Amsterdam. The Franks were discovered,
arrested and transported to Auschwitz on August 4th 1944.
July 8th 1942: “At three o’clock (Hello had left but was supposed to come back later), the
doorbell rang. I didn’t hear it, since I was out on the balcony, lazily reading in the sun. A
little while later Margot appeared in the kitchen doorway looking very agitated. “Father has
received a call-up notice from the SS,” she whispered. “Mother has gone to see Mr. van
Daan” (Mr. van Daan is Father’s business partner and a good friend.) I was stunned. A call-
up: everyone knows what that means. Visions of concentration camps and lonely cells raced
through my head. How could we let Father go to such a fate? “Of course he’s not going,”
declared Margot as we waited for Mother in the living room. “Mother’s gone to Mr. van
Daan to ask whether we can move to our hiding place tomorrow. The van Daans are going
with us. There will be seven of us altogether.” Silence. We couldn’t speak. The thought of
Father off visiting someone in the Jewish Hospital and completely unaware of what was
happening, the long wait for Mother, the heat, the suspense – all this reduced us to silence.”

July 9th 1942: “Here’s a description of the building… A wooden staircase leads from the
downstairs hallway to the third floor. At the top of the stairs is a landing, with doors on either
side. The door on the left takes you up to the spice storage area, attic and loft in the front part
of the house. A typically Dutch, very steep, ankle-twisting flight of stairs also runs from the
front part of the house to another door opening onto the street. The door to the right of the
landing leads to the Secret Annex at the back of the house. No one would ever suspect there
were so many rooms behind that plain grey door. There’s just one small step in front of the
door, and then you’re inside. Straight ahead of you is a steep flight of stairs. To the left is a
narrow hallway opening onto a room that serves as the Frank family’s living room and
bedroom. Next door is a smaller room, the bedroom and study of the two young ladies of the
family. To the right of the stairs is a windowless washroom with a sink. The door in the
corner leads to the toilet and another one to Margot’s and my room… Now I’ve introduced
you to the whole of our lovely Annex!”

October 9th 1942: “Today I have nothing but dismal and depressing news to report. Our
many Jewish friends and acquaintances are being taken away in droves. The Gestapo is
treating them very roughly and transporting them in cattle cars to Westerbork, the big camp
in Drenthe to which they’re sending all the Jews. Miep told us about someone who’d
managed to escape from there. It must be terrible in Westerbork. The people get almost
nothing to eat, much less to drink, as water is available only one hour a day, and there’s only
one toilet and sink for several thousand people. Men and women sleep in the same room, and
women and children often have their heads shaved. Escape is almost impossible; many
people look Jewish, and they’re branded by their shorn heads. If it’s that bad in Holland, what
must it be like in those faraway and uncivilised places where the Germans are sending them?
We assume that most of them are being murdered. The English radio says they’re being
gassed. Perhaps that’s the quickest way to die. I feel terrible. Miep’s accounts of these horrors
are so heartrending… Fine specimens of humanity, those Germans, and to think I’m actually
one of them! No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago. And besides, there
are no greater enemies on earth than the Germans and Jews.”

October 20th 1942: “My hands still shaking, though it’s been two hours since we had the
scare… The office staff stupidly forgot to warn us that the carpenter, or whatever he’s called,
was coming to fill the extinguishers… After working for about fifteen minutes, he laid his
hammer and some other tools on our bookcase (or so we thought!) and banged on our door.
We turned white with fear. Had he heard something after all and did he now want to check
out this mysterious looking bookcase? It seemed so, since he kept knocking, pulling, pushing
and jerking on it. I was so scared I nearly fainted at the thought of this total stranger
managing to discover our wonderful hiding place…”

November 19th 1942: “Mr Dussel has told us much about the outside world we’ve missed
for so long. He had sad news. Countless friends and acquaintances have been taken off to a
dreadful fate. Night after night, green and grey military vehicles cruise the streets. They
knock on every door, asking whether any Jews live there. If so, the whole family is
immediately taken away. If not, they proceed to the next house. It’s impossible to escape their
clutches unless you go into hiding. They often go around with lists, knocking only on those
doors where they know there’s a big haul to be made. They frequently offer a bounty, so
much per head. It’s like the slave hunts of the olden days… I feel wicked sleeping in a warm
bed, while somewhere out there my dearest friends are dropping from exhaustion or being
knocked to the ground. I get frightened myself when I think of close friends who are now at
the mercy of the cruellest monsters ever to stalk the earth. And all because they’re Jews.”

May 18th 1943: “All college students are being asked to sign an official statement to the
effect that they ‘sympathise with the Germans and approve of the New Order.” Eighty per
cent have decided to obey the dictates of their conscience, but the penalty will be severe. Any
student refusing to sign will be sent to a German labour camp.”

March 29th 1944: “Mr Bolkestein, the Cabinet Minister, speaking on the Dutch broadcast
from London, said that after the war a collection would be made of diaries and letters dealing
with the war. Of course, everyone pounced on my diary.”

February 3rd 1944: “I’ve reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The
world will keep on turning without me, and I can’t do anything to change events anyway. I’ll
just let matters take their course and concentrate on studying and hope that everything will be
all right in the end.”

July 15th 1944: “It’s utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos,
suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, I hear the
approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, I feel the suffering of millions. And
yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that
this cruelty too will end, that peace and tranquillity will return once more. In the meantime, I
must hold on to my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I’ll be able to realise them.”

LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER

- Roald Dahl
The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the
one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water,
whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.

Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come in from work. Now and again she would
glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that
each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling
air about her, and about everything she did. The drop of a head as she bent over her sewing
was curiously tranquil. Her skin -for this was her sixth month with child-had acquired a
wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look,
seemed larger darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to
listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel
outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the
lock. She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.

“Hullo darling,” she said.

“Hullo darling,” he answered.

She took his coat and hung it in the closet. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a
strong one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the
sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the
ice cubes tinkled against the side.

For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn’t want to speak much until
the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his
company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this
man, and to feelalmost as a sunbather feels the sun-that warm male glow that came out of him
to her when they were alone together. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for
the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides. She loved the
intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and
especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the
whiskey had taken some of it away.

“Tired darling?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m tired,” And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and
drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left. She wasn’t
really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling
back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment,
leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

“I’ll get it!” she cried, jumping up.

“Sit down,” he said.

When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of
whiskey in it.

“Darling, shall I get your slippers?”

“No.”

She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls
in the liquid because it was so strong.

“I think it’s a shame,” she said, “that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep
him walking about on his feet all day long.”

He didn’t answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; but each time he
lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.

“Darling,” she said. “Would you like me to get you some cheese? I haven’t made any supper
because it’s Thursday.”

“No,” he said.

“If you’re too tired to eat out,” she went on, “it’s still not too late. There’s plenty of meat and
stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair.”

Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I’ll get you some cheese and crackers first.”

“I don’t want it,” he said.

She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. “But you must eat! I’ll
fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like.”

She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.

“Sit down,” he said. “Just for a minute, sit down.”

It wasn’t till then that she began to get frightened.

“Go on,” he said. “Sit down.”

She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large,
bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass,
frowning.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What is it, darling? What’s the matter?”

He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so that the light from
the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in
shadow. She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye.

“This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I’ve thought about it a
good deal and I’ve decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won’t
blame me too much.”

And he told her. It didn’t take long, four or five minutes at most, and she sat very still through
it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her
with each word.

“So there it is,” he added. “And I know it’s kind of a bad time to be telling you, but there
simply wasn’t any other way. Of course I’ll give you money and see you’re looked after. But
there needn’t really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn’t be very good for my job.”

Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he
hadn’t even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe, if she went about
her business and acted as though she hadn’t been listening, then later, when she sort of woke
up again, she might find none of it had ever happened.

“I’ll get the supper,” she managed to whisper, and this time he didn’t stop her.

When she walked across the room she couldn’t feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn’t
feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Everything was automatic
now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet
taking hold of the first object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in
paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.

A leg of lamb.

All right then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs, holding the thin
bone-end of it with both her hands, and as she went through the living-room, she saw him
standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped.

“For God’s sake,” he said, hearing her, but not turning round. “Don’t make supper for me.
I’m going out.”

At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause she swung
the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the
back of his head.

She might just as well have hit him with a steel club.

She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for
at least four or five seconds, gently swaying. Then he crashed to the carpet.
The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of the
shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at
the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands.

All right, she told herself. So I’ve killed him.

It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden. She began thinking
very fast. As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That
was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what
about the child? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill
then both-mother and child? Or did they wait until the tenth month? What did they do?

Mary Maloney didn’t know. And she certainly wasn’t prepared to take a chance.

She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved
it inside. Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before
the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lips and face. She tried a smile. It came out rather
peculiar. She tried again.

“Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, aloud.

The voice sounded peculiar too.

“I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.”

That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now.

She rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the
back door, down the garden, and into the street.

It wasn’t six o’clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop.

“Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter.

“Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How’re you?”

“I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.”

The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas.

“Patrick’s decided he’s tired and doesn’t want to eat out tonight,” she told him. “We usually
go out Thursdays, you know, and now he’s caught me without any vegetables in the house.”

“Then how about meat, Mrs. Maloney?”

“No, I’ve got meat, thanks. I got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know much about cooking it frozen, Sam, but I’m taking a chance on it this time.
You think it’ll be all right?”
“Personally,” the grocer said, “I don’t believe it makes any difference. You want these Idaho
potatoes?”

“Oh yes, that’ll be fine. Two of those.”

“Anything else?” The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her pleasantly. “How
about afterwards? What you going to give him for afterwards?”

“Well-what would you suggest, Sam?”

The man glanced around his shop. “How about a nice big slice of cheesecake? I know he
likes that.”

“Perfect,” she said. “He loves it.”

And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest smile and said,
“Thank you, Sam. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney. And thank you.”

And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning
home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make
it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she
happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock
and she’d become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn’t expecting to find
anything. She was just going home with the vegetables.

Mrs. Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper
for her husband.

That’s the way, she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep things absolutely
natural and there’ll be no need for any acting at all. Therefore, when she entered the kitchen
by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and smiling.

“Patrick!” she called. “How are you, darling?”

She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room; and when she
saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back
underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for him welled
up inside her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry her heart out.
It was easy.

No acting was necessary.

A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone. She knew the number of the police
station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, “Quick! Come quick!
Patrick’s dead!”

“Who’s speaking?”
“Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney.”

“You mean Patrick Maloney’s dead?”

“I think so,” she sobbed. “He’s lying on the floor and I think he’s dead.”

“Be right over,” the man said.

The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policemen walked in.
She knew them both-she knew nearly all the men at that precinct-and she fell right into a
chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O’Malley, kneeling by the body.

“Is he dead?” she cried.

“I’m afraid he is. What happened?”

Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to find him on the
floor. While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of
congealed blood on the dead man’s head. He showed it to O’Malley who got up at once and
hurried to the phone.

Soon, other men began to come into the house. First a doctor, then two detectives, one of
whom she knew by name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man
who knew about fingerprints. There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the
corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. But they always treated her
kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come
in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn’t wanted to go out for supper. She
told how she’d put the meat in the oven-”it’s there now, cooking”- and how she’d stepped out
to the grocer for vegetables, and came back to find him lying on the floor.

Which grocer?” one of the detectives asked.

She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective who immediately
went outside into the street.

In fifteen minutes he was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering, and
through her sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases-”...acted quite normal...very
cheerful...wanted to give him a good supper... peas...cheesecake...impossible that she...”

After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed and two other men came in and took
the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the fingerprint man went away. The two detectives
remained, and so did the two policemen.

They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn’t rather go
somewhere else, to her sister’s house perhaps, or to his own wife who would take care of her
and put her up for the night.

No, she said. She didn’t feel she could move even a yard at the moment.
Would they mind awfully if she stayed just where she was until she felt better. She didn’t feel
too good at the moment, she really didn’t.

Then hadn’t she better lie down on the bed? Jack Noonan asked.

No, she said. She’d like to stay right where she was, in this chair. A little later, perhaps, when
she felt better, she would move.

So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally
one of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently
as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head
administered with a heavy blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They
were looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other
hand he may have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.

“It’s the old story,” he said. “Get the weapon, and you’ve got the man.”

Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything
in the house that could’ve been used as the weapon?

Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing-a very big spanner, for
example, or a heavy metal vase.

They didn’t have any heavy metal vases, she said.

“Or a big spanner?”

She didn’t think they had a big spanner. But there might be some things like that in the
garage.

The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen in the garden all around the
house. She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw a flash of
a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine she noticed by the
clock on the mantle. The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a

trifle exasperated.

“Jack,” she said, the next time Sergeant Noonan went by. “Would you mind giving me a
drink?”

“Sure I’ll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey?”

“Yes please. But just a small one. It might make me feel better.”

He handed her the glass.

“Why don’t you have one yourself,” she said. “You must be awfully tired. Please do. You’ve
been very good to me.”
“Well,” he answered. “It’s not strictly allowed, but I might take just a drop to keep me
going.”

One by one the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey. They stood
around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying
to say consoling things to her.

Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, came out quickly and said, “Look, Mrs.
Maloney. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat is still inside.”

“Oh dear me!” she cried. “So it is!”

“I better turn it off for you, hadn’t I?”

“Will you do that, Jack. Thank you so much.”

When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her large, dark tearful
eyes. “Jack Noonan,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Would you do me a small favor--you and these others?”

“We can try, Mrs. Maloney.”

“Well,” she said. “Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick’s too, and helping to
catch the man who killed him. You must be terrible hungry by now because it’s long past
your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed
you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don’t you eat up that
lamb that’s in the oven. It’ll be cooked just right by now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sergeant Noonan said.

“Please,” she begged. “Please eat it. Personally I couldn’t touch a thing, certainly not what’s
been in the house when he was here. But it’s all right for you. It’d be a favor to me if you’d
eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards.”

There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry,
and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The woman
stayed where she was, listening to them speaking among themselves, their voices thick and
sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.

“Have some more, Charlie?”

“No. Better not finish it.”

“She wants us to finish it. She said so. Be doing her a favor.”

“Okay then. Give me some more.”

“That’s a hell of a big club that the guy must’ve used to hit poor Patrick,” one of them was
saying. “The doc says his skull was smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer.”

“That’s why it ought to be easy to find.”

“Exactly what I say.”

“Whoever done it, they’re not going to be carrying a thing like that around with them longer
than they need.”

One of them belched.

“Personally, I think it’s right here on the premises.”

“Probably right under our very noses. What do you think, Jack?”

And in the other room, Mary Maloney giggled.

 GENDER EQUALITY IS YOUR ISSUE TOO
- Emma Watson

Today we are launching a campaign called “HeForShe.”

I am reaching out to you because I need your help. We want to end gender inequality—and to
do that we need everyone to be involved.

This is the first campaign of its kind at the UN: we want to try and galvanize as many men
and boys as possible to be advocates for gender equality. And we don’t just want to talk about
it, but make sure it is tangible.

I was appointed six months ago and the more I have spoken about feminism the more I have
realized that fighting for women’s rights has too often become synonymous with man-hating.
If there is one thing I know for certain, it is that this has to stop.

For the record, feminism by definition is: “The belief that men and women should have equal
rights and opportunities. It is the theory of the political, economic and social equality of the
sexes.”

I started questioning gender-based assumptions when at eight I was confused at being called
“bossy,” because I wanted to direct the plays we would put on for our parents—but the boys
were not.

When at 14 I started being sexualized by certain elements of the press.

When at 15 my girlfriends started dropping out of their sports teams because they didn’t want
to appear “muscly.”

When at 18 my male friends were unable to express their feelings.

I decided I was a feminist and this seemed uncomplicated to me. But my recent research has
shown me that feminism has become an unpopular word.

Apparently I am among the ranks of women whose expressions are seen as too strong, too
aggressive, isolating, anti-men and, unattractive.

Why is the word such an uncomfortable one?

I am from Britain and think it is right that as a woman I am paid the same as my male
counterparts. I think it is right that I should be able to make decisions about my own body. I
think it is right that women be involved on my behalf in the policies and decision-making of
my country. I think it is right that socially I am afforded the same respect as men. But sadly I
can say that there is no one country in the world where all women can expect to receive these
rights.
No country in the world can yet say they have achieved gender equality.

These rights I consider to be human rights but I am one of the lucky ones. My life is a sheer
privilege because my parents didn’t love me less because I was born a daughter. My school
did not limit me because I was a girl. My mentors didn’t assume I would go less far because I
might give birth to a child one day. These influencers were the gender equality ambassadors
that made me who I am today. They may not know it, but they are the inadvertent feminists
who are changing the world today. And we need more of those.

And if you still hate the word—it is not the word that is important but the idea and the
ambition behind it. Because not all women have been afforded the same rights that I have. In
fact, statistically, very few have been.

In 1995, Hilary Clinton made a famous speech in Beijing about women’s rights. Sadly many
of the things she wanted to change are still a reality today.

But what stood out for me the most was that only 30 per cent of her audience were male.
How can we affect change in the world when only half of it is invited or feel welcome to
participate in the conversation?

Men—I would like to take this opportunity to extend your formal invitation. Gender equality
is your issue too.

Because to date, I’ve seen my father’s role as a parent being valued less by society despite
my needing his presence as a child as much as my mother’s.

I’ve seen young men suffering from mental illness unable to ask for help for fear it would
make them look less “macho”—in fact in the UK suicide is the biggest killer of men between
20-49 years of age; eclipsing road accidents, cancer and coronary heart disease. I’ve seen
men made fragile and insecure by a distorted sense of what constitutes male success. Men
don’t have the benefits of equality either.  

We don’t often talk about men being imprisoned by gender stereotypes but I can see that that
they are and that when they are free, things will change for women as a natural consequence.

If men don’t have to be aggressive in order to be accepted women won’t feel compelled to be
submissive. If men don’t have to control, women won’t have to be controlled.

Both men and women should feel free to be sensitive. Both men and women should feel free
to be strong… It is time that we all perceive gender on a spectrum not as two opposing sets of
ideals.

If we stop defining each other by what we are not and start defining ourselves by what we are
—we can all be freer and this is what HeForShe is about. It’s about freedom. 

I want men to take up this mantle. So their daughters, sisters and mothers can be free from
prejudice but also so that their sons have permission to be vulnerable and human too—
reclaim those parts of themselves they abandoned and in doing so be a more true and
complete version of themselves.

You might be thinking who is this Harry Potter girl? And what is she doing up on stage at the
UN. It’s a good question and trust me, I have been asking myself the same thing. I don’t
know if I am qualified to be here. All I know is that I care about this problem. And I want to
make it better.

And having seen what I’ve seen—and given the chance—I feel it is my duty to say
something. English Statesman Edmund Burke said: “All that is needed for the forces of evil
to triumph is for enough good men and women to do nothing.”

In my nervousness for this speech and in my moments of doubt I’ve told myself firmly—if
not me, who, if not now, when. If you have similar doubts when opportunities are presented
to you I hope those words might be helpful.

Because the reality is that if we do nothing it will take 75 years, or for me to be nearly a
hundred before women can expect to be paid the same as men for the same work. 15.5
million girls will be married in the next 16 years as children. And at current rates it won’t be
until 2086 before all rural African girls will be able to receive a secondary education.

If you believe in equality, you might be one of those inadvertent feminists I spoke of earlier.

And for this I applaud you.

We are struggling for a uniting word but the good news is we have a uniting movement. It is
called HeForShe. I am inviting you to step forward, to be seen to speak up, to be the "he" for
"she". And to ask yourself if not me, who? If not now, when?

Thank you.

Speech by UN Women Goodwill Ambassador Emma Watson at a special event for the HeForShe
campaign, United Nations Headquarters, New York, 20 September 2014
 A DEFENSELESS CREATURE
- Niel Simon

The lights come up on the office of a bank official, KISTUNOV. He enters on a crutch; his
right foot is heavily encased in bandages, swelling it to three times its normal size. He suffers
from the gout and is very careful of any mishap which would only intensify his pain. He makes it
to his desk and sits. An ASSISTANT, rather harried, enters.

ASSISTANT (With volume) Good morning, Mr. Kistunov!

KISTUNOV Shhh! Please ... Please lower your voice.

ASSISTANT (Whispers) I'm sorry, sir.

KISTUNOV It's just that my gout is acting up again and my nerves are like little
firecrackers. The least little friction can set them off.

ASSISTANT It must be very painful, sir.

KISTUNOV Combing my hair this morning was agony.

ASSISTANT Mr. Kistunov ...

KISTUNOV What is it, Pochatkin?

ASSISTANT There's a woman who insists on seeing you. We can't make head or
tail out of her story, but she insists on seeing the directing manager.
Perhaps if you're not well-

KISTUNOV No, no. The business of the bank comes before my minor physical
ailments. Show her in, please . . . quietly. (The ASSISTANT tiptoes out. A
WOMAN enters. She is in her late forties, poorly dressed. She is of the working class.
She crosses to the desk, a forlorn look on her face. She twists her bag nervously) Good
morning, madame. Forgive me for not standing, but I am somewhat in capacitated.
Please sit down.

WOMAN Thank you. (She sits)

KISTUNOV Now, what can I do for you?

WOMAN You can help me, sir. I pray to God you can help. No one else in this world
seems to care ...
(And she begins to cry, which in tum becomes a wail
-the kind of wail that melts the spine of strong men. KISTUNOV winces and grits his teeth in
pain as he grips the arms of his chair)

KISTUNOV Calm yourself, madame. I beg of you. Please calm yourself.

WOMAN I'm sorry. (She tries to calm down)

KISTUNOV I'm sure we can sort it all out if we approach the problem sensibly and
quietly ... Now, what exactly is the trouble?

WOMAN Well, sir ... It's my husband. Collegiate Assessor Schukin. He's been sick for
five months ... Five agonizing months.

KISTUNOV I know the horrors of illness and can sympathize with you, madame. What's
the nature of his illness?

WOMAN It's a nervous disorder. Everything grates on his nerves. If you so much as
touch him he'll scream out (And without warning, she screams a loud bloodcurdling
scream that sends KISTUNOV almost out of his seat) How or why he got it, nobody
knows.

KISTUNOV (Trying to regain his composure) I have an ink ling ... Please go on, a little
less descriptively, if possible.
WOMAN Well, while the poor man was lying in bed
KISTUNOV (Braces himself) You're not going to scream again, are you?

WOMAN Not that I don't have cause ... While he was lying in bed these five
months, recuperating, he was dis missed from his job-for no reason at all.

KISTUNOV That's a pity, certainly, but I don't quite see the connection with our bank,
madame.

WOMAN You don't know how I suffered during his illness. I nursed him from
morning till night. Doctored him from night till morning. Besides cleaning my
house, taking care of my children, feeding our dog, our cat, our goat, my sister's
bird, .who was sick ...

KISTUNOV The bird was sick?

WOMAN My sister! She gets dizzy spells. She's been dizzy a month now. And she's
getting dizzier every day ...

KISTUNOV Extraordinary. However-

WOMAN I had to take care of her children and her house and her cat and her goat, and
then her bird bit one of my children, and so our cat bit her bird, so my oldest
daughter, the one with the broken arm, drowned my sister's cat, and now my sister
wants my goat in exchange, or else she says she'll either drown my cat or break
 my oldest daughter's other arm-

KISTUNOV Yes, well, you've certainly had your pack of troubles, haven't you? But I
don't quite see-

WOMAN And then, when I went to get my husband's pay, they deducted twenty-four
rubles and thirty-six kopecks. For what? I asked. Because, they said, he borrowed
it from the employees' fund. But that's impossible. He could never borrow
without my approval. I'd break his arm ... Not while he was sick, of course ... I
don't have the strength. I'm not well myself, sir. I have this racking cough that's a
terrible thing to hear- (She coughs rackingly-so rackingly. that KISTUNOV is about
to crack)

KISTUNOV I can well understand why your husband took five months to recuperate ...
But what is it you want from me, madame?

WOMAN What rightfully belongs to my husband-his twenty-four rubles and thirty-six

kopecks. They won't give it to me because I'm a woman, weak and defenseless.
Some of them have laughed in my face, sir ... Laughed! (She laughs loud and
painfully. KISTUNOV clenches every thing) Where's the humor, I wonder, in a
poor, defense less creature like myself? (She sobs)

KISTUNOV None ... I see none at all. However, madame, I don't wish to be unkind,
but I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. Your petition, no matter how
justified, has nothing to do with us. You'll have to go to the agency where your
husband was employed.

WOMAN What do you mean? I've been to five agencies already and none of them will
even listen to my petition. I'm about to lose my mind. The hair is coming out of
my head. (She pulls out a handful) Look at my hair. By the fistful. (She throws a
fistful on his desk) Don't tell me to go to another agency!

KISTUNOV (Delicately and disgustedly, he picks up her fistful of hair and hands it back to
her. She sticks it back in her hair) Please, madame, keep your hair in its proper
place. Now listen to me carefully. This-is-a-bank. A bank! We're in the banking
business. We bank money. Funds that are brought here are banked by us. Do you
understand what I'm saying?

WOMAN What are you saying?

KISTUNOV I'm saying that I can't help you.

WOMAN Are you saying you can't help me?

KISTUNOV (Sighs deeply) I'm trying. I don't think I'm making headway.

WOMAN Are you saying you won't believe my husband is sick? Here! Here is a doctor's
certificate. (She puts it on the desk and pounds it) There's the proof. Do you still
doubt that my husband is suffering from a nervous dis order?
KISTUNOV Not only do I not doubt it, I would swear to it.

WOMAN Look at it! You didn't look at it!

KISTUNOV It's· really not necessary. I know full well how your husband must be
suffering.

WOMAN What's the point in a doctor's certificate if you don't look at it?! LOOK AT
IT!

KISTUNOV (Frightened, quickly looks at it) Oh, yes ... I see your husband is sick. It's right
here on the doctor's certifi cate. Well, you certainly have a good case, madame, but I'm
afraid you've still come to the wrong place. (Getting perplexed) I'm getting excited.

WOMAN (Stares at him) You lied to me. I took you as a man of your word and you lied to
me.

KISTUNOV I? LIE? WHEN?

WOMAN (Snatches the certificate) When you said you read the doctor's certificate. You
couldn't have. You couldn't have

read the description of my husband's illness without seeing he was fired unjustly. (She puts the
certificate back on the desk) Don't take advantage of me just because I'm a weak,
defenseless woman. Do me the simple courtesy of reading the doctor's certificate. That's
all I ask. Read it, and then I'll go.
KISTUNOV ·But I read it! What's the point in reading some- thing twice when I've
already read it once?
WOMAN You didn't read it carefully.

KISTUNOV I read it in detail!

WOMAN Then you read it too fast. Read it slower.

KISTUNOV I don't have to read it slower. I'm a fast reader.

WOMAN Maybe you didn't absorb it. Let it sink in this time.

KISTUNOV (Almost apoplectic) I absorbed it! It sank in! I could pass a test on what's
written here, but it doesn't make any difference because it has nothing to do with our
bank!

WOMAN (She throws herself on him from behind) Did you read the part where it says he
has a nervous disorder? Read that part again and see if I'm wrong.

KISTUNOV THAT PART? OH, YES! I SEE YOUR HUSBAND HAS A NERVOUS
DISORDER. MY, MY, HOW TERRIBLE! ONLY I CAN'T HELP YOU! NOW
PLEASE GO! (He falls back into his chair, exhausted)
WOMAN (Crosses to where his foot is resting) I'm sorry, Excellency. I hope I haven't
caused you any pain.

KISTUNOV (Trying to stop her) Please, don't kiss my foot. (He is too late-she has given
his foot a most ardent embrace. He screams in pain) Aggghhh! Can't you get this
into your balding head? If you would just realize that to come to us with this kind
of claim is as strange as your trving to get a haircut in a butcher shop.

WOMAN You can't get a haircut in a butcher shop. Why would anyone go to a butcher
shop for a haircut? Are you laughing at me?
KISTUNOV Laughing! I'm lucky I'm breathing ... Pochat kin!
WOMAN Did I tell you I'm fasting? I haven't eaten in three days. I want to eat, but
nothing stays down. I had the same cup of coffee three times today.
KISTUNOV (With his last burst of energy, screams) PO CHATKIN!

WOMAN I'm skin and bones. I faint at the least provocation

... Watch. (She swoons to the fl.oar) Did you see? You saw how I just fainted? Eight
times a day that happens. (The ASSISTANT finally rushes in)

ASSISTANT What is it, Mr. Kistunov? What's wrong?

KISTUNOV (Screams) GET HER OUT OF HERE! Who

let her in my office?

ASSISTANT You did, sir. I asked you and you said, "Show her in."

KISTUNOV I thought you meant a human being, not a luna tic with a doctor's
certificate.

WOMAN (To Pochatkin) He wouldn't even read it. I gave it to him, he threw it back
in my face ... You look like a kind person. Have pity on me. You read it and
see if my husband is sick or not. (She forces the certificate on Pochatkin)

ASSISTANT I read it, madame. Twice!

KISTUNOV Me too. I had to read it twice too.

ASSISTANT You just showed it to me outside. You showed it to everyone. We all

read it. Even the doorman.

WOMAN You just looked at it. You didn't read it.

KISTUNOV Don't argue. Read it, Pochatkin. For God's sakes, read it so we can get
her out of here.
ASSISTANT (Quickly scans it) Oh, yes. It says your husband is sick. (He looks up; gives
it back to her) Now will you please leave, madame, or I will have to get someone
to remove you.
KISTUNOV Yes! Yes! Good! Remove her! Get the doorman and two of the guards.
 Be careful, she's strong as an ox.

WOMAN (To KISTUNOV) If you touch me, I'll scream so loud they'll hear it all over
the city. You'll lose all your depositors. No one will come to a bank where they
beat weak, defenseless women ... I think I'm going to faint again ...

KISTUNOV (Rising) WEAK? DEFENSELESS? You are as

defenseless as a charging rhinoceros! You are as weak as the King of the Jungle! You
are a plague, madame! A plague that wipes out all that crosses your path!
You are a raging river that washes out bridges and stately homes! You are a
wind that blows villages over mountains! It is women like you who drive men
like me to the condition of husbands like yours!

WOMAN Are you saying you're not going to help me?

KISTUNOV Hit her, Pochatkin! Strike her! I give you permission to knock her
down. Beat some sense into her!

WOMAN (To Pochatkin) You hear? You hear how I'm abused? He would have you hit
an orphaned mother. Did you hear me cough? Listen to this cough. (She "racks"
up another coughing spell)

ASSISTANT Madame, if we can discuss this in my office (He takes her arm)

WOMAN Get your hands off me ... Help! Help! I'm being beaten! Oh, merciful God,
they're beating me!

ASSISTANT I am not beating you. I am just holding your arm.

KISTUNOV Beat her, you fool. Kick her while you've got the chance. We'll never get her
out of here. Knock her senseless!(He tries to kick her, misses and falls to the floor)

WOMAN (Pointing an evil finger at KISTUNOV, she jumps on the desk and punctuates each
sentence by stepping on his desk bell) A curse! A curse on your bank! I put on a
curse on you and your depositors! May the money in your vaults turn to potatoes!
May the gold in your cellars turn to onions! May your rubles turn to radishes, and
your kopecks to pickles . . .

KISTUNOV STOP! Stop it, I beg of you! ... Pochatkin, give her the money. Give her
what she wants. Give her any thing-only get her out of here!

WOMAN (To Pochatkin) Twenty-four rubles and thirty-six kopecks ... Not a penny
more. That's all that's due me and that's all I want.
ASSISTANT Come with me, I'll get you your money.

WOMAN And another ruble to get me home. I'd walk but

I have very weak ankles.
KISTUNOV Give her enough for a taxi, anything, only get her out.

WOMAN God bless you, sir. You're a kind man. I remove the curse. (With a gesture)
Curse be gone! Onions to money, potatoes to gold-

KISTUNOV (Pulls on his hair) REMOVE HERRRR! Oh, God, my hair is falling out!
(He pulls some hair out)

WOMAN Oh, there's one other thing, sir. I'll need a letter of recommendation so my
husband can get another job. Don't bother yourself about it today. I'll be back in
the morning. God bless you, sir ...(She leaves)
KISTUNOV She's coming back ... She's coming back
... (He slowly begins to go mad and takes his cane and begins to beat his bandaged
leg) She's coming back... She's coming back ...
(Dim-out)