June - July 1916

Peter and Paul wrote to tell me that they had learned the news of the sinking of the HMS Hampshire off the Orkney Islands before the rest of the British people had heard of it. It turns out that Lord Kitchener was en route to the Isle of Man at the time so that is how they heard of it first.

We have had such devastating news. Mr. Johnson previous headmaster at Mellor who resigned to go to the war was killed on Saturday July 15th. The children from Mellor School sent a note to his wife, but I must write to her as well. I don’t yet know any of the details of how it happened.

Another set of letters from the Isle of Man.

“Dear Barbara, Rebecca and darling Beth,

Here are some stories from others of our “exotics”, as Paul calls them, to entertain you. The most striking figure of our crowd is a man who called himself Dr. A and he was born in Berlin. He is an absolutely perfect example of a communist. Before being interned he had, or says he had, lived in a sort of communist settlement in England. He is tall and very thin, he stoops and he has masses of untidy black hair covering his head and face. He looks like an unkempt and a little starved Assyrian king. His clothes, however, are not royal, for he invariably wears a pair of old trousers over a bathing-suit, and sandals. In Knockaloe his clothing is considered a scandalous get-up by nearly all his fellow prisoners.

The doctor is an ardent revolutionary and he began his incendiary propaganda the very first day, which soon made him the best hated man there. The capitalist class is furious with him, as might have been expected, but the majority do not take kindly either to his sharp tongue, his hissing and cutting voice, or his excessively Jewish appearance.

As a convinced pacifist he condemns war and all the belligerents, no matter on which side they are fighting. He refuses to make concessions to sentiment or patriotism; he is much too uncompromising and severe to gain popular applause. Strange to say, his only admirers are some very fair, very teutonic sailors. One very young, flaxen-haired sailor-boy never leaves the doctor’s side, and listens mute and adoring to all he says. I call him the John of this strange Christ who is perhaps more of a St. Paul. One can not help admiring his logic and his courage. He preaches revolution by violence in all countries and is firmly convinced of the victory of communism, all of which seems fantastic nonsense. Nor is the world he is prophesying the one his hearers wish to look forward to.

After victory and peace everyone is going to be happy and prosperous - that is what we all hope for (in common with the vast majority of people in all countries) and that is what we wish to hear. Some men complained to the Commandant about the doctor's political speeches and meetings which, they said, creates unrest in the camp. The Commandant sent for him and this is how the revolutionary described the interview: "He looked at me, my beard, my naked shoulders, etc., with great disgust and said: ‘Do you consider this the proper costume to appear in here?’ I said: ‘Certainly, why not?’ He got furious and shouted: ‘You look like a wild beast,’ and I said, ‘You have put me in a cage like a wild beast, haven't you?’ After that he laughed and said, ‘Well, there is something in that.’”

Love,
Peter”

“Dear Barbara,

Another man I noticed from the very beginning was one of the great number of Russo-Polish Jews from the East End, who were either born in the Polish provinces then forming part of Austria or Germany, or else were considered German on account of their names. In many cases they themselves were none too sure about their origin.

This of course is similar to Peter’s background, except Peter isn’t a Jew and he has really nothing else in common with this man. He is a very small old man who looks more worn and weather beaten than anything animate or inanimate I have ever seen. He is short, crooked and hunchbacked, and wears a discoloured-looking red beard, and his skin looks like wrinkled parchment. His head leans against his right shoulder which makes him look like a pensive crow. He wears an old cutaway coat green with age and the remnants of a huge bowler hat, the crowning glory of which has almost departed.

He is a passionate card-gambler he and his friends spend their days quarrelling vociferously over very greasy cards, but he is also a very pious and strictly orthodox Jew as they all are. In fact, he is considered a hero, for four weeks on end he would only touch bread and water, and nearly starved. Now he and his friends have been transferred to a Kosher camp and the ‘East End’ had disappeared from our community, which thereby loses much of its picturesqueness.

But I had made his acquaintance long before that time. One could always find him at the pump before and after his meals, muttering to himself incessantly while he performed the ablutions prescribed by the Law of Moses. Its followers must cleanse themselves before eating and after, and nothing would have made him shirk this obligation, so he held out a few fingers of first one hand and then the other, and sprinkled a few drops of water on them. To this cleansing rite he almost ran, all other cleansing he dispensed with and despised.

Having exchanged a few remarks with him I asked him the usual question: ‘What was your profession before you were interned?’ for on that subject they all like to discourse at length.

His answer was: ‘I watch corpses.’ According to orthodox Jewish rite a corpse is honoured by watchers surrounding it until the time of the funeral, a pious duty performed by the nearest relatives. I did not know that professional watchers of that sort existed, but they do amongst the orthodox poor, for there may be no relatives or they may not have time to honour the dead for days. A very terrible profession it seemed to me, and one which no doubt only the poorest of the poor adopted.

So I said with what I thought was tactful sympathy: ‘That is not a very cheerful life for you, I am afraid.’

His head quite touched his shoulder as he looked up at me angrily. ‘Not cheerful, what do you mean by not cheerful? - I like it!’ He turned to go, but thought better of it ; he came quite near to me and said almost triumphantly as it were: ‘I like to do the talking. They don't talk back.’ After which this most Shakespearean character I have come across in my life left me and restarted his endless muttered monologue.

Please tell us more about your life and also how you spend your free time.
I hope we do not bore you with our endless stories of our compatriots. But it does help to pass our days to plan out which one we are going to next serve up for your entertainment.

Regards,
Paul”

“Dear Barbara, Rebecca and my little Beth,

The atmosphere of Knockaloe is changing rapidly, relations are beginning to get strained. The moneyless distrust all the moneyed and suspect them of working their own ends by bribery and corruption. The camp is breaking up into hostile factions.

As soon as it rains the clay soil becomes impassable, everyone has to shelter inside the hut and there is quarrelling going on between some people or other nearly all the time. They have nothing else to do but grumble or quarrel!

They hate the camp by now, they know that release is out of the question, but the advantages of other camps assumed ever greater proportions in their imaginations. Wakefield in particular becomes a name to conjure with, and life there seems like a prolonged week-end party at some great country mansion. But of course, we don’t really expect to get there. Paul has convinced me and I have put my name on the list of those who desire to go there. I still think Knockaloe is quite a pleasant place when the sun shines.

We now get marched twice a week to a hill close by which had previously been surrounded by wire and is now to serve as a playground. There is real grass there, a wide view, splendid air. All sorts of games are played; football of sorts, and boxing. In fine weather it is not a bad place, but it rains very frequently now. When it pours outside, it is damp inside the huts; the moisture comes up through the badly joined boards of the floor. I have caught a bad cold.

Love
Peter”

“Dear Barbara,

I am getting tired of lying in the sun all day, not that it is always sunny. I want to work. Before the war, I evolved a peculiar kind of miniature-painting and lost interest in all realistically representative work.

These paintings are done on parchment, a Chinese ink line drawing serving as a basis for glowing colour-schemes of pure purples, blues, reds, etc., with a good deal of silver and gold. They are Oriental in inspiration and the technique influenced by Persian miniature-painting, but what they represent is purely my own, a mass of fantasies often unintelligible even to myself. I have always surrounded this work with quite a ritual: I have to feel in the proper mood for it (which generally meant the early morning hours), all has to be quiet around me; I use a certain table, certain pens or brushes only, and I prefer a certain room to work in.

I want to start this work again, here but how can I? But I feel I must try, for I can not bear empty idleness any longer, it is driving me insane. So, rather desperately, I have made my first attempt.

The hut has only one table and we sit round it every evening, all day in wet and half the day in fine weather. Some talk, some read, some quarrel, some play cards. Those are the worst, for they heartily bang their cards on the table, and it shakes. While I’m doing a stroke with my pen or putting on a spot of colour with my brush they go astray if the table shakes, and if a single one goes astray the picture is done for, for nothing can be erased or altered on parchment.

But I managed to do this one, which I am sending you to you, for I feel I want to do something for you as your writing letters mean so much to me.

Painting means that I can continue my inner life in spite of all outer circumstances. It means defying the world to do its worst. So I sit there waiting till the table is stable again after a shock and - what is more trying - stopping work when a shock is to be foreseen. Some men are interested in what I am doing, some even refrained voluntarily from banging the table, but such proofs of goodwill are rare.

But such as it is, I would like you to have my first picture done in Knockaloe and I send it with my thanks for your letters and kind regards and with much love.

Your good friend Paul”

“Dear Barbara, Rebecca and Beth,

Thank you Beth, for your letter. My next will be to you alone.

We do have some education now taking place. We have had a visit from a man called James T. Baily. He is an expert teacher of handicrafts who has volunteered his full time and energy to the Committee.

At first lectures and instruction were given in our camp but the War Office soon made a regulation forbidding any educational help of this sort. Instead of lecturing to us they instead are to assist the men to organise their own education and industry. So the handicraft instructor became, and remains, the ‘Industrial Adviser’—a convenient title which covers a multitude of functions!

Love from Peter”