At the end of his children’s classic, ‘Jumping Mouse’, a retelling of a Native American story, the poet Brian Patten vividly describes the transfiguration of the little desert mouse, hero of the story. Like the hero of all good stories,but unlike his timid kin, Jumping Mouse is a brave explorer whose curiosity pushes him to see all of his world, the American prairie. So he discovers rivers and frogs, flowers and dying buffalo, and, eventually, the Sacred mountains and the eagle.
The story ends:
And then in the middle of his back Jumping Mouse felt an odd sensation, and up above he heard the noise an eagle makes. The Spots were coming to him now. He felt the rush of wind as huge wings came down from the sky and a bird descended on him. He was terrified as he felt the claws grab round his body, and then he did not mind at all. He felt himself being lifted from the ground.
The next thing he knew, Jumping Mouse was beginning to see again. He saw colours and shapes, and shades of light, and all the time he was rising higher and higher. He laughed! O he was sure he had wings! He was sure he could fly! It was wonderful this feeling! This rush of the wind! He felt that like the eagle he had a beak, and claws and perfect sight.
[…] Out on the Great Plain he saw the buffalo thundering along. And there was the frog by the Great River! Jumping Mouse felt so happy and free. He shouted down to his friend the frog, and his voice seemed changed. ‘Hello, Brother Frog,’ he called, all the time rising higher and higher.
And the frog looked up from the river and shouted: ‘Hello, Brother Eagle!’
(Jumping Mouse by Brian Patten, George Allan & Unwin Ltd., London, 1972)
Ever since I first read that story, aloud, to my small children in 1972, I have wanted, like Jumping Mouse, to, at the end, soar as an eagle. Achieving this, without the intervention of a god or magic, has seemed at times well beyond me. Like my unfulfilled ambition to be born Italian so that I can wear a white suit with impunity, it seemed beyond the capability of an ordinary human.
But now, I think I have cracked it. Historically, in the North American west and central plains, many Native Americans disposed of the dead by building wooden platforms on stilts, on which bodies were laid and left to decompose and be consumed by birds. That’ll do for me! I realise that eagles don’t eat carrion, but I’d settle for a vulture – they soar, don’t they?
I realise also that Jumping Mouse was alive when he was taken by Brother Eagle, but I would have to be dead in this scheme. But to me what matters is the essence of the thing, being eaten by a soaring bird, not the timing of the meal.
Putting this plan into action presents certain practical difficulties. I cannot find anywhere in Europe with an even ancient tradition of sky burial. The Zoroastrians at times used the practise, but I have no connection with Zoroastrianism or Iran. Neither have I connection with Tibet where it is practised even today.
I do, though, have some, small, meso-American Amerindian ancestry, and they share common roots with the First Nation peoples of Canada. That’s close enough for me.
On enquiring I find that sky burial is no longer allowed in Canada or the US. Apparently if offends against all kinds of health and safety legislation. They trump my somewhat remote ethnic requirements, apparently. So, it’ll just have to be done clandestinely.
My plan: Get my body while still alive to Canada, to some under-populated province with lots of open wilderness and more than a few vultures. Find a susceptible relative with a spare room, a pickup truck, some basic platform building skills and a general disregard for pettifogging restrictions. Then wait for my final breath. Then, in a few warm days, and with a fair wind, I’ll be off and soaring.
Footnote: ‘Jumping Mouse’ is still in print. More details >> here.
Last weekend, for the first in a long while, I listened all the way through to Berlioz’ Les nuits d’été, six settings of poems by Théophile Gautier.
I have loved this work dearly, ever since I first heard it sung by Janet Baker at the English Bach Festival in 1971. In the past, when I listened to them there was one song, the third, Sur les lagunes: Lamento, that somehow I didn’t embrace – or perhaps understand – in the way I did the others. All that changed on Saturday, as the song went straight to my heart, for now I understand, now I share the desolation.
Ma belle amie est morte: Je pleurerai toujours Sous la tombe elle emporte Mon âme et mes amours. Dans le ciel, sans m’attendre, Elle s’en retourna; L’ange qui l’emmena Ne voulut pas me prendre. Que mon sort est amer! Ah! sans amour s’en aller sur la mer!
La blanche créature Est couchée au cercueil. Comme dans la nature Tout me paraît en deuil! La colombe oubliée Pleure et songe à l’absent; Mon âme pleure et sent Qu’elle est dépareillée! Que mon sort est amer! Ah! sans amour s’en aller sur la mer!
Sur moi la nuit immense S’étend comme un linceul; Je chante ma romance Que le ciel entend seul. Ah! comme elle était belle Et comme je l’aimais! Je n’aimerai jamais Une femme autant qu’elle. Que mon sort est amer! Ah! sans amour s’en aller sur la mer!
“Sur les lagunes: Lamento” byPierre Jules Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)
You can hear the music here and an English translation is here.
I put the dossier aside and brought my friend Jeremy another Appleton. He sipped it slowly; he had become quite sloth-like as the evening progressed. I had so many questions for him, I worried that he might snooze off again before I could ask them all.
So, now that you have read your grandfather’s naturalisation dossier, what have you learned?
“Quite a lot, actually. His war service, for example. I now know that in his three years in the Army he served in France for at least two, possibly three tours of duty; that, after the war was over, he was part of the British Expeditionary force sent to Archangel in North Western Russia to support the White Russians against the Bolsheviks in the Civil War, one of Churchill’s more foolish and Quixotic adventures. He obviously was a good, probably not exceptional, soldier: he was promoted twice in two years; his commanding officer goes to bat for him, helping him get his naturalisation through the process and to track down his missing certificate; he is awarded his due medals, suggesting good behaviour.
“I know for sure that he was born in Warsaw, not Paris, in 1885 not 1889 as one US document records it. I know the names of his parents, but not who they were nor what they did for a living. As far as I can discover, this is the only appearance Gustav and Felicya Helen make in any publicly available record. Good archaeologists always leave a portion of a site unexplored, for a future generation with better tools to develop. Like them, I’ll leave Stefan’s parents to the future.
“I know where and when he married my grandmother, Marguerite Coudert, and something of the circumstances of the marriage. There’s more about where and when my aunt and uncles were born – two in London, but interestingly one, Paul, in France at the home that my great-grandfather, Dr Louis Albert Coudert, had retired to in Cazeres-sur-l’Adour in the Landes in Southwestern France. I will visit the village one day – it’s not that far from where we are now – and if the house still exists, I will know it from my mother’s vivid description of her visit there as a child in the 1920s. But I do wonder why, when they were well established in Holland Park, they travelled to France, which had been invaded by Germany the month before, for the birth of Gustav Louis Paul. Maybe they were already there when war broke out, or perhaps Marguerite insisted on going on her own, leaving Stefan in the Holland Park home. I will never know.
“About Stefan himself: he worked as a clerk and as a shop assistant in a pharmacy but was not a ‘chemist’ as my parent’s marriage certificate has him. He could be a good employee but was not above being stroppy, as the pharmacy he worked for in Broad Street, Soho, found out. What was that quarrel about? Why didn’t he work for a year? Sulking? Couldn’t get a reference? Was it hard for a ‘Russian’ to find work in London? But, all in all, he was considered to be ‘a good character’. “
I sense a hesitation in your voice. You are still not sure about him, are you?
“Well, yes. You see, although there’s a lot we can gather about Stefan from the paperwork, there’s a lot missing, or ambiguous, or not quite right. I’ve had to do a lot of thinking about these and work out for myself what it all means. Without an older generation around to check things with, and the difficulty of getting access to many of the archives, particularly in Poland, I can’t be certain of any of the conclusions I have drawn.
What do you mean?
“Well, take the length of time he claims in that he has lived in London: he puts it at 6 years and 2 months, which would make it November 1911. But that’s when he married Marguerite on 26th November 1911 in St John the Baptist Church, in Great Marlborough Street. That would mean he came to London not only to settle but also to get married just a few days after he arrived.
“One wonders what are the circumstances? Where did Stefan meet Marguerite? In Paris, where we know she worked before coming to London? Or did they meet in London, which he was visiting perhaps looking for work. Or was he already living in London? And when did they meet? It had to be in early 1911, as Marguerite was 6 months pregnant at the time of the marriage. Of course, it could be that they met in Paris, fell in love, conceived Maud, and, in God knows what circumstances, late in the day, leave Paris for marriage, work and a new life in London. Which could explain the timing – just.”
Very romantic, a sort of elopement maybe? Anything else that doesn’t quite add up?
“Yes. There is the marriage itself. This took place in St John the Baptist Church, near to Liberty’s on the edge of Soho. I looked it up, the church is no longer there; it was decommissioned in 1937. So, that adds up – we know from Sergeant Boustred report that Stefan lived and worked in Soho in 1911 and 12:
Mr Burt first knew Memorialist through his wife Mrs Burt, who used to visit the young children in Soho district on behalf of the Westminster Council. Memorialist lived at that time in the Soho district and when one of his children was born he was visited by Mrs Burt.
“If you live in Soho, it makes sense to marry in Soho. But what is odd is that St John the Baptist was an Anglican church.”
And that is odd because?
“Marguerite was a Roman Catholic, from a very devout Breton family. She continued to be a devout Catholic throughout her life; she brought up all her children as Catholics, and at least two of them were devout and active Catholics throughout their lives. Stefan was, it is said, also a Catholic. So what circumstance could lead to them to marry in an Anglican church?
“At that time, relations between the Anglican and Roman Catholic churches were frosty to say the least. What would it take, then, to make Catholics marry in an Anglican church?”
Could they have been refused a Catholic marriage because Marguerite was pregnant?
“No, the local Catholic priest would have been only too happy to officiate at the wedding to ensure the legitimacy of Maud’s birth. It had to be something else. For example, if one or other of the couple was a divorcee, and the first spouse was still living. Or, the couple were too closely related. Or one partner has lived in ‘notorious concubinage’ with the mother or father of the other. Or the man was impotent. Or one party had been abducted for the purposes of the marriage. Or Disparity of Cult – marriage between a Catholic and a non-baptized person. There’s more – so take your pick.
“Whatever the reason, they were married in an Anglican church, and at the time, the Catholic Church would have treated the marriage as invalid. But in the eyes of the British state, it was a valid, legal marriage.
“Then for me, there’s the final missing piece of the jigsaw – where was Stefan coming from when he arrived in Britain (and the associated question why did he come)? I have searched in vain for a record of his arrival in England, his Immigration Card. That it’s not there is not surprising, if the destruction in the present day by the Home Office of the entry records of the Windrush Generation, of which I am one, is anything to go by. If Stefan’s card was available, it would answer three questions: When did he arrive? Which country did he set out from? What was the reason for entering Britain?
“Knowing his reason for coming to England and where he embarked from would tell us a lot about Stefan and his history before 1911. For we really know nothing about him for certain from his birth in Warsaw in 1885 until his arrival in London. Did he come directly from Poland? Had he lived in Paris as a boy and a young man as family legend has it, and come to London from there? Was he coming as what we now call an ‘economic migrant’, or was he some sort of refugee like so many other Poles and Russians on the move in that period – 2 million of them? Unless we can find that Immigration Card, we won’t know. But I’ll leave that for some future generation to dig up.”
OK, but at least your research told you your grandfather’s nationality.
“Yes … and no! Of course, he was Polish, born in Warsaw of clearly Polish parents. Yet, he was Polish by birth but not by status. Although Poland had existed as a separate nation state for many hundreds of years, and was to be an independent nation state again after the first World War in 1919, at the time of his birth Poland was in a partitioned, colonial state, occupied and parcelled out for over 100 years between three neighbouring empires – Austrian, German and Russian. So, born in Russian occupied Warsaw, in law, Stefan was a Russian subject, travelling with Russian nationality, presumably on a Russian passport.
“I have no doubt that in 1918, and long before, most people in Britain would have sympathised with Polish aspirations to have their sovereignty restored and a free Poland once again a reality. Nonetheless, when he applied for British naturalisation, Stefan was forced to enter ‘Russian’ as his nationality, and ‘Warsaw, Russian Poland’ as his place of birth – remember the instruction on the special Polish/Jewish application form. The reason for this, apart from it being a literal, legal truth, is particularly poignant for me – like Stefan I was born a colonial subject in a colonised country. My nationality at birth was ‘British’ not ‘Jamaican’ and remained that until 6th August 1962, when Jamaica gained its Independence. In 1918, for Britain not to recognise, and insist on, Stephan being identified as Russian, would call into question not just the legitimacy of the Russian Empire, and by extension, also that of the British Empire.
“It is clear from all the other records, that unless forced to do otherwise, Stefan always identified himself as Polish by birth; even after he achieves British nationality, he describes himself as Polish, his nationality as British. (There is one exception – a document in which his nationality is described as French, but I think this is a clerical error.)
“Yet isn’t it extremely sad, and also ironic, that in his long lifetime, Stefan never managed officially to hold citizenship of an independent Poland. When the new republic was born, one of its first tasks was to determine who was Polish and who was not. They turned to a law of residence that existed in the Austrian Partition. Polish citizenship was for all people born in Poland, or descended from parents born in Poland, resident at the time of independence in the territory of the new Polish Republic. It also made provision for Poles ‘remaining abroad, to [acquire] Polish citizenship, unless they acquired the citizenship of a foreign country before 31 January 1920 by the fact of birth within its territory or by naturalisation.’ By becoming British in 1918, Stefan excluded himself from Polish citizenship. He also deprived me of my easiest Plan B for retaining EU citizenship in the case of Brexit ever happening!
“There’s one last little titbit – while waiting for his Home Office file to be sent to me, I did some further research on Stefan in the US records. I discovered that years ago I had missed a US Department of Immigration and Naturalisation Service record of Stefan applying for, and getting, US citizenship in 1947. That dossier should be very revealing, but not for me – I leave its discovery to another digger.
“Sometimes I wonder if Stefan found it unfair, or sad, or even ironic, that he was denied the right to be recognised as a Polish citizen. But somehow, looking at the broad outline of his his life, I doubt if he was given to that sort of self reflection.”
So, he was Polish, but was he also Jewish? Didn’t you say that most of the Poles and Russians who migrated to the UK between 1880 and 1920 were Jewish?
“I did, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that Stefan was Jewish. Also, it may depend on what you mean by ‘Jewish’.
“Lets examine the words ‘Jew’ and ‘Jewish’? Judaism is a faith and the words Jew and Jewish can refer to the people who espouse that faith. In this sense, it makes no presumption about the ethnicity or colour of the person. So, there are today religious Jews who are Semitic people from the Near East, many are European, some black African, others who are Chinese, some Indian, and so on. They are as diverse as members of any other major faith, for example Christianity or Islam. What unites them is that they are all ‘people of the book’ despite their race (whatever the term race means.)
“But the terms have another meaning, which is often very fluid and sometimes hard to grasp. This meaning is of a people ‘belonging to a continuation through descent or conversion of the ancient Jewish people.’ And this is where the fluidity begins. Defining ‘the ancient Jewish people’ is not simple. As Simon Schama has pointed out, the ancient Jewish people were not only the people of ancient Jerusalem and Judea, but also the Jews of the upper Nile in Egypt left behind at the Exodus, the culturally Greek Jews of Alexandria, the more Arabic Jews of the Yemen. They all had different ways of being Jewish, often very different from that then current in Jerusalem. Because of this, although they were a people, the ancient Jews were not a ‘race’ in the popular understanding of that word. Many of them shared the mixture of genes of the original Jews of Abraham’s time, but many didn’t. Conversion and assimilation and intermarriage meant that the ancient Jews as a people were defined by their central shared customs and beliefs and not necessarily by shared ancestry.
“What is true of the ancient Jews, is true of modern Jews. They are a people who are descended from groups of people who held these central shared customs and beliefs, who clung on to that shared identity across 2000 years, and who today, whether they are religious or not, can be identified by that descent. So, they can look like Ethiopians, Egyptians, Chinese, Indians or Europeans, but they are all, nonetheless, Jewish. This is what we mean, or should mean, when we talk about the Jews as a people, as distinct from Jews as members of a religion. You should read Gil Yehuda on this.
“There are two historical communities who make up the great majority of Jews in Europe today. These are the Ashkenazi and the Sephardi people. The Ashkenazi are a Jewish diaspora population who coalesced in the Holy Roman Empire and as far west as Northern France around the end of the first millennium. It’s not known for certain what their origin was, the best supported theory is the one that suggests a Jewish migration from Israel through what is now Italy and other parts of southern Europe starting during the late Greek and early Roman Imperial periods and continuing into the Christian era. In the Holy Roman Empire in the 9th century their language became Yiddish, a High-German language fused with Hebrew and Aramaic elements. In the High and Later Mediaeval period, responding to persecution, the Ashkenazi started spreading east into lands that are now Poland, Russia, Ukraine, and the Baltic States. This is the group that might be relevant to Stephan.”
OK, I get that, but was he Jewish?
“There is nothing to suggest that he was a Jew in the sense that he was a member of the Jewish faith. His, and his parent’s, forenames are not what one would expect of religious, orthodox Jews. They are names that commonly occur throughout Central Europeans of that period.
“However, his surname, Kamelhard is a Jewish name. All rreferences to it are in a Jewish context, mainly in Holocaust related files or census and local government audits prior to 1939. The name is spelled in different ways in the Polish records, and some of these variants turn up in Stefan’s US documentation. The spelling variation is probably due to the problems transliterating words and proper names from one language to another, and clerical errors that become permanent orthography. The name the family now use, Kamellard, does not turn up in any Polish or Russian sources, and seems to have been used only after the birth of my mother at the end of 1918 – by 1921 Stephan is using it.
“The name Kamelhard turns up in databases of victims such as at Yad Vashem and the US Holocaust Memorial Museum, and in collections like the records of the Łódź Ghetto. The people I found were from Warsaw and Kraków and small villages in what is now central Poland. All are Holocaust victims. There are no Kamelhards in the survivor lists I have looked at. I did find one Kamelhard who survived the war and was buried near Kraków in the 1950s. No other details. Searches on the internet for living Kamelhards return no results. They seem, like Stefan’s Manhattan telephone, to have been disconnected.
“The name, therefore strongly suggests that Stefan was Jewish by descent. His parent’s, and his, forenames point to them being assimilated Jews, and this is reinforced by the fact that they lived in the capital Warsaw. In the 19th Century many upwardly mobile, educated Jews throughout Germany, Austria and Russia left the small, rural towns with large Jewish populations, the shtetls, to settle in large cities such as Berlin, Vienna, Prague and Warsaw. This allowed them to join the new professional middle class and to take up the law and medicine, practise music and the arts, do science, and be teachers in the wider community in ways that Jews had not done before. Many lower middle-class assimilated Jews owned and operated pubs, hotels, breweries and distilleries.
“This assimilation often involved the abandonment of many of the customs and ways of Jewish life or becoming totally secularised. Sometimes they converting to Christianity, often to ensure promotion – Gustav Mahler is an example, he converted so that he could become Director of the Vienna Imperial Opera, Christianity being a requirement of the post.
“So, I believe that Stefan and his parents were a part of this wave of assimilated middle-class Jews. They may have been Christians but were more probably secular which might account for the marriage to Marguerite being in an Anglican not a Catholic church – there was a Disparity of Cult
“There is one last word on this. Recent DNA analysis suggests that, just as I inherit from my father genetic markers of West African ancestry – I am a carrier of Sickle Cell Trait – in the same way I inherit from my mother markers in just about the right proportions consistent with Stefan and his parents being Ashkenazi.”
It’s after midnight, much too late for an aged sloth like me. It’s time we parted, you to your home, me to my tree. But before you wonder off into the night, one last question. When we started talking much earlier this evening, you didn’t seem to have had a very high opinion of Stefan before you got his dossier. Has anything you found changed your mind?
“You are right, I thought he was, to say the least, a completely dodgy, untrustworthy character. I have had to modify that a bit now. The file shows that he did good things: he married Marguerite when she was six months pregnant, he did not abandon her. And he stayed with her for another ten years, long enough to father four children. Presumably, as new immigrants to London, it was not easy to organise the marriage, set up a home and provide for them all. That’s all to the good.
“Then his military service speaks well of him. He volunteered
when he didn’t need to, since he was an alien he was not conscripted. He put in
good service, rising from a kitchen clerk to a responsible role in military
intelligence, leaving the army with two promotions. That speaks well for him.
“And later, in his life in America, his ‘marriage’ there appears to have been a good one, he seems to have been a faithful and diligent husband for the marriage lasted to the end of his life. So good.
“Nonetheless, there is still the debit side of the account. I
come away with the impression that he is never completely open about himself,
neither with the authorities, nor with the people he knew. There is a shiftiness
about the fluidity of his surname that suggests a fluidity in his truthfulness
about other aspects of his life.
“It’s still a fact that he abandoned Marguerite – and the children Maud, Paul, Jacques and Jacqueline – at a time when they needed him most, causing them not only social and psychological harm and economic disruption, but also arguably a much poorer life physically and emotionally than had he stayed. My mother was the way she was to some degree because she spent much of her childhood in foster care because Marguerite could not cope financially.
“He was not above committing crime, no matter how excusable the
circumstances might be thought to make them. He was an illegal immigrant to the
United States, and only regularised his status after a long while. He
contracted a bigamous marriage, a crime in both the UK and his new country the
“He also comes across as indifferent to the harm he caused. As far as I know, once he jumped ship in the Boston in 1924, he made no attempt to contact any of the family he left behind in the UK. My mother and the uncles and aunts, never mention their father being in contact, or attempting to find out their circumstances and progress. While this might be understandable in the early years, particularly as these included the Depression and the Second World War, in later life, when conditions were better, his indifference continued. I revisited the research I had did years ago into Stefan’s American life and unearthed an entry I had overlooked at the time. It is a UK Immigration record of the departure for New York of Stefan and Elaine Kamelhard, US citizens, from the Port of Southampton in the summer of 1960. If Stefan contacted any of the family while he was in Britain, I am not aware of it. Yet it would have been easy enough – both Paul and Jacques Kamellard were in the London telephone book.
“I do not know, nor can anyone know at this distance in time, what were the forces – psychological, economic, political, social and religious – that shaped the character of Stefan Kemelhard in the 30 years or so before he turned up to marry Marguerite in London in 1911. Like all of us, he is not responsible for the genes he inherited, not for the circumstances that shaped his early life and character. But, as indepenent adults, we are all responsible for what we do with the cards we have been dealt. I think Stefan played his hand badly and I find it hard to put out of mind the abandonment of, and indifference toward, the Kamellards he left behind in London.
“If I met him would I like him? I don’t think so. Fascinating as his story might be, I find it a blessing that I did not have to know him. But, if I am right about all this, I do relish this irony: when my mother lied to bigots in Jamaica that she had a Jewish father, she was probably telling the truth.”
While my friend Jeremy opened up his bag and brought out a bulging file, I refreshed his Appleton and Canada Dry Ginger. Putting on my reading glasses I was ready for the great reveal!
I opened the brown manila folder. Inside was a Home Office dossier, 27 pages long, recording the progress of Stefan Kamelhard through the naturalisation process. Most of the file is bureaucratic bumph – five pages of minutes recording the progress of the file through the Home Office, scraps of paper little bigger than a bus ticket on which addresses or reminders or notes to the archive have been scribbled, letters to and from Stefan’s commanding officer in the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, that sort of thing. But there are treasures – a letter in Stefan’s own hand, a police report, the application for naturalisation, again in Stefan’s own hand, an attestation of character by a neighbour.
The file, HO 144/1488, Archive Number 354518 was opened on the 9th January 1918. The last minute is dated 7th December 1918. Later a seal is placed on the dossier, closing it until 2018! The application was made through Stefan’s then commanding officer Lt. Col. Charles Arthur Wilding C.M.G. (later Lt. General) of the 11th Battalion of the RDF, and Stefan does not have to pay anything because he is a serving soldier. Intriguingly there is a handwritten note at the top of the page recording “2-4 Destroyed”. What could they have been?
The minutes show that Stefan’s application is processed very
quickly. By the 5th of March the Home Office have completed their
“This seems a proper case. The man has been here for about 6 and a half years & nothing is known against him. He has served well in the Army.”
The application is granted on the 16 March, and the certificate sent to his commanding officer on the 25th. Stefan took the oath of Allegiance before a Justice of the Peace in March 30th. But he never seemed to have received the certificate, for the next four pages of minutes record various enquiries from Stefan or his commanding officer trying to get hold of a copy of the certificate. The complication is that it’s wartime and Stefan’s regiment keeps moving about – from Aldershot, to France, back to Aldershot, to an unspecified training camp preparatory to service in Archangel in Russia at the end of the year. But finally, in December, a copy is sent to his wife in Kensington, and the file is closed.
Next in the dossier are the scraps of paper and letters to and from the Army. These only reveal that the Treasury is reluctant to waive fees for the naturalisation and for the copy certificate but are overruled by the Home Office (one hundred years on that would be a battle the Home Office would always lose!) and, by August, Stefan has been promoted to Lance-Corporal and is working as an Intelligence Clerk. That he is working in military intelligence is not surprising since he spoke fluent German, Russian, Polish and French.
There is a long letter from the Home Office to Lt. Col.
Wilding giving instructions on how the Oath is to be administered. It contains
the intriguing sentence, almost as an afterthought at the end:
I am to add that in case this man is a Jew, a Jew is sworn holding a copy of the Old Testament in his uplifted right hand.
The letter in Stefan’s hand is written from France on 13 July 1918 and is asking for a replacement for the missing certificate. The handwriting to my eye is a bit juvenile, but I’m not an expert in human writing. His language is interesting – formal in an English way, with one or two errors – “…my allegiance of oath…” for example. Despite these, he seems fluent in English, or did he have help??
Now we cometo the most intriguing, and informative, documents in the file – a police report on Stefan and the application itself. The first step in the Home Office’s process was to refer the application to the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police, who very rapidly investigated Stefan, spoke to previous employers and people who knew the family. Sergeant Boustred, who conducted the investigation, reported back to the Home Office on the 27th January.
The referee Mr James Lyndon Burt, of 2 Addison Road, Kensington, W., a merchant in business trading as Burt & Co., 41 Eastcheap, E.C., is a respectable, responsible person, householder and natural born British Subject. I was informed by him that he has known the Memorialist and his wife for the past 4 years. Mr Burt first knew Memorialist through his wife Mrs Burt, who used to visit the young children in Soho district on behalf of the Westminster Council. Memorialist lived at that time in the Soho district and when one of his children was born he was visited by Mrs Burt. Since then she has taken a great interest in the family and for some time has casually employed Memorialist’s wife to do dressmaking. Mr Burt, knows of nothing to the prejudice of Memorialist except that he did at one time form the opinion that Memorialist was a ne’er-do-well. It seems that Memorialist worked for a chemist at 2 Broad Street, Golden Square, and owing to a dispute over the work he left and did nothing for about a 12 month. Mr. Burt, thought that he was lazy. His wife who is a dressmaker kept the home going. Memorialist however changed after this for the better and obtained a situation with Messrs Lyons and Benoist Ltd, and was in continuous employment until he left of his own accord and joined the British army. According to enquiries Memorialist appears to be a respectable man. His wife is a French woman having been born 22nd March 1881 at Rennes, Ile et Vilaine, Bretagne, France, (birth certificate produced) and he married her on the 26th November 1911 at St Johns Church, Great Marlborough Street, W. (marriage certificate produced) There are three children of the marriage, under age [.....] The third child Gustav Louis Paul, was born in 1914 at Cazeres sur l’Adour, France, and Memorialist’s wife says it is their wish for this child to be included in the Memorial.
Next I turned my attention to the second document: Stafan’s application for naturalisation. Unlike the form in use today, which is 31 pages long, 100 years ago Stefan only had to fill out two pages.
At the time Poland did not exist, it had been overrun and partitioned between Russia, Austria and Prussia, later Germany. Stefan came from the Russian occupied portion and so he had to fill out a form specific to Russian citizens.
It struck me as odd that there was a form specific to one group of aliens, people from the Russian Empire. But this is easily explained. Between 1880 and 1920, massive pogroms and the May Laws in Russia, that severely curtailed the rights of Jews throughout the Russian Empire, caused 2 million Jews to flee, the majority to the USA. 140,00, mainly from Poland, Ukraine and Lithuania, went to Britain. Few non-Jewish Poles settled in Britain during this period – a handful of political exiles, and, of course, Józef Korzeniowski, Joseph Conrad as he is better known. In these years Russian Jews were the largest group of immigrants and refugees which helps explain why there was a naturalisation form specifically for Russians. Because of the instruction in item (3) Nationality Stefan must give his nationality as Russian, not Polish or Jewish, so it is not possible to tell from this whether he was a Polish Jewish refugee, or a non-Jewish Pole, refugee or otherwise.
The form shows that Stefan arrived in London in September 1912, and that up until he joined the Army in 1916, he lived at three addresses in Holland Park, then a relatively poor area, now one of the most fashionable and expensive. There is no mention of his lodgings in Soho where he was first known to Mr & Mrs Burt.
Page 2 gives a lot of detail about the Kamelhard family both in London and in Warsaw. His marriage to Marguerite Louise, their three children born before 1918, Stefan’s mother and father. And there is one interesting anomaly – although Stefan says he has lived in England since September 1912, his marriage is in London, in an Anglican church in November 1911, three and a half months before the birth of their first child and almost a full year before he says he started living in England.
There are two attachments to the application, character references, one from Mr James Lyndon Burt , the other from Lt. Col. Wilding .
Well, now I had all the facts. But how to interpret them? I turned to my friend Jerermy, who had dozed off as I read the dossier.
“Wake up”, I said, “I have some questions for you.” He rubbed his eyes, sat up and said, “OK, but not before another Appleton.
One day a piece of sky fell and hit Chicken Little on the head.
Chicken Little rushed over to Henny Penny and said: “The sky is falling in, and a piece of it hit me on the head.”
“Oh no,” said Henny Penny, “that can’t be true. I think it’s just Project Fear. Don’t worry.”
“No,” said Chicken Little, “a piece of the sky did hit me on the head.”
“OK” said Henny Penny. “We’ll go discuss it with Cocky Locky.”
And they did. And Cocky Locky said “Oh no, that can’t be true. I think it’s just Project Fear. Don’t worry.”
“No,” said Chicken Little, “a piece of the sky did hit me on the head.”
“OK” said Cocky Locky. “We’ll go discuss it with Ducky Lucky.”
And they did. And Ducky Lucky said “Oh no, that can’t be true. I think it’s just Project Fear. Don’t worry.”
As this is a children’s fairy story you know that we have to repeat this a number of times. So eventually a small crowd of farm birds – Chicken Little, Henny Penny, Cocky Locky, Ducky Lucky, Drakey Lakey, and Goosey Loosey go to Turkey Lurkey.
And Turkey Lurkey said “Oh no, that can’t be true. I think it’s just Project Fear. Don’t worry.”
“No,” said Chicken Little, “a piece of the sky did hit me on the head.”
“OK” said Turkey Lurkey. “We’ll go discuss it with Foxy Loxy. He gets around in the world, knows a lot of people,. He really knows what’s going on.”
So they all went to see Foxy Loxy who said “It’s just Project Fear, don’t worry about it. Why don’t you come in and I’ll fix you all a lovely hot drink.”
And they did. And Foxy Loxy whistled as he put a cauldron of water on the stove.
Foxy Loxy, having already eaten Henny Penny, Cocky Locky, Ducky Lucky, Drakey Lakey, Goosey Loosey and Turkey Lurkey, was about to tuck into Chicken Little, when the entire sky fell in as the earth unintentionally crashed out of the Solar System, killing Foxy Loxy.
“Screw me!” Foxy Loxy thought as he died, “Chicken Little was right. It wasn’t Project Fear after all!”
By now it was night, and the full moon was high, bathing Lanquais in a silvery glow. I poured another Appleton and Canada Dry Ginger, and my friend Jeremy continued with the story of his search for his Russian grandfather.
“So, where was I? Oh yes.”
In May 1924, Stefan, my grandfather, runs away to America, leaving Marguerite, my grandmother, a French immigrant in London, to bring up four children on her own. He settles down in New York, bigamously marries a younger woman, to whom he stays married until he dies in 1964. He is registered for the draft in 1942, although, at this point, he is 57 years old. He seems to work in catering establishments up to the year of his death. And that’s as much as I can discover about his life after Marguerite.
But what about the first 40 years or so. Other than the
scraps I picked up from my mother and her tight-lipped brothers and sister, precious
little. A name and a birthplace; some vague hints of a connection with France,
particularly with Paris, involvement with the British Army in the 1914-18 War;
raw records of his brief life at sea, abscondment. Oh, and he was definitely not
Jewish, my mother made that up! And that’s about it.
And it remained ‘just about it’, until that particularly English
(with some help from the Welsh) masochistic, self-destructive, insanity: Brexit.
Brexit: an ugly
word for an ugly reality! An act of stupidity so patently not in the interest
of anyone except perhaps a wealthy hedge fund operator, that even now, nearly three
years after the referendum that approved it, it takes your breath away. It
sucks the life out of its victims, the sense out of informed debate, the joy
out of life.
But, not even Brexit has no
upside. For thanks to Brexit, I have found a treasure trove that takes me
tantalisingly close to filling in many of the missing bits of the story of my
Polish, or maybe Russian, grandfather, Stefan Kamellard. Here’s how it
As the British Government negotiated its divorce agreement
with the EU, and as time went by, it became clearer each day that the UK was
using its citizens who had made their lives in the other EU countries as
bargaining chips. With no input from us – we had no vote in the referendum – we
were pawns in the great game. But all would be well. Hadn’t David Davis, the UK
negotiator-in-chief, assured us before the referendum that this would be the
easiest negotiation in history, that we held all the cards, that we would ‘have
our cake and eat it’? Or was it Boris? or Nigel? or Michael? or Liam? – doesn’t
matter, whoever it was, they knew what they were talking about, don’t they. Mrs
V and I’d be OK, we’d even come out of this with our rights enhanced!
Turns out this wasn’t quite 100% true. In fact, it wasn’t
even 10% true. As the weeks went by, one by one our rights as British residents
of the EU after Brexit, became less than they were before: restricted and
constrained; dependent on the kindness and goodwill of our neighbours,
something we have little reason to doubt; heavily dependent on the willingness of
our own government to protect our interests, something it would be stupid to
Of course, we were not without a Plan B. As it happens,
unlike Mrs May and her happy band of ‘No Plan B’ Brexiteers, we had more than
one, some more attractive than others. One of them, favoured by Mrs V, involved
having a foot in both camps, living part of the time in the EU, part of the time
in the UK. We started to make this happen.
Then I found myself alone. I have enjoyed my life in France,
and, all things being equal, am happy to stay here forever. There was a Plan B that
allowed me to achieve this: I have many French ancestors on both sides of my
family, so just become a French citizen by naturalisation, and retain most of
the rights the UK was happy to give away.
So, I began the process. And what a process! Mountains of
paper are needed. Certificates of all sorts, officially verified, and, if not
originally in French, officially translated into French by an official French translator.
Proof of good character, from our local Maire,
also the Gendarmerie, maybe even le Brigade nationale de répression de la
délinquance fiscalel (the police fiscale,
tax police to you and me!).
Add to that a minimum of 5 years’ worth of tax returns, tax assessments,
tax receipts; 5 years’ worth of monthly, bi-monthly and quarterly utility bills
to prove continuous residence in France; proof of regular monthly income; and
more. You see, a mountain of paper.
Also, I must not forget two passport-sized photographs, my
passport, my birth certificate, the birth certificates of my mother and of my
father, and, “where applicable”, their marriage certificate. And it’s in
getting hold of this last object that I discovered Stefan!
I wasn’t certain where my mother was born, we’d always thought
Paris. But I knew she was married in London, in 1939. I went online to the UK
National Archive and searched for her marriage paper. Sure enough, up it popped
– Jacqueline Andrée Kamellard married Robert Godwin Verity on 4th
August 1939 at the Registry Office, Willesden. I ordered a copy.
Then I did a search for her among the births but didn’t find
her. I found nothing at all for Kamellard between 1900 and 1920. Must have been
born outside the UK then. I contacted my sister, who found a copy of Mum’s
birth certificate in her attic. She sent me a rather fuzzy scan of it, and, surprisingly
it was a UK birth certificate, date of birth: November 1918, place of birth: Queen
Charlotte Hospital, London. So why didn’t it turn up when I searched the National
Archive? I got out the magnifying glass and had a closer look at the fuzzy
scan. After quite some minutes study I found it: my mother’s name at birth was Jacqueline
Andrée KAMELHARD, not KAMELLARD!
Back to the National Archive, and now a search for Kamelhard
between 1900 and 1920 yielded a treasure trove of Kamelhard documents:
Mum’s birth certificate
Her sister Maud and brother Jacques’ birth certificate
The War Office record card for Corporal Stefan Kamelhard (1916-1920)
The naturalisation dossier for Stefan Kamelhard and his son, Gustav Paul (1918)
I ordered the lot and waited impatiently for the National Archive copying service to do their work and get them to me. And, in the middle of March, the package arrived. I opened and read it all, and got to know so much more about, Stefan, my Russian Grandfather.
And now if you’ll fix me another Appelton and Canada Dry, I’ll
let you see the dossier!
A few days ago, over a late afternoon rum and ginger (Appleton and Canada Dry of course!) , my friend Jeremy was telling me about his search for his Russian grandfather. Here’s the tale he told as the sun went down, and a full moon came up over Chateau de Lanquais.
My mother was always quite tight-lipped about her father. She seemed to know, or pretended to know, very little about him. Talking to her brother or sister about him was even less informative, talking about him made them angry. I was warned never to broach the subject with my Breton grandmother, so I didn’t. Thus, what I know about him has been pieced together from scraps of information that have come my way from time to time over the last 70 years.
My mother said her father, Stefan, was Polish, born in Warsaw, she didn’t know when. He had been in the British Army in the first World War and was an interpreter during his service. After the war he worked on trans-Atlantic liners, until, one day he ran away to America, leaving my grandmother to bring up their four children unsupported, on her own in a foreign city, London, in a foreign country, England. He was never heard from again. My grandmother, Marguerite Kamellard, née Coudert, a single Mum, supported the family working as a dressmaker. That was what my mother knew. Punctum.
It will not surprise you that this was all my mother knew,
or admitted to knowing, if I tell you that she was only five when Stefan did a
flit, and as far as I know, she had few, if any memories of him.
There was one other thing I knew, or thought I knew, about
him. This came from my father. Mum and Dad met in London in mid-1939, when my
mother was 20. They married two weeks later, and almost immediately sailed for
Jamaica to get away from the Second World War, which was expected to begin any
day – it started the day the boat arrived in Jamaica. There, in Jamaica, my
mother, explaining her background to my father’s family and friends, said that
her father was a Polish Jewish chemist, but from a Christian, Roman Catholic
family. She told my father that her parents had met when my grandmother was a
young woman working in Paris.
When I was four, my parents had a messy divorce. My mother
returned to England. I stayed in Jamaica. For the next 50 years or more, that’s
all I knew about Stefan. Not much, but enough to know that he had behaved
badly. He was at best inadequate and, at worst, pretty cruel. No wonder his abandoned
wife and children were both tight-lipped and angry.
When I was about 30, in the early 1970s, talking to my
mother about her childhood, I asked her, if she knew much about the Kamellards,
Stefan’s parents. When had they converted from Judaism to Christianity?
“Oh”, she said, “he wasn’t Jewish, I only said that to wind up
some people in Jamaica. I was a naïve young woman when I arrived in Kingston,
and people patronised me. I thought they were very false and pretentious, so I
told them things that I thought would offend them. If they were conservative, I
said I was a communist. If they were anti-Semitic, I told them I was Jewish,
and so on. None of it was true, although your father often believed it. No, no,
my father was an ordinary Pole.”
My maternal aunt and uncle, deeply Catholic and deeply
anti-Semitic in a very Catholic way, were only too happy to confirm that Stefan
was not Jewish. They were quite annoyed that I could ever have believed such an
idea. So, I made a small adjustment to my mental profile of grandfather Stefan.
Now roll on some years, to the 1990s. One day my sister told
me that our mum had decided that her father was not Polish. He was Russian.
“So, how does she work that out?” I asked. “He came from
“No,” she said, “Mum says he was from a part of Russia that
later became Poland”
“But there is no part of Russia that later became Poland! It’s
actually the other way around. Bits of Poland became Russia.”
“Yes, I know” said my sister, “but now that Mum’s supporting
UKIP, she doesn’t like the Poles, so her father must have been a Russian.
Russians are dashing and romantic.”
“Oh well, so now we’re part Russian.”
“Yes,” my sister said, “we’re Russian, but we are not Jewish. UKIP doesn’t like them either!”
Roll forward again to the early 2000s.
Now retired, we have all the time in the world for pointless pursuits. I find myself gardening, pottering about in canoes, playing with bits of Meccano. My beloved Mrs V takes up knitting a vast array of dolls (for use as presents and for sale) and genealogy: she wants to know a bit more about the story of her family, and whether her mother’s family from the English Western borderlands, the Angells, was really originally Welsh (turns out they are 16th century Italian immigrants, del Angelli.)
She needs my side of the family to complete the tree she is
building. There is no problem on my father’s side – thanks to two cousins and
an uncle sharing their research, we have almost full details back to 1750 on my
Dad’s mother’s side, 1685 on his father’s. Later, Number 2 daughter gets the
Ancestry bug and fills in the missing bits.
But we have almost nothing on my mother’s side. Obviously,
we can work out her siblings and their children; we know her parent’s names but
little else. Mum sends me a copy of her
mum’s birth registration and from that we get her mother and father’s names,
and that she was born in Rennes, in the Ille-et-Vilaine department, Upper
Brittany. She has no idea who Stefan’s parents were.
I turn to the internet, and some ancestry discussion groups.
Nothing much on Kamellard that I don’t already know. The I get an email from
someone in the USA, Norbert Stevens, who has kindly done some digging for me
and found several documents relating to Stefan. Norbert must have worked quite
hard on finding them, for Stefan appears under a number of guises.
Here’s what he found:
There are multiple crew passage records for Stefan Kamellard on board the S.S. Majestic and Stephen Kammelard on the S.S. Leviathan, most for passages from Southampton to New York, and he is working as a kitchen clerk. They start on May 16, 1922 and end on May 19, 1924. He jumped ship in Boston on his last voyage and disappeared for all practical purposes until….
There is a 1930 U.S. census record for a Stephen Kamellar living in New York. His country of birth is given as France, but his date of birth is the same as Stefan’s. He is living with his wife (!) Elaine, born in England, who is 14 years younger than him. He works as a cashier in a restaurant, she as an attendant in a studio. They have no children.
In 1942 a WW II Draft Registration Card is issued to Stephen Kamelhard/Kamellar, born in Warsaw. At that time, he is living with his wife Elaine on West 140th Street in New York and is employed as a cashier at the Banker’s Club on Broadway. His telephone number is AU3-0699, but don’t call, it’s disconnected!
Finally, there are Social Security death indexes for both Stephen and Elaine Kamellar. Stephen died in July 1964, Elaine in December 1989, both in New York.
So, my grandfather was a bigamist – he never divorced my grandmother – and after he jumped ship, he seems to have found a settled life in New York. Between 1920 and 1964 he uses two different variants of his first name – Stefan and Stephen – and four different variants of his surname – Kamellard, Kamelhard, Kammelard and Kamellar. Of course, it is entirely possible that none of this is down to Stefan. Everything I found was in another’s hand, an official, list making, permit granting, fact recording hand. And we all know what mincemeat officials can make when transliterating names from one language to another, one naming system to another.
He does not appear to have had any more children and when I search on the internet, I find some people called Kamellard, but they’re all, like me, descended from Marguerite and Stefan. No one called Kamelhard or Kammelard turns up but I find some Kamellars but they have no connection with Stefan.